Elijah rarely ever went to church. The getting the paper out Friday for Saturday delivery wore on him so that he nearly always slept until noon on Sunday.

So Susan went alone week after week, just as she had been going alone for years and years and years. She always wore a black dress to church, her mother's cashmere shawl, and a bonnet of peculiar shape which had no strings and fitted closely around her head. She always took about an hour and a half to get home from church, although it was barely ten minutes' walk, and she always went in Mrs. Lathrop's gate instead of her own when she did get home. Mrs. Lathrop knew almost to the minute when to expect her and was invariably seated ready and waiting.

One late May day when Susan returned from church she followed her usual course of Sunday observances by going straight to her neighbor's and sitting down hard on one of the latter's kitchen chairs, but she differed from her usual course by her expression, which -- usually bland and fairly contented with the world in general -- was this morning most bitterly set and firmly assured in displeasure.

"Well," said Mrs. Lathrop, somewhat alarmed but attempting to speak pleasantly, "was -- "

"No," said Susan, "I should say not." Then she unpinned her hat and ran the pin through the crown with a vicious directness that bore out her words to the full.

"Susan!" said Mrs. Lathrop, appalled, "why -- "

"Well, I can't help it if you are," said Miss Clegg, "you don't have to go Sunday after Sunday an' listen like I do. If you did, an' if you had what you ain't got an' that's some spirit, Mrs. Lathrop, you'd be rammin' around with a hat-pin yourself an' understand my feelin's when I say as there ain't a spot in the Bible as I ain't been over fully as often as the minister nor a place where he can open it that I can't tell just what he'll say about it afore he's done settlin' his tie an' clearin' his throat. I'm so tired of that tie-settlin' an' throat-clearin' business I don't know what to do an' then to-day it was the Sermon on the Mount an' he said as he had a new thought to develop out of the mount for us an' the new thought was as life was a mount with us all climbin' up it an' sure to come out on top with the Sermon if our legs held out. It's this new idea of new thoughts as he's got hold of as puts me so out of all patience I don't know what to do; if they was really new I'd revel to listen to 'em, but they're as old as the hills an' I feel like I was offered somethin' to cut my teeth on whenever I hear him beginnin' with a fresh old one. The other day I met him down in the square an' he stopped me short an' told me to my face as the world was gettin' full o' new thoughts, an' that a star as he see the night afore had given him one as he was intendin' to work up for Christmas. Well, Mrs. Lathrop, what do you think that particular new thought was? What do you think? It was as God was back o' the stars! My lands, I felt like givin' him a punch with my parasol an' I'd of done it too only I'd left my parasol at home an' had n't nothin' with me but a basket o' currants. I told him though as the idea o' God an' the stars bein' anyways new was surely most new to me, an' then I went on to say as Rachel Rebecca had said she'd come an' pick berries for me Monday an' seein' as Tuesday was lettin' its sun down pretty fast I could only hope as some other new thought had n't run off with her, too.

"It's this way, Mrs. Lathrop, I don't get much fun out o' church anyway, for I'm on red-hot porcupines the whole time I'm there thinkin' what I could be doin' at home if I was at home, an' wonderin' whether Elijah is in bed or whether he's up an' about. I don't know a more awful feelin' than the feelin' that you're chained helpless in a church while the man in your house is up an' about your house. Men were n't meant to be about houses an' I always liked father because he never was about, but Elijah is of a inquirin' disposition an' he inquires more Sundays than any other time. The idea as he's wanderin' around just carelessly lookin' into everythin' as ain't locked upsets me for listenin' to the minister anyway, but lately my patience has been up on its hind legs in church clawin' an' yowlin' more 'n ever, for it seems as if the minister gets tamer an' tamer faster an' faster as time rolls on, an' between not likin' to hear him an' bein' half mad to get back to Elijah I'm beginnin' to wish as God in His infinite mercy had let me be somethin' besides a Christian. I don't know what I'd be if I was n't a Christian, but my own view o' this idea o' free-trade in religion as is takin' so many folks nowadays is as it all comes from most anybody with common sense jus' naturally knowin' more than any minister as always has his house an' his potatoes for nothin' ever can possibly get a chance to learn; an' when folks realize as they know more than the minister they ain't apt to like to waste the time as they might be learnin' more yet, sittin' an' listenin' to him tag along behind what they know already. A minister is kind o' like a horse in blinders or a cow as wears a yoke to keep her from jumpin', anyway -- he feels as he can't launch out even if he wants to an' so he never does, but my idea would be to give 'em a little rope an' let 'em be a little more interestin'. Here's two hours a week as we sit still an' might be learnin' things much more useful than as Job was patient an' Joseph was n't. I'm tired of Job an' Joseph anyhow. I've heard about 'em both ever since I was old enough to know about either, an' long afore I was old enough to know about Joseph. I was talkin' about this at the sewin' society yesterday an' they all agreed with me. Mrs. Macy said as her feelin' was as she'd been wantin' to go to sleep in church for the last five years, an' she was beginnin' to have it so strong as she did n't care who knowed it.

"Was the minister's -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop, with vivid curiosity.

"No, 'cause Brunhilde Susan thought a moth ball was a lemon drop an' dealt with it a'cordin', an' she was too used up by the bein' up all night to even so much as overcast a plain seam; but the rest was there an' we all aired ourselves inside out, I can assure you, an' was more 'n glad as she was n't there, so we could do it, too.

"The general talk was as the minister 'd do well to quit talkin' about Heaven for a while an' come down to earth. We all know about Heaven, 'cause if you don't all you have to do is to tip back your head an' there it is day an' night for you to look at as long as your neck don't ache, but what we don't know about is a lot of what's right around us. Mrs. Macy says as her view would be to take the Bible for the motto an' then apply it right to us here to-day, an' tell us how to understand what's goin' on in the world by its light. She says David an' Goliath could of been Japan an' Russia with Admiral Togo for the sling shot, an' we all felt to agree as there was a idea as no minister ought to mind ownin', for Mrs. Sweet told me comin' home as she never would of give Mrs. Macy credit for thinkin' nothin' out so closely as that. Every one was interested right off an' you ought to of been there to see how the idea took! Gran'ma Mullins said as she'd always wanted to know what a soft-nosed bullet looked like an' how their other features felt, an' a sermon like that could n't but give us all a new understandin' of a war. Then they all got to thinkin' out the thing, an' Mrs. Sweet said as Jezabel bein' throwed to the dogs could apply to that new rule in the city as makes you have to go around with your dog's nose in a lattice an' yourself tied to the dog; she said when she went up there the other day she felt like nothin' but a fool out with her brother an' him bein' jerked here an' there a'cordin' as the dog's feelin's moved him, an' the dog's lattice half the time over one of his two ears so he looked more drunk than sober all day. Of course we ain't got no such rules about dogs' noses here, but no one set down on Mrs. Sweet, because it showed she took an interest; Mrs. Brown said when she was done as she should think as the sun standin' still on Absalom three days could be worked up into havin' our streets lit all night, for she says when young Dr. Brown is out late, Amelia's so awful nervous she has to sit by her an' hold her hand, an' young Dr. Brown always says it takes him a good hour longer than it ought to gettin' home, on a'count o' bein' so afraid o' runnin' into trees in the dark."

"They say -- " said Mrs. Lathrop, thoughtfully.

"Yes, but you could n't make his mother believe it," said Susan; "she thinks he eats peppermint comin' home nights just because he likes to eat peppermint comin' home nights. Mothers is all like that. You know yourself how you was with Jathrop. That'd make another nice talk, about how all sons was n't prodigals, some bein' obliged by fate to be the calf instead. I must say, Mrs. Lathrop, as the more I think of this new idea the more took I am with it. The Bible would be most like a new book if we took it that way an' Sunday would be a day to look forward to all the week long, just to see what the minister was goin' to say about what next. The sewin' society was all in favor of the idea an' now if the square only takes it up with a real mother's heart I don't see why we should n't get some profit out o' keepin' a minister yet. My notion is as the minister might just as well learn to be a lesson to us as to be so dead satisfied with only bein' a trial to us. We've got trials enough, Lord knows, an' just now what with the weather an' the cleanin' house no one wants to go to church to hear about things as they all know anyhow."

"I wonder -- " said Mrs. Lathrop, thoughtfully.

"No, I would n't look for that," said Susan; "every one has their limits an' I would n't expect no man to jump over his own outside. I should n't ever look for the minister to be really equal to workin' up somethin' real spicy as would fill the house out o' Uriah the Hittite or Abigail hangin' upside down to the tree, but I can't well see why he could n't teach us whether well water's healthy or not by quotin' from Rebecca, an' when the time comes he could surely get a real nice Thanksgivin' text out o' John the Baptist's head on the platter."

"Well -- " said Mrs. Lathrop, slowly.

"I'm goin' home to Elijah now," said Susan, "an' I shall talk the matter up with him. Elijah's awful funny, Mrs. Lathrop. However much he roams around while I'm in church he always hops back in bed an' manages to be sound asleep when it's time for me to come home. An' I will say this for him, an' that is as with all his pryin' an' meddlin' he's clever enough to get things back so I can never see no traces of what he's been at. If I was n't no sharper than most others, I'd think as he never had stirred out of bed while I was gone -- but I am sharper than others an' it'll take a sharper young man than Elijah to make me suppose as all is gold that glitters or that a man left all alone in a house don't take that time to find out what he's alone in the midst of."




Chapter XIV

Advisability Of Newspaper Exposures


"Well, I don't know I'm sure what I am goin' to do with Elijah," said Susan Clegg to her friend one evening. "He's just as restless in his ideas as he is in bed, an' he's not content in bed without untuckin' everythin' at the foot. I hate a bed as is kicked out at the foot an' I hate a man as makes a woman have to put the whole bed together again new every mornin'. I'm sure I don't see no good to come of kickin' nights an' I've talked to Elijah about layin' still till I should think he could n't but see how right I am an' how wrong he is, but still he goes right on kickin', an' now he's got it into his head as he's got to turn the town topsy-turvy by findin' out suthin' wrong as we'd rather not know, an' makin' us very uncomfortable by knowin' it, an' knowin' as now we know it we've got to do suthin' about it, an' that seems to make him kick more than ever."

"Dear -- " ejaculated Mrs. Lathrop.

"He set on the porch for an hour with me last night," Susan went on, "tryin' to think o' suthin' as he could expose in the paper. He says a paper ain't nothin' nowadays without it's exposin' suthin, an' a town ain't fit to have a paper if it ain't got nothin' to expose in it. He says no closet without some skeleton, an' he should think we'd have ours, an' in the end he talked so much that I could n't but feel for a little as maybe he was right an' as we was behind the times, for when you come to think it over, Mrs. Lathrop, nothin' ever does happen here as had n't ought to happen -- not since Mr. Shores' wife run off with his clerk, an' that wa'n't no great happenin', for they could n't stand sittin' on the piazza much longer -- every one could see that -- an' Mrs. Shores wasn't one to have any man but her own husband comin' in an' out o' the house at all hours, an' so if she'd got to the point where she wanted a man as wasn't her own husband comin' in an' out, she just had to up an' run away with him, an' I never have been one to say no ill of her, for I look on Mr. Shores with a cool an' even eye, an' lookin' on Mr. Shores with a cool an' even eye leads me to fully an' freely approve of every thin' as his wife ever done."

"I -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Yes, I know it, an' that's why I speak as I do. But Elijah seems to think as suthin' else ought to of happened since then, an' he asked me if I didn't know of nothin' as was bein' tried to be covered up as he could uncover, an' I really did try to think of suthin' but nobody ever covers up nothin' here. Nobody could if they wanted to. Everybody knows everythin' about everybody. We all know about Lucy an' Hiram, 'cause Gran'ma Mullins is always tellin' her side an' Hiram's side, an' Lucy is always tellin' her side an' Hiram's other side. Gran'ma Mullins says when she sees a man like Hiram havin' to devote his strength an' his Sundays to catchin' water-bugs, she most feels she's been a mother in vain, an' Lucy says when she realizes as she's married a man as can't be put to no better use Sundays than catchin' water-bugs, she ain't got no doubt at all as to what she's married. Lucy's gettin' very bitter about marriage; she says when she thinks as she may be picked out for a golden weddin' she feels like tyin' balloons to her feet an' goin' out an' standin' on her head in the crick. Elijah asked me if maybe she was n't in love with some one else as he could just notice in general kind o' terms, but I told him he did n't know what Lucy Dill was on men now as Hiram has got her eyes open. Why, Lucy don't believe no more in love a tall. Lucy says if she was rid of men an' left on a desert island alone, with one cow, so she could have eggs an' milk toast regular, she'd never watch for no ship, an' if a ship heaved up anywhere near, she'd heave down so quick that if any one on the ship had seen her they'd think they imagined her afore they'd get ready to go to her rescue. Elijah shook his head then, an' trailed off to Polly Allen; he said there must be thirty-five years between Polly an' the deacon, an' could n't suthin' be hinted at about them. That set me to wonderin', an' it's really very strange when you come to think of it, Mrs. Lathrop, how contented Polly is. I don't believe they've ever had a word. He does the cookin' an' washin' the same as he always did, an' lets her do anythin' else she pleases, an' they say she's always very obligin' about doin' it.

"So then Elijah crossed his legs the other way, an' asked if there was n't anythin' bigger as could be looked into, but every one knows Hiram is the biggest man anywhere around here, so that was no use. He asked then if we did n't have a poorhouse or a insane asylum or a slaughter-house or suthin' as he could show up in red ink. He said somebody must be doin' suthin' as they had n't ought to be doin' somewhere, an' it was both his virtue an' his business to print all about it. He says exposin' is the very life o' the newspaper business, an' you can't be nothin' nowadays without you expose. He seemed to feel very much put out about us not bein' able to be exposed, an' I could n't help a kind o' hurt feelin' as it was really so.

"But what can I do, Mrs. Lathrop, I did n't know of nothin'? We ain't got no place to do anythin' except in the square an' nobody never does nothin' without everybody knows that day or the next mornin' at the latest. I don't believe as anybody could have a secret with anybody in this town 'cause you'd know very well as if you did n't get 'round pretty quick an' tell it first the other one would be gettin' ahead o' you an' tellin' it before you. Of course I could see Elijah's drift all right. Them city papers has turned his head completely just as they do everybody else's when they first get a new idea. Elijah wants us to be eatin' bluing for blueberries an' cats for calves jus' so he can be the first to tell us about it, but there ain't a cat in town as ain't too well known for anybody to eat without knowin' it, an' as for bluing, if anybody can feed it to me for blueberries it's me as is the fool an' them as is n't, an' that's my views.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mrs. Lathrop, I ain't got no great sympathy with this new idea o' keepin' us all stirred up over how awful things is. I won't say as I approved when that man in Chicago made sausage out o' his wife 'cause he was tired o' her, but I will say as if Lucy see her chance at Hiram that way I ain't sure as she could restrain herself. Hiram's perfectly healthy an' could be depended upon not to disagree with no one in sausage to anythin' like the extent Lucy disagrees with him, an' Gran'ma Mullins is so tired of hearin' 'em quarrel that I ain't prepared to say as she'd rebel at anythin' as sent Lucy back to her father.

"Elijah went on to tell me a lot about insurance an' railroads, but all about insurance an' railroads is 'way beyond my interest an' 'way beyond the understandin' of every one else here, an' nobody's goin' to remember a thing about any of it a year from now anyhow. That's the trouble with this country, -- they don't remember nothin', -- everybody forgets everythin' before the month is out. Most of the people never thinks o' San Francisco now, an' as for that fire they had in Baltimore, it's as dead as Moses.

"That's the advantage the rest of the country has over us when it comes to exposin'. They can expose an' expose, an' all the folks who read about it forget an' forget, but here in this community it's different an' you can't count on our forgettin' things a tall, an' if Elijah was turned loose I'll venture to say every last one o' them papers would be saved until doomsday. I know that an' knowin' that I very carefully restrain him. There's a many as knows as Mr. Kimball's dried apples is often very under rate, an' a many others as knows whose dead cat that was as Mrs. Sweet had to bury after vowin' she would n't till she smelt as she'd got to. Every last one of us knows what Dr. Brown gets at the drug store when he asks for what he usually gets an' there's a good many as thinks as Mrs. Macy goes to Meadville more on a'count o' Dr. Carter than to see her cousin, Mrs. Lupey. But I was n't goin' to set Elijah swimmin' in any such deep water. Elijah is a young man an' the age to go wrong easy, an' when that age see how easy it is to go wrong they're nothin' but foolish if they waste another second goin' right, so if Elijah wants to go to exposin' he'll have to get his stuff from some one else beside me."

"You -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"No, I don't say that," said Miss Clegg, "I'm only human after all an' I can't in conscience deny as I should like to see them as I don't like showed up just as much as any other man as is makin' a business of showin' up his neighbors, likes it. But I know I've got to live here an' it'd be very poor livin' for me after I'd aired myself by way of Elijah. There's a great difference between knowin' things all by yourself an' readin' 'em in the paper, an' I know as that dead cat would cause a great deal o' hard feelin' in print, while buried by Mrs. Sweet it only helps her garden grow. So I shall keep on talkin' as usual, but I shall hold Elijah out o' print an' so keep the country safe."

"I -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh, the paper'll do just as well," said Susan; "he's goin' to print one sheet as comes all printed from the city every week an' he says that'll put new zest in the thing. It'll be a great deal better to get the zest that way than to get it exposin'. Zest is suthin' as is always safest a good ways off. Elijah saw that, too, afore he got done last night, for in his hitchin' about he hitched over the edge o' the piazza in the end."

"Did -- " cried Mrs. Lathrop.

"Well, no," said Miss Clegg. "But he tore a lot of things an' smashed a rose bush, but I did n't care about that. I just told him to leave 'em on a chair this mornin' an' I'd sew 'em all up again, an' I done it, an' as to the rose bush, I'll have him get another an' give it to me for a present the next time I go to the city to pick it out myself."




Chapter XV

The Trial Of A Sick Man In The House


"Well, where -- " began Mrs. Lathrop in a tone of real pleasure at seeing Miss Clegg come into her kitchen one afternoon a few days after.

Miss Clegg dropped into a chair.

"Well, I have got trouble now!" she announced abruptly, "Elijah's sick!"

"Eli -- " cried Mrs. Lathrop.

" -- Jah," finished Susan. "Yes, Mrs. Lathrop, Elijah's sick! He was sick all night an' all this mornin', an' I may in confidence remark as I hope this'll be a lesson to him to never do it again, for I've got a feelin' in my legs as 'll bear me out in lettin' him or any one else die afore I'll ever work again like I've worked to-day an' last night."

"Why, what -- "

"Did n't you see young Dr. Brown?"

"No, I -- "

"Yes, I supposed so," said Susan, resignedly; "I know your ways, Mrs. Lathrop, an' I never look for any other ways in you. It's good as I don't, for if I did I'd be blind from lookin' an' not seein'. I know you, Mrs. Lathrop, an' I know your ways, an' I realize to the full how different they are from me an' my ways, but a friend is a friend an' what can't be endured has got to be cured, so I come to tell you about Elijah just the same as I do anythin' else as is easy heard."

"Is -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"No, he is n't. That is, he was n't when I come out, but he had his pen an' said he was goin' to write a editorial sittin' up in bed. He can't get out of bed on a'count of the sheet, but 'Liza Em'ly's there if he wants anythin' so it don't matter if I do leave for a little while. She come an' offered an' I don't see why she should n't have a chance to get married the same as any other girl, so I set her in the next room an' told her not to go near him on no a'count, an' naturally there ain't nothin' as'll make 'em wilder to talk than for Elijah to feel he'd ought to be workin' on his editorial an' for 'Liza Em'ly to feel as he had n't ought to be spoke to. I don't say as I consider Elijah any great catch, but if 'Liza Em'ly can find any joy jumpin' at him with her mouth open I ain't one to deprive her of the hop. Elijah's a very fair young man as young men go, an' I think any girl as is willin' to do her nine-tenths can have a time tryin' to be happy with him. If she ain't happy long it won't be Elijah's fault for he's just as sure his wife 'll be happy as any other man is."

"But about -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Yes, that's what I come to tell you. He woke me last night, tappin' on my door, an' hollered as he had the appendicitis on both sides at once."

"On both -- "

"That's what he said. Well, as soon as I got awake enough to know as I was n't asleep, I knowed he was wrong somehow an' I sat up in bed an' hollered back to him to take ten sips o' water, hold his breath while he counted fifteen, an' go back to bed. I was n't calculatin' to get up with no two-sided appendicitis in the middle o' no night if I could help it, an' I knowed anyhow as it was only some of them dried apples o' Mr. Kimball's as was maybe lodged here an' there in him an' no harm done if he'd only let me sleep.

"But, no sir, Elijah had no idea o' lettin' me sleep while he set up alone with his own two sides. There's suthin' about a man, Mrs. Lathrop, as 'll never let him suffer in silence if there's any woman to be woke up. A man can't be a hero unless a woman stands by barefooted with a candle, an' he feels a good deal easier groanin' if he can hear her sneezin' between times. So back come Elijah right off to say as I must be up an' doin' or he'd be dead afore dawn. I was so sound asleep I told him to set a mouse trap two times afore my senses come to me an' then when they did I was mad. I tell you I was good an' mad too. I put on my slippers an' father's duster as I always keep hangin' to my bedpost to slip on or dust with just as I feel to need it on or dustin', an' I went to Elijah. He was back layin' in bed done up in a sort o' ring o' rosy, groanin' an' takin' on an' openin' an' shuttin' his eyes like he thought he could make me feel pleased at bein' woke up. But I was n't goin' to feel pleased. I tell you, Mrs. Lathrop, a stitch in time saves nine, an' I hadn't no idea of encouragin' Elijah to wake me like that, not while there's maybe a chance of me havin' him to board more 'n the three months I promised. I saw as I was gettin' into the duster as all my comfort depended on how I acted right then an' there an' I was decided to be firm. I stood by the bed an' looked at him hard an' then I says to him, I says, 'Well, what did you wake me up for?' 'No one ever felt nothin' like this,' he says; 'I've got two appendixes an' I can feel another comin' in my back.' 'Elijah,' I said, 'don't talk nonsense. You've been an' woke me up an' now I'm woke up what do you want me to do?' I leaned over him as I said it an' let a little hot candle grease drip on his neck an' he give a yowl an' straightened out an' then give another yowl an' shut up again. 'I'll make you some ginger tea,' I says, 'an' put a mustard plaster wherever you like best,' I says, 'an' then I shall look to be let alone,' I says, an' so I went downstairs an' set to work. Well, Mrs. Lathrop, I made that tea an' I bet I made it strong; I put some red pepper in it, too, an' poured a little mucilage into the plaster, for I may in confidence remark as I didn't intend as Elijah should ever look forward to wakin' me up in the night again. Then I went upstairs an' he sit up an' took the whole of the cup at one gulp! You never see no one so satisfied with nothin' in all your life! He fell back like he was shot an' said, 'Scott, Scott, Scott,' until really I thought as he was ravin'. Then I said, 'Where do you want the plaster, Elijah?' an' he said, 'On my throat, I guess.' I says, 'No, Elijah, you've waked me up an' wakin' me up is nothin' to joke over. You put this plaster on an' go to sleep an' don't wake me up again unless you feel for more tea.' I spoke kind, but he could see as I felt firm an' I set the candle down an' went back to bed.

"Well, Mrs. Lathrop, what do you think, -- what do you think? Seems as Elijah was so afraid o' burnin' himself in another place that he went an' put the sheet between him an' the plaster an' glued himself all together. This mornin' when he awoke up there he was with the sheet stuck firm to him an' I must say I was very far from pleased when he hollered to me an' I went in an' found him lookin' more like a kite than anythin' else an' not able to dress 'cause he could n't take off his sheet. 'Well, Elijah, you have done it now, I guess,' I says; 'I never see nothin' the beat o' this. If I have to send for young Dr. Brown to take that sheet off you, you'll be in the papers from the earthquake to Russia an' back again.' Well, that was all there was to do an' when 'Liza Em'ly come with the milk I had to ask her to go up to young Dr. Brown's an' ask him to kindly come as soon as he could an' amputate Elijah out o' bed. He come right after breakfast an' he had a time, I tell you! We worked with water an' we worked with hot water, we tried loosenin' the edges by jerkin' quick when Elijah was n't expectin', but it was all no use. Dr. Brown said he never see such a plaster, he said it'd be a fortune for mendin' china. Then we got the dish-pan an' tried layin' Elijah face down across it an' pilin' books on his back to keep the right place in front soakin', but even that didn't help. Dr. Brown said in the end as he thought the only way maybe would be to do all the corners of the sheet up in a paper an' let Elijah carry it hugged tight to him an' wear father's duster down to the crick an' sit in it till he just slowly come loose. But Elijah did n't want to go bathin' in a duster an' I had a feelin' myself as if Meadville heard of it we'd surely be very much talked about, so finally Dr. Brown said he thought as he'd go home an' study up the case, an' I let him go for I had my own ideas as to how much he knew about what was makin' the trouble. So he went an' then I got dinner an' took some up to Elijah an' told him jus' what I thought of the whole performance. I talked kind but I talked firm an' I done a lot of good, for he said he did n't know but it would be better if he arranged to live with the Whites after the Fourth of July 'cause he had a feelin' as maybe he was a good deal of trouble to me. I told him I hadn't a mite of doubt as he was a good deal of trouble to me an' then Mrs. Macy come. I had to stop talkin' to him an' go down an' tell her what was the matter. She said right off as her idea would be to shut the windows, build a big fire an' make Elijah jus' work himself loose from the inside out. I told her about the mucilage though an' then she changed her views an' said I'd best fold the sheet neatly an' let him wear it till he wore it off next time he growed a new skin. Mrs. Macy says she's been told we keep sheddin' our skins the same as snakes an' that that's really what makes our clothes need washin' so often. She said the moral was plain as by the time the sheet'd need washin' Elijah would shed it anyhow. I see the p'int o' what she said an' I felt to agree, but while we was talkin' Mrs. Sweet come in an' her view was all different. She said as Elijah would find that sheet a most awful drag on him an' to her order o' thinkin' he'd ought to go down to where Mr. Kimball makes his dried apples an' steam loose in the vat. She says he can steam out very fast an' Mr. Kimball bein' his uncle 'll naturally let him sit in the vat for nothin'."

"What -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"Well, I don't know," said Susan; "Lucy come in while we was sittin' there an' she said her view'd be for me just to take a firm hold of the sheet an' walk straight out of the room without a so much as 'by your leave' to Elijah, but I'd be afraid of tearin' the sheet if I did that way. An' then Gran'ma Mullins came an' her view was as I'd best sit an' sop Elijah with a sponge, which just shows why Hiram is so tore in two between such a mother an' such a wife's views."

"What -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop again.

"Well, Elijah was writin' a editorial when I left an' 'Liza Em'ly was lookin' at him an' sighin' to talk an' I come over to tell you all about it."

Just here a piercing scream was heard from across the way.

"My -- " ejaculated Mrs. Lathrop.

Susan sprang to her feet and ran to the door; as she opened it Eliza Emily was seen flying down the Clegg steps.

"What is it?" screamed Miss Clegg from Mrs. Lathrop's steps.

"Elijah dropped his pen," screamed Eliza Emily in reply, "an' when he reached for it he fell out o' bed an' tore loose."

"Did he tear the sheet any?"

"No, but he thinks he's tore himself."

Miss Clegg began to walk rapidly towards her own house.

"You can see I've got to go," she called back to her friend over her shoulder; "this is what it is to have a man livin' in your house, Mrs. Lathrop."




Chapter XVI

The Beginning Of The End


As June wore on it became more and more apparent that Elijah wore on Miss Clegg. She grew less and less mild towards his shortcomings and more and more severe as to the same.

"He's only -- " Mrs. Lathrop attempted to explain to her.

"I don't care if he is," she replied, "it says in the Bible as a man is a man for all that an' I never was one to go against the Bible even if I ain't never felt in conscience called to say where Cain an' Abel got married, or what it was as the Jews lit out from Egypt on a'count of. I tell you what it is, Mrs. Lathrop, you've forgotten what it is to have a man around your house. There's somethin' just about the way a man eats an' sleeps as gets very aggravatin' to any woman after the new's off. I begin to see what men invented gettin' married for, -- it was so they could kite around an' always be sure they had one woman safe chained up at home to do their cookin' an' washin'. Why, I ain't married to Elijah a tall, an' yet just havin' him in the house is gettin' me more an' more under his thumb every day that he stays with me. I feel to stay in the square an' I find myself hurryin' home 'cause he likes hot biscuits, an' I feel to turn his washstand around an' I leave it where it is for no better reason than as he likes it where it is. It's awful the way a man gets the upper hand of a woman! Lord knows I've no love for Elijah an' yet I'm caperin' upstairs an' downstairs when he ain't in a hurry an' tearin' my legs off scamperin' when he is, until I declare I feel mad at myself -- I certainly do.

"An' now, there he is fallin' in love with 'Liza Em'ly, the last girl in the world as he'd ought to even dream of marryin', an' I talk to him an' talk to him, an' tell him so, an' tell him so, an' it don't make no more impression than when you rub a cat behind her ear."

"Why, a cat -- " protested Mrs. Lathrop.

"Yes, an' so does Elijah. It just tickles him half to death to hear 'Liza Em'ly's mere name, an' he don't care what any one says about her just so long as it's about her.

"I see the minister down in the square to-day an' I told him my opinion of it all right to his face. But the minister didn't have no heart for 'Liza Em'ly -- he's too used up discussin' what under the sun is to be done with Henry Ward Beecher. He says it's suthin' just awful about Henry Ward Beecher's feelin' for Emma Sweet, an' he told me frank an' open as personally it's been so terrible easy for him to get himself married an' get consequences that he can't find nothin' to point his index finger into Henry Ward Beecher with about this unrequited affection of his for Emma. He says as he never knowed as a man could have unrequited affection afore an' he really seems to feel more'n a little hurt over it. He says he can't well see how to restrain Henry Ward Beecher an' it's town talk as Henry Ward Beecher is far past restrainin' himself. I see Polly White afterward an' she says it's gospel truth as he's took indelible ink an' tattoed Emma all over himself, even places where he had to do it by guess or a mirror."

"My heavens!" ejaculated Mrs. Lathrop.

"Well, I should say so," said Susan, "an' will you only consider, Mrs. Lathrop, what Emma Sweet is to be tattoed all over any man like that! I like all the Sweets an' I like Emma, but it's only in reason as I should regard her with a impartial eye, an' no impartial eye lookin' her way could ever in reason deny as she don't appear likely to set no rivers afire. Emma's a nice girl, an' if her toes turned out an' her teeth turned in I don't say but what she might go along without bein' noticed in a crowd, but with them teeth an' toes all you can call her is good-hearted an' you know as well as I do as bein' called good-hearted is about the meanest thing as anybody can ever call anybody else. Folks in this world never call any one good-hearted unless they can't find nothin' else good to say of 'em, for it stands to reason as any sensible person'd rather have anythin' else about 'em good before their heart, for it's way inside an' largely guesswork what it is anyhow.

"They say as Mrs. Sweet says as even though Emma's her own child, still she can't see no reason for Henry Ward Beecher's March-haredness. She says Emma's best p'ints is her gettin' up early an' the way she puts her whole soul into washin' an' bread-kneadin', but she says Henry Ward Beecher ain't sensible enough to appreciate good p'ints like those. She says she's talked to Emma an' any one with half a eye can see as it ain't Emma as needs the talkin' to. She says Emma says as the way he hangs onto her goin' home from choir practice is enough to pull her patience all out of proportion. She says Emma says she'd as soon have a garter-snake seein' her home, an' doin' itself up in rings around her all the while, an' Mrs. Sweet says any one as has ever seen Emma seein' a garter-snake would consider Henry Ward Beecher's chances as very slim after a remark like that.

"Mr. Kimball says he wishes he had n't took him into his store just now; he says no young man ain't got a call to the grocery trade when he's in a state of heart as won't let him hear the call o' the man as owns the business, an' Mr. Kimball says when he fell into the vat where he was stirrin' up his dried apples, Henry Ward Beecher never heard one single holler as he gave -- not one single solitary holler did that boy hear, an' Mr. Kimball 'most had a real city Turkish bath as a result. Why, he told me as he was in the vat for nigh on to a hour afore Elijah heard him from the other side, an' he says as a consequence he ain't very much took with havin' a clerk as is in love. He says too as only to see Henry Ward Beecher tryin' to pour through a funnel when any member o' the Sweet family is walkin' by on the other side of the square is enough to make him as owns what's bein' spilt wish as Henry Ward Beecher's father had gone unrequited too. Mrs. Macy come in while we was talkin' an' she said it was too bad as Emma wasn't smarter, 'cause if Emma was smarter Henry Ward Beecher'd jus' suit her. Mrs. Macy says the trouble is as Emma's too smart to be willin' to marry a fool an' not quite smart enough to be willin' to. Mrs. Macy says as Mr. Fisher was just such another an' Mrs. Fisher jumped for him like a duck at a bug."

"Did -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop, interestedly.

"No," said Susan, "but Gran'ma Mullins did. Gran'ma Mullins is always nothin' but glad to have a chance to shake her head an' wipe her eyes over any one's love-makin'. She come in to wait a little 'cause Lucy wanted to dust an' she says she ain't got no strength to stay in the house while Lucy dusts; she says it lays Hiram out on the sofa every time regular an' sometimes it gives him the toothache. She says she an' Hiram never know when they 're dirty a'cordin' to Lucy's way o' thinkin' but, Heaven help 'em, they always know when they're clean a'cordin' to Lucy's idea of bein' clean. She says Lucy is that kind as takes one of her hairpins an' goes down on her knees an' scratches out the last bit of dirt as the Lord hath mercifully seen fit to allow to settle in His cracks. You can see as Gran'ma Mullins has suffered! She says it's a hard thing to bear, but Hiram grins an' she bears an' their pride helps 'em out.

"While we was talkin' Emma come by for the mail an' we see Henry Ward Beecher's face just hoverin' madly over the breakfast-food display in Mr. Kimball's window. Mr. Jilkins was in town buyin' a rake an' he waited to see what would happen. Judge Fitch was there too an' Polly White. We all had our eyes fixed on Henry Ward Beecher an' I will say, Mrs. Lathrop, as I never got so tired waitin' for nothin'."

"What -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"Love affairs is terrible tame to lookers-on, I think. If they get over it your time's wasted an' if they don't get over it the time's wasted all around. My own opinion is as all love affairs is a very foolish kind o' business, for you never find real sensible folks havin' anythin' to do with 'em. But it was no use talkin' that to-day, so Henry Ward Beecher hung up there on the breakfast foods, an' we sat an' watched him like combination cats till long about five Johnny come by an' said as Mr. Sperrit had took Emma home with them to tea."

"Oh -- " cried Mrs. Lathrop, impulsively.

"I don't know why not," said Susan, "my own opinion is as he's a idiot -- "

"Mr. Sper -- "

"No, Henry Ward Beecher. It's always struck me as a very strange thing as we had n't got one single idiot in this community an' I guess the real truth is as we've had one all the time an' did n't know him by sight. There's a idiot most everywhere till he gets the idea into his head to kill some one an' so gives others the idea as he's safer shut up, an' so it ain't surprisin' our havin' one too. I see Mrs. Brown on my way home an' I asked her if she did n't think as I was right. She said she would n't be surprised if it was true, an' it was very odd as she'd never thought o' it before, recollectin' her experience with him years ago when she had him that time as the minister went to the Sperrits' on his vacation. She went on to say then as to her order o' thinkin' Mr. an' Mrs. Sperrit come pretty close to bein' idiots themselves, for she says she don't know she's sure what ails 'em but they've been married years now an' is still goin' round as beamin' as two full moons. She says it ain't anythin' to talk of in public but actually to see 'em drivin' back from market sometimes most makes her wish as she was n't a widow, an' she says anythin' as'd make her sorry she's a widow had n't ought to be goin' round loose in a Christian town. She was very much in earnest an' Mrs. Fisher overtook us just then an' she said it all over again to her an' she said more, too -- she said as the way she looks at him in church is all right an' really nothin' but a joy to look on afore marriage, but she don't consider it hardly decent afterwards for it's deludin' an' can't possibly be meant in earnest. She says she was married, an' her son is married, an' her father was married, too, an' you can't tell her that the way Mr. an' Mrs. Sperrit go on isn't suthin' pretty close to idiocy even if it ain't the whole thing."

"You -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Mrs. Fisher said," continued Susan, "as she thought maybe she got used to lookin' pleasant at him in all them years as she kept house for him afore he made up his mind to get married to her, an' so the habit kind of is on her an' what's dyed in the wool keeps on stickin' to Mr. Sperrit. She said as they do say as he married her 'cause he wanted her bedroom to hang up corn to dry in. She went on to say as for her part she always enjoyed seein' the Sperrits so happy for it done any one good to only look at 'em an' that she'd only be too happy to be a idiot herself if it'd do any human bein' good to look at her an' Mr. Fisher afterwards. She went on to say as she'd heard as the other night Mr. Sperrit drove two miles back in the rain 'cause he'd forgot a cake o' sapolio as she'd asked him to bring. I spoke up at that an' I said I did n't see nothin' very surprisin' in that, for I know if I asked any man as I was married to to bring home a cake o' sapolio I should most surely look to see the cake when he come home."

"I -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"I know; but you always spoiled him," said Susan. "Well, what was I sayin'? Oh, yes, Mrs. Brown said as Mrs. Macy was tellin' her the other day as they've got a idiot in Meadville -- a real hereditary one; the doctors have all studied him an' it's a clear case right down from his great-grandfather."

"His great -- " cried Mrs. Lathrop.

"Grandfather," said Susan. "Yes, Mrs. Lathrop, that is how it was, an' Mrs. Macy says it's really so, for she see the tombstones all but the mother's -- hers ain't done yet. Seems the idiocy come from the great-grandfather's stoppin' on the train crossin' to pick up a frog 'cause he was runnin' for suthin' in connection with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals."

"The frog!" cried Mrs. Lathrop.

"No, the great-grandfather. Seems he never stopped to consider as what'd kill a frog would be sure to hit him, an' Mrs. Macy says the doctors said as that was one very strong piece o' evidence against the family brains right at the start, but she says he really was smarter than they thought, for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals paid for the funeral an' for the grandmother's, too."

"The grand -- " cried Mrs. Lathrop.

" -- Mother's," said Susan. "Yes, seems the railway track was their back fence an' she'd always begged an' prayed him at the top o' her voice not to go to town that way, but he would n't listen 'cause he was stone-deaf an' then besides like all that kind he always pretended not to hear what he did n't want to. But anyhow she was in the garden an' she see the train an' she tried to get to him, an' whether she broke a blood vessel yellin' or contracted heart disease hoppin' up an' down, anyway she fell over right then an' there an' it would have been copied in all the newspapers all over the country even if the mother -- "

"The moth -- " cried Mrs. Lathrop.

"Er," said Susan. "Yes, seems she heard the yell an' run to the window so quick she knocked the stick out as held it up an' it come down on her head. So, you see the idiocy come right straight down in the family of the idiot for three generations afore him."

"I ain't sure," said Mrs. Lathrop, thoughtfully.

"I ain't either," said Susan; "Mrs. Macy says, she was n't either. No one in Meadville never was."

"An' yet -- " began Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh, as to that," said Susan, "that's altogether another kind o' idiot. Henry Ward Beecher won't die of his love even if Emma won't have him, an' they'll both always be the better an' happier for not havin' one another, if they only knew it. It's mighty easy to love folks an' think how happy you'd always be with 'em as long as you don't marry 'em. It's marryin' 'em an' livin' in the house with 'em as shows you how hard it is to be really married. I thank Heaven I'm only livin' in the house with Elijah an' not married to him, so I can see my way ahead to gettin' rid of him in a little while now. You don't know how I ache to draw the curtains of his room an' pin up the bed an' pour the water out of his pitcher an' set a mouse trap in there an' just know it is n't goin' to be mussed up again."

Susan sighed deeply.

"How long -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"I said three months," said Miss Clegg, "an' that takes it over the Fourth of July. My heavens alive, seems some days as if I could n't but just live, an' the meanest thing about a man is, he's so dead sure as he makes you happy, bein' around the house."




Chapter XVII

An Old-Fashioned Fourth


"Well, Elijah seems to have hit the nail on its foot instead of its head this time," said Miss Clegg to Mrs. Lathrop on the noon of the Sunday before the Fourth of July; "that editorial of his in this week's paper ain't suitin' any one a tall. I was down in the square yesterday an' everybody as was there was talkin' about it, an' to-day after church everybody was still talkin' about it, an' gettin' more mad all the time."

"What -- " began Mrs. Lathrop.

"The one about the celebration as he printed in this week's paper," replied her friend; "they was for discussin' nothin' else after church to-day, an' one an' all is dead set against the way as Elijah says. Them as has bought their fireworks ain't pleased, of course, an' Mr. Kimball says as he considers that Elijah had ought to of consulted him afore he printed such a article in the hind part of a uncle's store that had just laid in a new supply of two pounds of punk alone. Mr. Kimball says as he'd planned a window display o' cannon crackers pointin' all ways out of a fort built o' his new dried apples an' now here's Elijah comin' out in Saturday's paper for an old-fashioned Fourth o' July without no firecrackers a tall. Mr. Kimball says he thinks Elijah ought to remember whose nephew he is an' show some family feelin'; he says punk is a thing as can never be worked off in no bargain lot of odds an' ends, an' he says his own Fourth o' July is spoiled now anyway just by the shock of the worry 'cause he can't be sure how folks is goin' to be affected until the effect is over, an' the Fourth o' July'll be over mighty quick this year. 'T ain't like they had most a week to calm down from Elijah's new idea -- they ain't got but just Monday to decide an' buy their fireworks, too.

"Judge Fitch says he can't quite make out what Elijah meant by callin' for patriotic speeches; he says he's willin' to make a speech any day, but he says no one ever wants to stop poppin' long enough to listen to a speech on the Fourth o' July. He says too as it's very hard to get a still crowd that day 'cause people are afraid to get absorbed listenin' for fear suthin' may go off under 'em while they ain't keepin' watch. Mr. Dill said that was true, 'cause he had a personal experience that way in his own dog; he says that dog would of made a fine hunter only some one throwed a torpedo at him one Fourth o' July, when he was lookin' under a sidewalk, an' after that that dog almost had a fit if a sparrow chirped quick behind him. Mr. Dill said he tried to cure him by stuffin' cotton in his ears an' keepin' a cloth tied neatly around his head, but then he read in the paper about some deaf German as when he played the piano always listened with his teeth, an' he said that just made him empty the cotton right out of the dog an' give up.

"Mrs. Macy says what she wants to know is what's Elijah tryin' to get at anyhow. She says she always thought a barbecue was a kind of cake an' she did n't know white folks ever could lift their legs that high, even if they felt to want to. She says the idea of its bein' suthin' to eat in the woods is surely most new to her an' she ain't sure she wants to eat in the woods anyhow. She says there's always flies an' mosquitoes in the woods an' she's passed the age o' likin' to drop down anywhere, an' jump up any time, years ago. As for cookin' in the woods she says that part of Elijah's editorial is too much for every one. She says she never hear of roastin' a ox whole in a pit in her life; she says how is the ox to be got into the pit an' what's to cook him while he's in there an' when he's cooked how's he to be got out again to eat? She says she thinks Elijah has got a ox an' a clam mixed in his mind, an' a pit an' a pile. She says she knows they cook clams in piles on the seashore, 'cause she's heard so from people as has been there, an' besides she seen a picture of one once.

"Gran'ma Mullins came up an' she's most awful troubled over the ox, too. She says Hiram is got such a name for bein' strong now that she just knows as they'll expect him to put that ox into the pit when they're ready to cook him, an' then lift him out again when he's done. She says it's gettin' too terrible about Hiram, every time as somebody fat dies anywhere or there's a piano to move or a barn to get up on jack-screws they send right for Hiram to be one o' the pallbearers an' give him the heaviest corner. Why, she says the other day when that refrigerator came for Polly White they unloaded it right onto Hiram from the train, an' not a soul dreamed as there was shot packed in both sides of it to save rates, until poor Hiram set it down to put it on the other shoulder. She says too, as she can't well see how a ox can be roasted whole anyway; she says it'll be a awful job gettin' his hair singed off in the first place, an' she just knows they'll expect Hiram to hold him an' twirl him while he's singein'. Then, too, she says as the whole of a ox don't want to be roasted anyhow. The tongue has to be boiled an' the liver has to be sliced an' the calves' brains has to be breaded an' dipped in egg, an' after he's roasted an' Hiram has got him out o' the pit, who's to skin him then, she'd like to know, for you can't tell her as anybody can eat rawhide, even if it is cooked.

"Deacon White come up, an' he said he an' Polly would bring their own lunch an' their own pillow an' blanket an' hammock an' look on, 'cause Polly wanted to see the fun an' they were n't intendin' to have any fireworks anyhow. He said he was curious about the ox himself; he said he wondered where they'd get the ox, an' the pit, too, for that matter.

"He said he wanted it distinctly understood as he an' Polly'd bring their own lunch an' neither borrow nor lend. He said that rule would apply to the pillow an' the blanket an' the hammock, the same as to the lunch. There was some talk after he was gone on how terrible close he an' Polly are both gettin'. Seems kind of funny, to be so savin' when you ain't got nobody to save for, but the Whites an' Allens was always funny an' what's bred in the flesh always sticks the bones out somewhere, as we all know.

"The minister come up an' he said as it says in the Bible as when the ox is in the pit every one must join in an' help him out, so he shall do his part an' bring all his family with him. But he said he must remark as to his order of thinkin' a ox struck him as a most singular way to commemorate the day our forefathers fought an' bled over. He says he should have thought a service o' song an' a much to be desired donation towards cleanin' out his cistern would have been a more fittin' way to spend the glorious Fourth in, than fixin' a ox in a pit an' tryin' to bake him there. He says he don't think it can be done anyhow, he says a ox ain't no chestnut to stick in the ashes till he bounces out cooked o' his own accord.

"Mrs. Fisher says she sha'n't have nothin' to do with any of it; they're all goin' to the city, an' Mr. Fisher is goin' to a lecture on that Russian that his country wants to amalgamate for suthin' he's done; an' she an' John Bunyan is goin' to the Hippodrome. They want to see the girl turn upside down in the automobile an' Mrs. Fisher says she can hear about the ox when she comes back.

"Mrs. Brown says they sha'n't go, 'cause young Dr. Brown's afraid o' microbes in the woods. He's goin' to disinfect everythin' with that new smell he's invented the day before the Fourth, an' then they're goin' to have huckleberry biscuit an' watermelon an' just spend a quiet day waitin' for any accidents as may maybe come along. Mrs. Brown says young Dr. Brown is always hopin' for another railroad smash-up like that one that came while he was away studyin'. She says it always seems too bad it couldn't have come a year later, when he was just back with that handsome brand new set of doctor's knives an' forks as he got for a prize." Susan paused.

"Shall you -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"No, I sha'n't. I ain't interested in the Fourth o' July. I never had nothin' to do with it in the beginnin' an' I ain't never had nothin' to do with it since. My own idea's always been as the Boston people was very foolish to go throwin' their tea overboard sooner'n buy stamps. We all buy stamps now an' no one thinks o' fussin' over it, an' I guess we do a lot other things as we'd never of had to do if we'd kept our tea an' our mouths shut in the beginnin'. They say tea is very cheap in England an' very good, too, an' heaven knows nothin' is cheap with us. Elijah says if it wasn't for his uncle he'd take a strong stand on a low tariff, but my goodness, it looks to me like he'd better not meddle with the tariff -- he's set the town by the ears enough with his ox. I had a long talk with him last night about the whole thing. I don't know, I'm sure, how Elijah ever is goin' to get on without me, for I certainly do talk to him enough to keep him in ideas right straight along. I was very kind last night -- but I was firm, too. In the end I broke him down completely an' he told me as he never meant it that way a tall. He says he only drew a picture o' what the Fourth o' July was in olden times. But this town ain't good on pictures, we take things right up by the handle an' deal with 'em a'cordin'."

"But -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh, of course not," said Susan, "but they can take him up by the tail an' horns, can't they?"




Chapter XVIII

Celebrating Independence Day


"Well," said Miss Clegg to her friend the Sunday after the Fourth, "I'm thankful to say as the game is up to-morrow an' Elijah moves out of my house. We never had no Fourth o' July like this afore an' every one is prayin' as we'll never have such another again. It was really very peaceful in church this mornin' an' the collection was thirty-two cents, so that shows as folks is beginnin' to take heart again, but you could see as they was all nervous an' even the minister kept lookin' anxiously out of the window whenever he thought as he heard a noise. Mr. Weskin says he thinks a house catchin' fire from bein' disinfected comes under some head as lets the insurance get paid anyhow an' he says if not he'll take the case for the Browns on even halves for his heart is full o' sympathy for 'em. The Browns was in church themselves to-day, all but Amelia, an' I had the story from them straight for the first time. Young Dr. Brown says he can't understand any of it; he says the stuff must be stirred in a barrel for two hours without stoppin' an' he says he'll let any man breathe a suspicion as his mother stopped after he once set her at it! Mrs. Brown says she did n't stop neither, she says when she could n't move her arms any more for love or money, she stuck the broomstick through her belt an' sat on the edge o' the barrel an' kept the stuff stirrin' so. They poured in the acid right after breakfast, an' then Dr. Brown wanted the test to be thorough, so they put a live fly in each room, shut the doors between, shut all the windows, took the silver out on the lawn, an' then threw a match into the barrel an' run out the coal cellar door.

"Amelia is up at her father's an' ain't able to speak of it yet, but Mrs. Brown says her own view of it will always be as it was a explosion. She says as she can't see how you could call it anythin' else in the world. She says they was all sittin' in the arbor an' Amelia was just gettin' into the hammock an' Dr. Brown was just beginnin' on the King o' Spain's honeymoon in the paper, with a picture of a bullfight to illustrate it, when she heard such a noise as she never will forget again in all her life to come. She says her first thought was as Amelia had bu'st the hammock, for she says she tries to be kind to the bosom wife of her chosen son, but Amelia is surely most awful hard on anythin' as you get in an' out of, but then she heard the second noise, an' she says to her dyin' day she won't be able to swear to nothin' but as she thought it was San Francisco quakin' right in our very middle. Why, she says, she never for one second doubted as it was a earthquake. The canary-bird cage come sailin' out o' the dinin'-room window, all the chimneys went down with a crash, an' Amelia give one yell an' fainted. Mrs. Brown says she an' young Dr. Brown did n't really know which way to turn for a minute. They could n't seem to think whether their first duty was to shake Amelia or run around to the front of the house. The windows was blowin' out as fast as they could an' the most awful smellin' smoke you ever smelt was pourin' out after them! She said the smell was bad enough when she was stirrin' the stuff in the barrel, but exploded, it was just beyond all belief. In the end they left Amelia an' run 'round behind the house an' if there was n't all the kitchen stove lids comin' bangin' out at 'em an' all the feathers from the pillows just rainin' down like snow! They run aroun' to the side an' there was Amelia's sheets o' music all over the lawn an' jars o' pickles with the glass lids gone, an' jelly tumblers an' weddin' gold-rimmed china, an' in front an' on top of all else if the fire did n't bu'st out!

"Dr. Brown run for the fire engine then an' every one was at home gettin' ready for the picnic an' there wa'n't no one down town a tall. He was all of ten minutes findin' any one an' when he found him it was only Mr. Shores, an' Mrs. Brown says as gettin' out a fire engine with Mr. Shores an' your house burnin' is suthin' as she trusts will never be her lot again. She says Mr. Shores would n't lay hold o' the engine till after the cover was folded up neatly an' then he wanted to dust the wheels afore runnin' it out. Then after it was run out an' got to the house, if there wa'n't no hose, an' Dr. Brown had to run away back to the engine house for the hose an' while he was runnin' he met John Bunyan runnin' too an' John Bunyan told him as the hose was kept coiled up in the part as sticks up behind the engine like a can. So they run back together an' got it out an' run with it to the well an' Dr. Brown was so excited he dropped the hose in the well. Mrs. Brown says she was nigh too mad by this time with the house explodin' all over again every few minutes an' things as you never have around comin' sailin' out o' the windows right in people's faces when they was only there to be neighborly an' look on. She was runnin' back an' forth an' explainin' as it was n't for want o' stirrin', for she stirred it herself, when Sam Duruy come runnin' an' seems there's always another hose tied up under the engine an' he unhooked that an' John Bunyan built a fire in the hole for fire while they fixed the new hose in the cistern, but oh my, the house was too far gone to be saved by that time. So they pumped some on Amelia just to try the hose, an' then they helped pick up the things as was blowed out of the windows. Mrs. Brown says it was all most awful an' she knows from her son's face as he thinks it was all because she stopped stirrin' sometimes durin' the two hours an' she declares with tears as she never stopped stirrin' once -- not once.

"Mrs. Fisher says the way people is sick from the smell shows as all the flies they put in the rooms must of surely been killed, so the experiment's a success in one way at least. Mrs. Fisher walked part way home with me an' we had a nice talk about the Browns. She says the Browns is most amusin' always in the ways they use flies; she says when young Dr. Brown was little, Mrs. Brown used to put a fly in the sugar-box when she went down to the square for things so she could tell when she come back whether he'd been at the sugar, an' so let the fly out. She says young Dr. Brown cured her o' that happy thought by takin' the fly out himself when she was down town one time an' puttin' a mad bee in instead. She says she guesses Dr. Brown has given her many a little lesson like that or he'd never be able to keep her stirrin' anythin' as smells for two hours."

"Where -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"Well, the Fitches took Amelia an' her husband of course an' Mrs. Brown is goin' over to Meadville to-morrow. Mrs. Macy says maybe old Dr. Carter will marry her now as she ain't got any house to be attached to. I don't see why that would n't be a good end for Mrs. Brown, she can step right into Mrs. Carter's shoes -- an' her clothes, too, for that matter, for he never give away a thing when she died. Yes, he did, too, though, she wanted her nieces to have a souvenir an' he give one the waist an' the other the skirt to the same dress, but Mrs. Fisher says what he would n't give away to no man for love or money was all her union underwear for winter. Seems she always wore the best an' finest, an' when she died Dr. Carter said he'd keep all them union suits an' wear 'em out himself."

"I -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"No, an' I would n't either," said Miss Clegg; "there would n't be no comfort marryin' a man whose first wife could n't call even her union suits her own after she died, not to my order of thinkin'."

"Was -- " asked her friend.

"Oh, the picnic?" said Susan, "no, that was n't a success a tall. They spread the tablecloth over a flyin' ant nest in the first place an' Mrs. Macy says shad bones is nothin' to the pickin' out as they had to do while eatin' as a consequence. She says they very soon found out as they was under a wood-tick tree too, an' the children run into a burr-patch after dinner. The minister tried to teach the twins to fish an' the bank caved in with 'em all three, an' the minister had to go all the way home that way. Gran'ma Mullins got a gnat in her eye an' Hiram walked way back to town for a flaxseed to put in it to get the gnat out, an' crossin' the bridge he sneezed an' the flaxseed just disappeared completely, an' Lucy would n't let him go back again, so all she could do was to keep a-rubbin' till finally she rubbed it out. Mr. Dill climbed up a tree to show as he could still climb up a tree an' a branch broke an' tore him so bad he had to walk home with the minister, -- I guess every one's glad the Fourth's over."

"How's -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"Elijah? Oh, he went to town for the day. He says it's him for town when there 's anythin' goin' on in the country. He come back lookin' like he'd really enjoyed himself, but I was afraid he was goin' to have a fever at first he talked so queer in his sleep that night an' began all his sentences with 'Here's to -- ' an' then stopped in a most curious way. I was very much relieved when I see him come downstairs the next mornin', only his appetite ain't what it was yet."

"May -- " suggested Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh, I don't think so. There ain't any one for him to be in love with anyhow unless it's 'Liza Em'ly. He's really too smart for any girl in this community an' he ain't got a single picture among his things nor a letter as I don't know who wrote it. I thought at first as he used to call 'Annie' in his sleep the nights after we have dumplin's, but it ain't 'Annie' he says; it's 'Aunty,' an' heaven knows a aunt never broke no man's heart yet."

Susan rose to go home.

"I'm glad the Fourth's over, anyway," she said as she took up her parasol and mitts. "I think it's always a great strain on the country, but even if no one never likes it nor enjoys it, I suppose we must keep on havin' it with us year after year, for Elijah says as, as a nation, we're so proud o' bein' ahead o' everythin' an' everybody, that we'll die afore we'll go on one step further. He says what's one day o' terror a year beside the idea as we're free to do as we please. Gran'ma Mullins says all she can say is as she thanks God for every Fourth o' July as leaves Hiram whole, for he's the only apple she's got for her eye an' she'd go stark ravin' mad if anythin' was to tear him apart in the dream of his youth."

"Did -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop, solicitously.

"Well, I can't stop to see if I did or did n't now," said Miss Clegg; "to-night's my last evenin' with Elijah an' I told him to be sure an' be home early. We'll try an' part pleasantly even though I should be mighty mad at him if I thought as he was half as glad to go as I am to get rid of him. I don't like the ways of a man in the house, Mrs. Lathrop, -- they seem to act like they thought you enjoyed havin' 'em around. I can't see where they ever got the idea in the first place, but it certainly does seem to stick by 'em most wonderful."

"There -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

Susan turned her head.

"Yes, that's him comin'," she said; "well, now I must go, Mrs. Lathrop. I'll come over to-morrow an' tell you when I'm free of him, bag an' baggage."

"Yes," said Mrs. Lathrop, "I -- "

"Yes, I do, too," said Miss Clegg, "but you see I said for three months an' the three months ain't up till to-morrow."




Chapter XIX

Exit The Man Out Of Susan Clegg's House


"Well, Mrs. Lathrop," said Miss Clegg, coming over the evening after, weary but triumphant, "Elijah is gone an' I tell you I'll never be too tender-hearted for my own good again. I won't say but what it was me an' nobody else as brought him down on my own head, but I must fully an' freely state as it's certainly been me an' no one else as has had to hold my own head up under him. An' he has been a load!

"Why, Mrs. Lathrop, do you know that man's stockin's alone has took me about one mornin' a week, an' as to buttons -- well, I never knew a editor could bu'st 'em off so fast. An' as to puttin' away what he took off, or foldin' back things into the drawer where they belongs, why, a monkey swingin' upside down by his tail is busy carefully keepin' house compared to Elijah Doxey.

"I never see such a man afore! If Hiram's anythin' like him I don't blame Lucy for battin' him about as she does. I did n't suppose such ways could be lived with in oneself. An' that table where he wrote! Well! I tell you I've got it cleared off to-night an' my clean curtains folded off on it, an' no man never sets foot on it again, I can tell you that.

"I won't say as it wa'n't a little tryin' gettin' him off to-day an' I did feel to feel real sober while I was hangin' his mattress back to the rafters in the attic, but when I remembered as I'd never see them bedclothes kicked out at the foot again I cheered up amazin'. Mrs. Brown come in just afore supper an' she seemed to think it was some queer as I was n't goin' to miss Elijah, but I told her she did n't know me. 'Mrs. Brown,' I says, 'your son was a doctor an' you can't be expected to know what it is to board a editor, so once bit, soonest mended. She's mournin' over her burnt house yet, so she could n't really feel to sympathize with me, but I had n't time to stop an' mourn with her, -- I was too busy packin' away Elijah's toilet set.

"He got a good deal of ink around the room, Mrs. Lathrop, an' I shall make Mr. Kimball give me a bottle of ink-remover free, seein' as he's his nephew; but I don't see as he done any other real damage. I looked the room over pretty sharp an' I can't find nothin' wrong with it. I shall burn a sulphur candle in there to-morrow an' then wash out the bureau drawers an' I guess then as the taste of Elijah'll be pretty well out of my mouth.

"I'm sure I don't know what we're comin' to as to men, Mrs. Lathrop, for I must say they seem more extra in the world every day. Most everythin' as they do the women is able to do better now, an' women is so willin' to be pleasant about it, too. Not as Elijah was n't pleasant -- I never see a more pleasant young man, but he had a way of comin' in with muddy boots an' a smile on his face as makes me nothin' but glad as he's left my house an' gone to Polly White's."

"Won't you -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"No, I won't, -- not if I know myself. I ain't never been lonesome afore in my life an' I ain't goin' to begin now. Bein' lonesome is very fine for them as keeps a girl to do their work, but I have to slave all day long if there's anybody but me around the house, an' I don't like to slave. I guess Elijah's expectin' to be lonesome though, for he asked me if I'd mind his comin' up an' talkin' over the Personal column with me sometimes. I could see as he was more'n a little worried over how under the sun he was goin' to run the paper without me. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Lathrop, I've been the main stay of that paper right from the first. Not to speak o' boardin' the editor, I've supplied most o' the brains as run it. You know as I never am much of a talker, but I did try to keep Elijah posted as to how things was goin' on an' the feelin' as no matter what I said, it was him an' not me as would be blamed if there was trouble, always kept up my courage. There's a many nights as I've kept him at his work an' a many others as I've held him down to it. Elijah has n't been a easy young man to manage, I can tell you."

Susan stopped and sighed.

"I like to think how he's goin' to miss me now," she said, "I made him awful comfortable. Polly'll never do all the little things as I did. It's a great satisfaction when a man leaves your house, Mrs. Lathrop, to know as he'll be bound to wish himself back there many an' many time."

"What -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh, I'll find plenty to do," said Susan Clegg, "it ain't made a mite of difference in my life. I shall go on livin' just the same as ever. Nothin's changed for me just because for three months I had a man in the house. I ain't even altered my general views o' men any, for land knows Elijah wa'n't so different from the rest of them that he could teach me much as is new. I ain't never intended to get married anyway, so he ain't destroyed my ideals none, an' I told Mr. Kimball when I took him as I'd agree to keep him three months an' I would n't agree for love or money to keep him any longer, an' I've kept him for three months an' no love or money could of made me keep him a day longer."

"Did n't you -- " asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"Why, yes, I liked him," said Susan, "there were spots durin' the time when I felt to be real fond of him, but laws, that did n't make me want to have him around any more than I had to. But you know as well as I do that a woman can like a man very much an' still be happiest when she ain't got him on her hands to fuss with. I was n't built to fuss, Mrs. Lathrop, as you know to your cost, for if I had been I'd of been over here two days a week tidyin' up out of pure friendship, for the last twenty years. But no, I ain't like that -- never was an' never will be -- an' I ain't one to go pitchin' my life hither an' yon an' dancin' wildly first on one leg an' then the other from dawn to dusk for other people. Elijah's come an' Elijah's gone an' his mattress is hung back to the rafter in the attic an' his sulphur candle is all bought to burn to-morrow an' when that's over an' the smell's over too I shall look to settle down an' not have nothin' more to upset my days an' nights till your time comes, Mrs. Lathrop, an' I hope to goodness as it won't come in the night, for boardin' a editor has put me all at outs with night work."

"I -- " said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Well, if you say so, I'll believe it," said Miss Clegg; "for I will say this for you, Mrs. Lathrop, an' that is as with all your faults you've never yet told me nothin' as I've found out from others afterwards wasn't true."

<eob>

The Bobbsey Twins On A Houseboat

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

Good News


"What are you doing, Freddie?" asked Bert Bobbsey, leaning over to oil the front wheel of his bicycle, while he glanced at his little brother, who was tying strings about the neck of a large, handsome dog.

"Making a harness," answered Freddie, not taking time to look up.

"A harness?" repeated Bert, with a little laugh. "How can you make a harness out of bits of string?"

"I'm going to have straps, too," went on Freddie, keeping busily on with his work. "Flossie has gone in after them. It's going to be a fine, strong harness."

"Do you mean you are going to harness up Snap?" asked Bert, and he stood his bicycle against the side of the house, and came over to where Freddie sat near the big dog.

"Yes. Snap is going to be my horse," explained Freddie. "I'm going to hitch him to my express wagon, and Flossie and I are going to have a ride."

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Bert. "You won't get much of a ride with THAT harness," and he looked at the thin cord which the small boy was winding about the dog's neck.

"Why not?" asked Freddie, a little hurt at Bert's laughter. Freddie, like all small boys, did not like to be laughed at.

"Why, Snap is so strong that he'll break that string in no time," said Bert. "Besides -- "

"Flossie's gone in for our booty straps, I tell you!" said Freddie. "Then our harness will be strong enough. I'm only using string for part of it. I wish she'd hurry up and come out!" and Freddie glanced toward the house. But there was no sign of his little sister Flossie.

"Maybe she can't find them," suggested Bert. "You know what you and Flossie do with your books and straps, when you come home from school Friday afternoons -- you toss them any old place until Monday morning."

"I didn't this time!" said sturdy little Freddie, looking up quickly. "I -- I put 'em -- I put 'em -- oh, well, I guess Flossie can find 'em!" he ended, for trying to remember where he had left his books was more than he could do this bright, beautiful, Saturday morning, when there was no school.

"I thought so!" laughed Bert, as he turned to go back to his bicycle, for he intended to go for a ride, and had just cleaned, and was now oiling, his wheel.

"Well, Flossie can find 'em, so she can," went on Freddie, as he held his head on one side and looked at a knotted string around the neck of Snap, the big dog.

"I wonder how Snap is going to like it?" asked Bert. "Did you ever hitch him to your express wagon before, Freddie?"

"Yes. But he couldn't pull us."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I only had him tied with strings, and they broke. But I'm going to use our book straps now, and they'll hold."

"Maybe they will -- if you can find 'em -- or if Flossie can," Bert went on with a laugh.

Freddie said nothing. He was too busy tying more strings about Snap's neck. These strings were to serve as reins for the dog-horse. Since Snap would not keep them in his mouth, as a horse does a bit, they had to go around his neck, as oxen wear their yokes.

Snap stretched out comfortably on the grass, his big red tongue hanging out of his mouth. He was panting, and breathing hard, for he and Freddie had had a romping play in the grass, before quieting down for the horse-game.

"There, Snap!" Freddie exclaimed, after a bit. "Now you're almost hitched up. I wish Flossie would hurry up with those straps."

Freddie Bobbsey stood up to look once more toward the house, which his little twin sister had entered a few minutes before, having offered to go in and look for the book straps. She had not come back, and Freddie was getting Impatient.

At last the little girl appeared on the side porch. Her yellow hair blew in the gentle June breeze, making sort of a golden light about her head.

"Freddie! Freddie!" she cried. "I can't find 'em! I can't find the book straps anywhere!"

"Why, I put 'em -- I put 'em -- " said Freddie helplessly, trying to remember where he had put them, when he came in from school the day before.

"You've got to come and help me hunt for 'em!" Flossie went on. "Mamma says she can't find the straps."

"All right. I'll come," spoke Freddie. "Snap, you stay here!" he ordered, but the big dog only blinked, and stuck out his tongue farther than ever. Perhaps he had already made up his mind what he would do when Freddie let him alone.

Off toward the house went the little fat Freddie. He was pretty plump -- so much so that his father often called him a little "fat fireman." Freddie was very fond of playing fireman, ever since the time he had owned a toy fire engine. But to-day he had other ideas.

"I'll find those straps," he said, as he toddled off. "Then we'll hitch Snap to my express wagon, and Flossie and I'll have a fine ride. Don't you run away, Snap."

Snap did not say whether he would or not. Flossie, standing on the side porch, waited for her little brother. She was just his age, and only a little smaller in height. She was just about as fat and plump as was Freddie, and both had light curly hair. They made a pretty picture together, and if Freddie was a "fat fireman" Flossie was a "fat fairy," which pet name her father often called her.

"Did you look under the sofa for the straps?" asked Freddie when he had joined his sister.

"Yes. I looked there, and -- and -- everywhere," she answered. "I can't find 'em."

"Maybe Snap hid 'em," suggested Freddie.

"Maybe," agreed Flossie. "He would, if he knew you were going to hitch him up with 'em."

"Pooh. He couldn't know that," said Freddie. "I didn't know it myself until a little while ago, and I didn't tell anybody but you."

"Well, maybe Snap heard us talking about it," went on Flossie. "He's awful smart, you know, Freddie, from having been in a circus."

"But he isn't smart enough for that, even if he can do lots of tricks," Freddie went on. "There's Snoop!" he exclaimed, as a big, black cat ran across the lawn. "Maybe SHE took our book straps."

"She couldn't," said Flossie. "Our books were in 'em, and they'd be too heavy for Snoop to drag."

"That's so," admitted Freddie. "Well, come on, we'll find 'em!"

The twins went into the house and began searching for the straps. High and low they looked, in all the usual, and unusual, places, where they sometimes tossed their books when they came in from school Friday afternoons, with the joyous cry of:

"No more lessons until Monday! Hurray!"

But this time they seemed to have tossed their books and straps into some very much out-of-the-way place, indeed.

"We can't find 'em," said Flossie. "Can't you take some strong string, to tie Snap to the wagon, instead of the straps, Freddie?"

"I don't think so," he answered. "I know what to do. Let's ask Dinah. Maybe she's seen 'em."

"Oh, yes, let's!" agreed Flossie, and together they hurried to the kitchen where Dinah, the big, good-natured, colored cook, was rattling the pots and pans.

"Dinah! Dinah!" cried Flossie and Freddie in a twins' chorus.

"Yep-um, honey-lambs! What yo' all want?" asked Dinah, opening the oven door, to let out a little whiff of a most delicious smell, and then quickly closing it again. "Ef yo' wants a piece ob cake, it ain't done yit!"

"Oh, Dinah! We don't want any cake!" said Freddie.

"What's dat? Yo' don't want cake?" and Dinah quickly straightened up, put her fat hands on her fat hips, and looked at the two children in surprise. "Yo -- don't -- want -- no cake!" gasped Dinah. "What's de mattah? Yo' all ain't sick, is yo'?"

For that was the only reason she could think of why Flossie and Freddie should not want cake -- as they generally did Saturday morning.

"No, we're not sick," said Flossie, "and we'd like a piece of cake a little later, please Dinah. But just now we want our book straps. Have you seen 'em?"

"Book straps! Book straps!" exclaimed Dinah in great surprise. "Go 'long wif yo' now! I ain't got no time to be bodderin' wif book straps, when dey's pies an' puddin's an' cakes t' bake. Trot along now, an' let ole Dinah be! Book straps! Huh!"

Flossie and Freddie knew there was little use in "bodderin'" Dinah any more, especially when she was in the midst of her baking.

"Come on, Flossie," spoke Freddie. "We'll have another look for those straps. Next time I'll put our books where we can find 'em."

Once more the children started through the different rooms. They looked everywhere. But no straps could they find.

"You see what a lot of trouble it makes, not only for you, but for others as well, when you don't take care of your books," said Mrs. Bobbsey gently. She knew it would be a good lesson for the twins to search for their things. Next time they might remember.

Suddenly, from out in the yard, came a shout.

"Freddie! Freddie! Come out here, quick!"

"That's Bert!" exclaimed Freddie.

"Oh, maybe he's found the straps, so we can harness up Snap," cried Flossie.

But Bert's next words soon told the younger twins that it was no such good luck as that, for he cried:

"Snap's running away, Freddie! He's running away. If you're going to harness him up you'll have to catch him!"

"Oh dear!" cried Flossie.

"Come on, help me catch him!" called Freddie.

Together they ran into the yard. As Bert had said, Snap, getting tired of being tied to a post with a thin string, had broken the cord, and now was racing over the fields after another dog with whom he often played.

"Come back, Snap! Come back!" cried Freddie.

Snap paid no heed.

Just then, through the front gate, came a girl. She looked so much like Bert, with his dark hair and eyes, with his slimness and his tallness, that you could tell at once she was his sister. As soon as Flossie saw her, she cried:

"Oh, Nan! We were going to hitch Snap to the express wagon, but Freddie and I can't find our straps, and Snap ran away, and -- and -- "

"Never mind, Flossie dear," said Nan. "Wait until you hear the good news I have for you!"

"Good news?" exclaimed Bert, coming away from his bicycle, toward his twin sister.

"Yes, the very best!" Nan went on. "It's about a houseboat! Now, Flossie and Freddie, sit down on the grass and I'll tell you all about the good news!"



Chapter II

Snap Saves Freddie


Down on the soft green grass of the lawn, sat the two sets of Bobbsey twins. Yes, there were two "sets" of them, and I shall tell you how that was, in a little while.

"Begin at the beginning," suggested Bert to his sister. He always liked to hear all of anything, so Nan prepared to skip nothing.

"Well," said Nan, as she leaned over to re-tie the bow of Flossie's hair ribbon. It had become loose in the hurried search for the book straps. "Well, you know I went down to papa's lumber office this morning, to bring him the letter that came here to the house by mistake. It was a letter from -- "

"You can skip that part of it," suggested Bert. "I don't want to wait so long about hearing the news."

"Well, I thought I'd tell you everything," said Nan. "Anyhow, when I was in papa's office he bought it."

"What did he buy?" asked Freddie, getting to the point more quickly than Bert would have done. "What'd he buy, Nan?"

"A houseboat," went on the older girl twin. "Mr. Marvin was there, and he sold papa the Marvin houseboat. Oh! and such fun as we're -- "

"What's a houseboat?" interrupted Flossie.

"It's a boat with a house on it, of course," spoke Bert, eagerly. "I know. I've seen lots of them. You can live in them just like in a house, only it's on water. There's more room in a houseboat than in a regular boat. Go on, Nan."

"Are we going to live in it?" asked Freddie.

"I think so -- at least part of the time," said Nan. "Now I'll tell you all I know about it. I couldn't stay to ask all I wanted to, as papa was busy. Besides, it was sort of a secret, and I found it out by accident before he meant me to. So you mustn't tell mamma yet -- it's to be a surprise to her," and Nan looked at the two smaller twins, and raised a cautioning finger.

"I won't tell," promised Flossie.

"Neither will I," promised Freddie. "Is that all you're going to tell us, Nan?"

"Well, isn't that enough?" demanded Nan. "I think it's just fine, that we're going to have a houseboat! I've always wanted one."

"So have I," spoke Bert. "Go on, Nan! Tell me more about it. How big is it? Is there an engine in it? Where is it? Can we go on board? When is papa going to get it? Is there a room for me in it? I wonder if I can run the engine and steer? How much did it cost?"

"Gracious!" cried Nan, pretending to cover her ears with her hands. "It will take me all morning, Bert, to answer those questions. Please start over again."

"First tell me where I can see the boat," suggested Bert. "I want to go look at it."

"It's down in the lake," said Nan.

"Come on, Flossie," spoke Freddie. "There's Snap coming back now, and maybe we can catch him. Then we'll harness him up. Dinah ought to be done with her baking now, and maybe she can find those straps for us. Here, Snap!"

Flossie and Freddie, being some years younger than Bert and Nan, did not care to bear much more about the houseboat just then. That they were going to have one was enough for them. They were much pleased and delighted, but they had the idea of hitching Snap to the express wagon, and they could not get that out of their minds.

"You go in and ask Dinah to help you look for the straps," directed Freddie to his little sister, "and I'll catch Snap. Here, Snap! Snap!" he called to the dog who had come back into the yard after a romp and frolic with his animal friend.

Snap was glad enough to stretch out on the grass and rest. He was tired from his run. Freddie put his arms around the dog's neck, and laid his head down on the shaggy coat.

"Now you can't run away again," said Freddie, as he pretended to go to sleep, while Flossie toddled into the house once more, to have another look for the missing book straps.

At a little distance from Freddie sat Nan and Bert, talking about the houseboat, and the good times they would have on board. Freddie roused up, and looked toward the house. Flossie had not yet come out.

"It takes her a long time," said the little boy. "We won't have any ride at all, if she doesn't hurry up."

Then Freddie saw something else that attracted his attention. This was Bert's bicycle, leaning now against the side of a shed. Bert was too much interested in the houseboat to want to ride just then.

A new idea came into Freddie's head.

"I'm going to have a ride on Bert's wheel, while I'm waiting for Flossie to come out with the straps," said the little twin chap. "Bert won't care."

Freddie did not take any chances on asking Bert. His elder brother was still busy talking to Nan about the new houseboat. Freddie scrambled to his feet.

"Now you stay there, Snap!" he commanded the big dog, for Snap, ready again for some fun, was anxious to follow his little master. "Lie down, Snap!" ordered Freddie, and Snap again stretched out.

Freddie walked slowly over toward the bicycle. Of course he was too small to ride it in the regular way, with his feet on the pedals, for his little legs were not long enough to reach them. But he could sit on the seat, and Bert had taught him how to steer a little, so that though a bicycle has only two wheels, and will tip over if it is not properly guided, Freddie could manage to ride a little way on it without toppling over, especially if some one put him on and gave him a push, or if he was given a start down a little hill.

"I'm going to have a ride," thought Freddie. "I'll have a little ride, while I'm waiting for Flossie."

Freddie had a velocipede of his own, but that had three wheels instead of two. Freddie thought two wheels were much more fun than three.

"If I can get up on that bicycle, I'll have a nice ride," murmured Freddie. He looked toward the house. Flossie was not in sight. She had not yet found the straps.

Then Freddie looked toward Bert and Nan. They were still busy talking about the houseboat. They paid no attention to Freddie.

The little twin chap looked around until he had found a small box. By stepping on this he could get up on the seat of the bicycle, which was leaning against the shed. Then Freddie could give himself a little push, and away he would go. There was a little hill leading from where the bicycle stood down to the gate, and into the road. The gate was open.

"Maybe I can even ride down the road a little way," thought Freddie to himself. "That would be great."

It was rather hard work for Freddie to get up on the bicycle from the box, but he managed it. Then he sat on the leather saddle, and took hold of the handle bars. As I have told you, he knew how to steer, even though he could not reach the pedals.

"Here I go!" cried Freddie softly, as he gave himself a little push. Down the hill he went, along the path, straight for the yard gate.

"Oh! I'm going out in the road!" exclaimed Freddie, this time out loud, for he was far enough away from Nan and Bert now.

And into the road he did go, on Bert's bicycle. The wheel was going faster and faster, for Bert had just oiled it and it rode very smoothly.

"This is great!" Freddie cried. "Maybe I can ride all the way to the bridge."

He looked down the road to where a little white bridge spanned a small brook. And then, as Freddie looked, he saw something which made his heart beat very fast indeed. For, coming right toward him, was a team of horses, hitched to a big lumber wagon -- it was one of Freddie's papa's own lumber teams, as the little boy could see for himself.

On came the trotting team, pulling the heavily laden lumber wagon, and, worst of all, there was no driver on the seat to guide the horses. They were trotting away all by themselves, and Freddie was out in the road, on the bicycle that was far too big for him.

"Oh dear!" cried Freddie.

Just then he heard Flossie scream. She had come out on the side porch, and she saw the team coming toward her little brother.

"Nan! Bert!" screamed Flossie. "Look at Freddie!"

Nan and Bert jumped up and raced down the path.

"Freddie's in trouble again!" thought Bert.

It was not the first time Freddie had gotten into mischief. Though usually he was a pretty good boy, he sometimes made trouble without intending to.

I have told you there were two sets of Bobbsey twins, and those of you who have read the first book of this series know what I mean by that. The first book is called "The Bobbsey Twins," and in that I told you how the Bobbsey family lived in an eastern city called Lakeport, at the head of Lake Metoka. Mr. Bobbsey was a lumber merchant, and owned a large sawmill, and a yard, near the lake, in which yard were piled many stacks of lumber.

Nan and Bert were the older Bobbsey twins, being past nine, while Flossie and Freddie were about "half-past-five." So you see that is how there were two sets of twins. Nan was a tall, slender girl, with a dark face and red cheeks. Her eyes were brown, and so were her curls. Bert, too, was quite dark, like Nan.

Flossie and Freddie were very light, with blue eyes. They were short and fat, instead of tall and thin. So you see the two sets of twins were very different.

Oh! such good times as the Bobbsey twins had! I could not tell you all of them, if I wrote a dozen books. But some of the good times I have related in the first book. In the second, called "The Bobbsey Twins in the Country," there are more happenings mentioned.

Uncle Daniel Bobbsey, his wife Sarah, and their son Harry lived in the country, at a place called Meadow Brook, and there the twins often went on their vacation.

Uncle William Minturn, and his wife Emily, with their nine-year-old daughter Dorothy, lived at Ocean Cliff. As you might guess, this was on the coast, and in the third book, "The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore," I have told you of the good times the children had there, how they saw a wreck, and what came of it.

In "The Bobbsey Twins at School" you will find out how they came to get the dog Snap, as a pet. They already had a black cat, named Snoop, but one day, when the twins, with their father and mother, were on a railroad train, something happened, and Snoop was lost.

They found Snap, instead. He was a circus dog, and -- but there, if you want to read of Snap, you must do so in the book about him. I shall tell you this much, though. Snap was a very fine dog, and could do many tricks, and in the end the Bobbseys kept him for a pet, as well as getting back their lost cat Snoop.

When school was over for the winter holidays one year, the Bobbseys went to "Snow Lodge," and in the book of that name I have told you about a queer mystery the twins helped solve while out amid the snow and ice.

Now the Bobbseys were back in their fine house in Lakeport, where Dinah, the fat cook, gave them such good things to eat, and where Sam Johnson, her husband, kept the lawns so nice and green for the children to play on.

Just now Freddie Bobbsey would have been very glad, indeed, to be playing on that same lawn instead of being on his brother's bicycle, rolling toward the team of lumber horses, who were coming straight for him.

"Oh, look at Freddie! Look at Freddie!" screamed Flossie, dropping the two book straps which she had at last found. "Save him, Nan! Bert! Oh, Freddie!"

"I 'clar t' goodness!" exclaimed fat Dinah in the kitchen. "Dem chillens am up t' some mo' trouble!"

"Freddie, steer to one side! Steer out of the way!" shouted Bert, as he ran for the gate. He could not hope to reach his little brother in time, though.

Freddie was too frightened and excited to steer. The bicycle was going fast -- faster than he had ever ridden on it before. All he could do was to sit tight, and hold fast to the handle bars.

"Oh, he'll be run over!" cried Nan, as she, too, raced after Bert.

The team, with no driver to guide it, ran faster and faster. Freddie began to cry. And then, all at once, the front wheel of the bicycle ran over a stone, and turned to one side. The handle bars were jerked from Freddie's grasp, and over he went, wheel and all!

Luckily for him, he fell to one side of the road, on the soft grass, or he might have been injured, but, as it was, the fall did not hurt him at all. One of his little fat legs, though, became tangled up in the wire spokes of the front wheel, and Freddie lay there, with the wheel on top of him, unable to get up.

"Oh, Bert! Bert!" screamed Nan.

"Grab him -- quick!" shouted Dinah, waddling down the walk. But she was too fat to go fast enough to do any good.

"Roll out of the way, Freddie!" cried Bert.

Freddie was too much entangled in the wheel to be able to move. And, all the while, the lumber team was coming nearer and nearer to him. Would the horses, with no driver at the reins, know enough to turn to one side, or would the wheels roll over poor Freddie and the bicycle?

Nan covered her face with her hands. She did not want to look at what was going to happen.

"I must get there in time to pull him out of the way!" thought Bert, as he ran as fast as he could. But the team was almost on Freddie now.

Suddenly the dog Snap, who had jumped up when he heard the shouts, saw what the danger was. Snap knew about horses, and he was smart enough to know that Freddie was in danger.

Without waiting for anyone to tell him what to do, Snap ran straight for the lumber team. Leaping up in front of them, and barking as loudly as he could, Snap turned the trotting horses to one side. And just in time, too, for, a little more, and one of the front wheels of the heavily loaded lumber wagon would have run over the bicycle in which Freddie was still entangled.

"Bow wow!" barked Snap. The horses were perhaps afraid of being bitten, though Snap was very gentle. At any rate, they turned aside, and would have run on faster, only Snap, leaping up, grabbed the dangling reins in his teeth and pulled hard on them. "Whoa!" called Bert. When the horses heard this, and felt the tug on the lines, they knew it meant to stop. And stop they did. Snap had saved Freddie.



Chapter III

Dinah's Upset


"What's the matter? What has happened?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, who had run out to the front porch, upon hearing the excited cries, and the exclamations of fat Dinah, the cook. "Oh! has anything happened to any of the children?"

"Yes'm, I s'pects there has, ma'am," said Dinah. "Pore li'l Freddie am done smashed all up flatter'n a pancake, Mrs. Bobbsey!"

"Freddie -- Oh!"

"He's all right!" shouted Bert, who had, by this time, reached his little brother, and was lifting him out of the bicycle. "Not hurt a bit, are you, Freddie?"

"N -- no, I -- I guess not," said Freddie, a bit doubtfully. "I -- I'm scared, though."

"Nothing to be frightened at now, Freddie," said Bert, holding up the little chap, so his mother could see him.

"Why, Freddie isn't hurt, Dinah," said Mrs. Bobbsey, in great relief. "What made you think so?"

"Well, I seed him all tangled up in dat two-wheeled velocipede ob Bert's, an' de hoss team was comin' right down on de honey-lamb. I thought shuah he was gwine t' be squashed flatter'n a pancake. But he ain't! Bless mah soul he ain't! Oh, dere's mah cake burnin'!" and into the kitchen ran Dinah, glad, indeed, that nothing had happened worse than the scare Freddie received.

"Good Snap! Good old dog!" said Nan, as she patted his head.

"Bow wow!" barked Snap. He still held the horse reins in his strong white teeth. He was not going to let the horses go yet.

"Oh, Freddie!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey, when she understood what had happened. "What danger you were in! Why did you take Bert's wheel?"

"I -- I wanted a ride, Mamma. I didn't think I'd fall off, or that the team would come."

"You must never do it again," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Never get on Bert's wheel again, unless he is with you to hold you. You are, too small, yet, for a bicycle."

"Yes'm," said Freddie in a low voice.

"But where is the driver of the wagon?" went on Mrs. Bobbsey, looking at the empty seat.

"Maybe he fell off," suggested Nan, who had taken Freddie from Bert, the latter picking up his wheel, and looking to see if it had been damaged by the fall. But it was all right.

"Here comes a driver now," said Flossie, who saw one of the men from her father's lumber yard hurrying along the road.

"Is anybody hurt?" the man asked, as he came up, running and breathing fast, for he had come a long way.

"No one, I think," answered Mrs. Bobbsey. "But my little boy had a very narrow escape."

"I am sorry," said the driver. "I left the team standing out in front of the lumber yard, while I went in the office to find out where I was to deliver the planks. When I came out the horses were trotting away. I guess they were scared by something. I ran fast, but I could not catch them."

"Snap caught them for you," said the twins' mother, as she looked at the former circus dog, who was still holding the horse-reins.

"Yes, he's a good dog," the lumber wagon driver said. "I was afraid, when I saw how far the horses had gone, that they might do some damage. But I'm glad no one was hurt."

"I think we all are glad," spoke Mrs. Bobbsey. "It was partly my little boy's own fault, for he should not have gotten on his brother's bicycle. But he won't do it again."

"No, I never will!" promised Freddie, as he rubbed his leg where it had been bruised a little from becoming tangled up in the wire spokes.

Snap barked and wagged his tail, as the driver took the lines from him, and then, when the man drove off with the horses and the load of lumber, Mrs. Bobbsey went with the twins back into the yard.

"Well, I'm glad all the excitement is over," she said. "Where were you, Nan? Grace Lavine called for you, but I looked out in the yard and did not see you, so she went away again."

"Why, I went down to papa's office, Mamma, with that letter you gave me for him."

"Yes, I know, but I supposed you had come back. What kept you so long?"

"Well, I -- er -- I was talking to papa, and -- -"

Nan did not want to go on, for she did not want to tell that she had been talking about the houseboat.

Mr. Bobbsey had been intending to keep that as a little secret surprise for his wife, but now, if her mother asked about it, Nan felt she would have to tell. She hardly knew what to say, but just then something happened that made everything all right.

Mr. Bobbsey himself came hurrying down the street, from the direction of his lumber office. He seemed much excited, and his hat was on crooked, as though he had not taken time to put it on straight.

"Is everything all right?" he called to his wife. "None of the children hurt?"

"No, none of them," she answered with a smile. Mr. Bobbsey could see that for himself now, since Freddie and Flossie were going up the walk together, Freddie tying one of the book straps around the dog's neck, while Nan and Bert followed behind them, with Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Someone telephoned to me," said the lumber merchant, "that they saw one of our teams running away down this street, and I was afraid our children, or those of some of the neighbors, might be hurt. So I hurried down to see. Did you notice anything of a runaway team?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "But everything is all right now. Only I haven't yet heard what it was that kept Nan so long down at your office," and she smiled.

Nan looked at her father, and Mr. Bobbsey looked at Nan. Then they both smiled and laughed.

"To tell you the truth," said Mr. Bobbsey, with another smile, "Nan discovered a secret I was not going to tell at once."

"A secret?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey in surprise.

"Yes, it's about -- -" began Nan.

Then she stopped.

"Go on. You might as well tell her," said Mr. Bobbsey, laughing.

"I know!" exclaimed Freddie, who was all over his fright now. "It's about a boathouse and -- -"

"A houseboat!" interrupted Bert. "You've got the cart before the horse, Freddie."

"That's it!" exclaimed Nan. "Papa has bought the Marvin's houseboat, Mamma, and we're going to have lovely times in it this summer."

"And I'm going to run the engine," declared Bert.

"I'm going to be fireman!" cried fat Freddie. "I'm going to put on coal and squirt water on the fires!"

"I'm going to sit on deck and play with my dolls," spoke Flossie, who was trying to climb up on Snap's back to get a ride.

Mrs. Bobbsey looked at her husband.

"Really?" she asked. "Have you bought the boat?"

"Yes," he replied, "I have. You know we have been thinking of it for some time. Lake Metoka would be just fine for a houseboat, and we could go on quite a cruise with one. Mr. Marvin wanted to sell his boat, and as he and I had some business dealings, and as he owed me some money, I took the boat in part payment."

"And is it ours now, Papa?" asked Bert.

"Yes, the houseboat is ours. It is called the Bluebird, and that is a good name for it, since it is painted blue -- like your eyes, little fat fairy!" he cried, catching Flossie up in his arms.

"Is it a big boat, Papa?" asked Bert. Like most boys he liked things big and strong.

"Well, I think it will be large enough," said Mr. Bobbsey with a smile as he set down Flossie and caught up Freddie in the same way. "Were you frightened when you fell down and saw the lumber team coming toward you?" he asked.

"A little," Freddie said. "But I wished my legs were long enough so I could ride Bert's bicycle. Then I could get out of the way."

"You'd better keep away from the wheel until you are bigger," said his father, who had been told about the accident and the excitement. "But now I must get back to the office. I have plenty of work to do."

"Oh, but can't you stay just a little longer, to tell us more about the boat!" pleaded Nan. "When can we have a ride in it?"

"A boat is called 'her,'" interrupted Bert,

"Well, 'her' then," said Nan. "Tell us about HER, papa. I didn't hear much at your office."

"You heard more than I meant you to," said Mr. Bobbsey with a smile. "Nan came in with that letter just as Mr. Marvin and I were finishing our talk about the houseboat," he went on. "I was going to keep it secret a little longer, but it's just as well you should know now.

"I think you will like the Bluebird. It has a little gasoline engine, so we can travel from place to place. And there is a large living room, a kitchen, several bed rooms and a nice open deck, where we can sit, when it is too hot to be inside."

"Oh, that's going to be great!" cried Bert. "I want a room near the engine."

"And can I be a fireman?" asked Freddie.

"I want to be near mamma -- and you," spoke little Flossie.

"Oh, isn't it going to be lovely!" exclaimed Nan, clapping her hands.

"Scrumptious, I call it!" cried Bert, and he ran into the house, through the hall, and into the dining-room, just as big, fat Dinah, the cook, was entering the same room, carefully holding a big cake which she had just covered with white frosting.

"Oh dear!" cried Bert, as he ran, full tilt, Into the big cook.

"Good land ob massy!" fairly yelled Dinah. "Wha -- wha -- -"

But that was all she could say. She tried to save herself from falling, but she could not. Nor could Bert. He went down, on one side of the doorsill, and Dinah sat down, very hard, on the other, the cake bouncing from her hands, up toward her head, and then falling into her lap.



Chapter IV

At The Houseboat


"Did -- did I hurt you, Dinah?" asked Bert, after he had gotten his breath. "I'm -- I'm sorry -- but did I hurt you?"

"Hurt me? Hurt me, honey lamb? No indeedy, but I done reckon yo' has hurt yo'se'f, honey! Look at yo' pore haid!" and she pointed her fat finger at Bert.

"Why, what's the matter with my head?" he asked, putting up his hand. He felt something sticky, and when he looked at his fingers, he saw that they were covered with white stuff.

"Oh, it's the frosting off the cake!" said Nan with a laugh. "You look something like one of the clowns in the circus, Bert, only you haven't enough of the white stuff on."

"And look at Dinah!" laughed Freddie. "She's turning white!"

"What's dat, honey lamb? Turnin' white?" gasped the big, colored cook. "Don't say dat!"

"It's the cake frosting on Dinah, too!" said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Oh, Bert! why aren't you a little more careful?"

"I'm sorry, mamma," Bert said, as he watched Dinah wipe the frosting off her face with her apron. "I didn't know she was coming through the door then."

"And I shore didn't see yo', honey lamb," went on the cook. "Land ob massy! Look at mah cake!" she cried, as she gazed at the mass in her lap. "All de frostin' am done slid off it!"

"Yes, you're a regular wedding cake yourself, Dinah," said Mr. Bobbsey, who had come in to see what all the noise meant. "Well, this seems to be a day of excitement. I'm glad it was no worse, though. Better go up stairs and wash, Bert."

"The cake itself isn't spoiled," said Mrs. Bobbsey, lifting it from Dinah's lap, so the colored cook could get up. It was no easy work for her to do this, as she was so fat. But at last, after many groanings and gruntings, she rose to her feet, and took the cake from Mrs. Bobbsey.

"I'll put some mo' frostin' on it right away, ma'am," she said. "An' I hopes nobody else runs inter me," she went on with a laugh. "I shuah did feel skeered dat Bert was hurt bad."

They could all laugh at the happening now, and after Mr. Bobbsey had told a little more about the new houseboat, he went back to the office.

"Come on, Flossie," suggested Freddie. "Now you've found the book straps, we can hitch Snap to the express wagon. Where'd you find 'em?"

"The straps were on our books, under the hall rack," said Flossie.

"That's just where I left 'em!" exclaimed Freddie. "I knew I left 'em somewhere."

"But next time you must remember," cautioned his mother. "And remember another thing -- no more bicycle rides -- you stay on your velocipede."

"Yes'm," said Freddie. "Come on, Flossie. Where's Snap?"

When the little twins went to look for their big, shaggy pet, who could do so many circus tricks, they could not find him.

"Have you seen Snap?" asked Freddie of Dinah's husband, Sam Johnson, who was out in the barn.

"Snap?" repeated the colored man. "Why, Freddie, I done jest see Snap paradin' down de road wif dat black dog from Mr. Brown's house."

"Then Snap's gone away again," said Flossie with a sigh. "Never mind, Freddie. Let's play steamboat, and you can be the fireman."

"All right," he agreed, much pleased with this idea. "We'll make believe we're in our new houseboat. Come on."

"Steamboat" was a game the smaller twins often played on the long Saturdays, when there was no school. All they needed was an old soap box for the boat, and some sticks for oars. Then, with some bits of bread or cake, which Dinah gave them to eat, in case they were "shipwrecked," they had fine times.

Meanwhile, Bert and Nan had asked permission of their mother to go over to where some of their boy and girl friends lived, so they were prepared to have a good time, too.

"Oh, but what fun we'll have on the houseboat, won't we, Bert?" said Nan.

"That's what we will," he agreed with a laugh.

Monday morning came, after Sunday (as it always does if you wait long enough) and the two sets of Bobbsey twins started for school.

"I wish we didn't have to go," said Bert, as he strapped up his books. "I want to go down to our new houseboat."

"But you must go to school," said his mother with a smile. "There will not be many more days now. June will soon be over, and you know school closes a little earlier than usual this year. So run along, like good children."

Off they hurried and soon they were mingling with their boy and girl friends, who were also on their way to their classes.

"You can't guess what we're going to have," said Freddie to a boy named Johnnie Wilson, who was in his room.

"Kittens?" asked Johnnie.

"No."

"Puppies?"

"No."

"I give up -- what is it?"

"A houseboat," said Freddie. "It's a house on a boat, and you can live in it on water."

"Huh!" said Johnnie. "There isn't any such thing."

"Yes, there is, too, isn't there, Flossie?" and Freddie appealed to his small sister.

"'Course there is," she said. "Our papa bought one, and Freddie's going to be the fireman, and I'm going to cook the meals, so there! Haven't we got a houseboat, Nan?"

"Yes, dear," answered the older sister, who was walking with Bert. At this, coming from Nan, Johnnie had nothing to say, except that he murmured, as he walked away:

"Huh! A houseboat's nothing. We've got a baby at our house, and it's got hair on its head, and two teeth!"

"A houseboat's better'n a baby," was Freddie's opinion.

"It is not!" cried Johnnie.

"It is so!" Freddie exclaimed.

"Hush!" begged Nan. "Please don't dispute. Houseboats and babies are both nice. But now it's time to go to school."

The Bobbsey twins could hardly wait for the classes to be out that day, for their mother had promised to call for them after lessons, and, with their father, they were going to see the Bluebird. The houseboat had been brought up the lake by Mr. Marvin, and tied to a dock not far from Mr. Bobbsey's lumber office. The boat was now the property of Mr. Bobbsey, but that gentleman had not yet fully planned what he would do with her.

Just as the children were trooping out of the school yard, along came Mrs. Bobbsey. Nan and Flossie saw their mother and hastened toward her, while Freddie and Bert came along more slowly.

In a little while all five of them were at Mr. Bobbsey's lumber office. He came out of his private room, when one of his clerks told him Mrs. Bobbsey and the children were there.

"Ah, what can I do for you to-day?" asked Mr. Bobbsey of his wife, just like Mr. Fitch, the grocery-store-keeper. "Would you like a barrel of sawdust, ma'am; or a bundle of shingles to fry for the children's suppers?" and Mr. Bobbsey pretended he was no relation to his family.

"I think we'll have a houseboat," said his wife with a laugh. "Have you time to take us down to it? I can't do a thing with these children, they are so anxious to see the Bluebird." "Well, I hope they'll like her," said Mr. Bobbsey, "and not pull any feathers out of her tail."

"Oh, is there a real bird on the boat?" asked Flossie.

"No, papa is only joking," said Nan, with a smile.

Mr. Bobbsey put on his hat, and soon the whole Bobbsey family had reached the place where the boat was tied. At the first sight of her, with her pretty blue paint and white trimming, Nan cried:

"Oh, how lovely!"

"And how big it is!" exclaimed Freddie his eyes large and round with wonder.

"Let's go aboard -- where's the gang-plank?" asked Bert, trying to use some boat language he had heard from his father's lumbermen.

The Bluebird was indeed a fine, large houseboat, roomy and comfortable. The children went inside, and, after looking around the main, or living room, and peering into the dining-room, Nan opened the door of a smaller compartment. Inside she saw a cunning little bed.

"Oh, may I have this room?" she asked. "Isn't it sweet!"

"Here's another just like it," said Mrs. Bobbsey, opening the next door.

"That will be mine," said Flossie.

"My room's going to be back here, by the engine," spoke Bert, as he picked out his sleeping place.

"And I'll come with you," said Freddie. "I'm going to be fireman!" Gleefully the children were running about, clapping their hands, and finding something new and strange every minute.

"Where is your room, mamma?" asked Nan. "We ought to have let you and papa have first choice."

"Oh, there are plenty of rooms," said Mr. Bobbsey. "Let's go up on deck and -- -"

He stopped suddenly, and seemed to be listening.

"What is it?" asked his wife.

"There seems to be some one on this boat beside ourselves," answered Mr. Bobbsey. "I'll go look."



Chapter V

The Strange Boy


The Bobbsey twins looked at one another, and then at their mother, as Mr. Bobbsey went out of the living room of the houseboat, toward the stairway that led up on deck.

Bert tried to look brave, and as though he did not care. Nan moved a little closer to her mother. As for Flossie, she, too, was a little frightened, but Freddie did not seem at all alarmed.

"Is it somebody come to take the boat away from us?" he asked in his high-pitched, childish voice. "If it is -- don't let 'em, papa."

They all laughed at this -- even Mr. Bobbsey, and he turned to look around, half way up the stairs, saying:

"No, Freddie, I won't let them take our boat."

"Pooh! Just as if they could -- it's ours!" spoke Bert.

"Who could it be on board here, mamma?" asked Nan.

"I don't know, dear, unless it was some one passing through the lumber yard, who stopped to see what the boat looked like," answered Mrs. Bobbsey. "Papa will soon find out."

The noise they had heard was the footsteps of some one walking about on the deck of the houseboat.

"Perhaps it was one of the men from the office, who came to tell papa he was wanted up there, or that some one wanted to speak to him on the telephone," went on Mrs. Bobbsey. She saw that the children, even Bert, were a little alarmed, for the boat was tied at a lonely place in the lumber yard, and tramps frequently had to be driven away from the piles of boards under which there were a number of good places to sleep.

Mr. Bobbsey did not mean to be unkind to the poor men who had no homes, but tramps often smoke, and are not careful about their matches. There had been one or two fires in the lumber yard, and Mr. Bobbsey did not want any more blazes.

Soon the footsteps of the children's father were heard on the deck above them, and, a little later Freddie and the others could hear the talk of two persons.

"I guess it was one of the men," said Mrs. Bobbsey.

"I'm going to see," spoke Bert, and he moved toward the stairway, followed by Nan, Flossie and Freddie. They went up on deck and saw their father talking to a strange boy. None of the Bobbsey children knew him.

"Are you looking for some one?" asked Mr. Bobbsey kindly, of the strange boy. Often, when he was in distant parts of the lumber yard, and he was wanted at the office, or telephone, his men might ask some boy to run and tell the owner of the yard he was needed. But Mr. Bobbsey had never seen this lad before.

"No, sir, I -- I wasn't looking for any one," said the boy, as he looked down at his shoes, which were full of holes, and put his hands into the pockets of his trousers, which were quite ragged. "I was just looking at the boat. It's a fine one!"

"I'm glad you like it," said Mr. Bobbsey with a smile.

"Could you go to sea in this boat?" asked the boy, who was not very much older than Bert.

"Go to sea? Oh, no!" answered Mr. Bobbsey. "This boat is all right on a lake, or river, but the big waves of the ocean would be too strong for it. We don't intend to go to sea. Why? Are you fond of sailing?"

"That's what I am!" cried the boy. "I'm going to sea in a ship some day. I'm sick of farm-life!" and his eyes snapped.

"Are you a farmer?" asked the twins' father.

"I work for a farmer, and I don't like it -- the work is too hard," the boy said, as he hung his head.

"There is plenty of hard work in this world," went on Mr. Bobbsey. "Of course too much hard work isn't good for any one, but we must all do our share. Where do you work?"

"I work for Mr. Hardee, who lives just outside the town of Lemby," answered the boy.

"Oh, yes, I know Mr. Hardee," spoke Mr. Bobbsey. "I sold him some lumber with which he built his house. So you work for him? But what are you doing so far away from the farm?"

"Mr. Hardee sent me over here, to Lakeport, on an errand."

"Well, if I were you I wouldn't come so far away from where I left my horse and wagon," cautioned Mr. Bobbsey, for the place where the boat was tied was a long distance from the main road leading from Lakeport to Lemby.

"I didn't come in a wagon," said the boy. "I walked."

"What! You don't mean to say you walked all the way from Lemby to Lakeport?" exclaimed Mrs. Bobbsey, who had now come up on deck.

"Yes'm, I did," answered the boy. "Mr. Hardee said he needed the horses to work on the farm. He said I was young, and the walk would do me good. So Mrs. Hardee, she gave me some bread and butter for my lunch, and I walked. I'm walking back now, and I came this way by the lake. It's a short cut.

"Then I happened to see this boat here. I like boats, so I thought it wouldn't hurt to come on board."

"Oh, no, that's all right!" said Mr. Bobbsey quickly. "I'll be glad to have you look around, though this is only a houseboat, and not built for ocean travel. So you work for Mr. Hardee, eh? What's your name?"

"Will Watson," the boy said. Mrs. Bobbsey was trying to motion to her husband to come toward her. It seemed as though she wanted to say something to him privately.

"Will Watson, eh?" went on Mr. Bobbsey. "I don't seem to know any family of that name around here."

"No, I don't belong around here," the boy said. "I come from out west -- or I used to live there when I was littler. I've got an uncle out there now, if I could ever find him. He's a gold miner."

"A gold miner?" said Mr. Bobbsey, and then his wife came up to him, and whispered in his ear. Just what she said the twins could not hear, but, a moment later Mr. Bobbsey said:

"Bert, suppose you take Will down and show him the boat, since he is so interested."

"Oh, I'm going to!" cried Freddie. "I want to show him where I'm going to be a fireman."

"And I want to show him my room," said Flossie.

The strange boy looked at the little twins and smiled. He had a nice face, and was quite clean, though his clothes were ragged and poor.

"Come along down if you like," said Bert kindly. "There's a lot to see below the deck."

With a friendly nod of his head Will Watson followed the three children. Nan stayed on deck with her parents.

"It's a shame to make him walk all the way from Lemby here and back," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "It must be all of five miles each way."

"It is," said Mr. Bobbsey. "Quite a tramp for a little fellow."

"Can't you find some way to give him a ride back?" asked his wife. "Aren't any of your wagons going that way?"

"Perhaps," replied Mr. Bobbsey. "I'll find out, and I'll send him as near to Mr. Hardee's place as I can."

"Poor little fellow," said Mrs. Bobbsey, and she thought how hard it would be if her son Bert had to go to work for his living so young.

"He seems like a nice boy," spoke Mr. Bobbsey, "and from what I know of Mr. Hardee he isn't an easy man to work for. Well, have you seen enough of the boat, Nan? Do you think you'll like it?"

"Oh, I just love it," Nan answered. "I'm so anxious for the time to come when we can go sailing, or whatever you do in a boat like this. Mamma, may I bring some of my things from home to fix up my room?"

"I think so -- yes. We shall have to talk about that later. I think it is time we started home now. Dinah will not want to wait supper for us."

"Well then, run along," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I'll get the others up from down below."

"And you won't forget about trying to give that boy a ride home?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

"No, indeed," replied her husband. "I'm going right back to the office now, and I'll take him with me. I'll let him ride on the wagon that's going nearest to Lemby."

Mr. Bobbsey met Bert and the strange boy coming up.

"It sure is a dandy boat!" said Will Watson with a sigh of envy. "If ever I go away to sea, I hope I'll have as nice a room as yours," and he looked at Bert. "I just couldn't help coming on the boat when I saw her tied here," he went on. "I hope you didn't mind."

"Not a bit!" exclaimed Mrs. Bobbsey, wishing she had some of Dinah's cake or crullers with her to give to the boy, for the twins' mother thought he looked hungry.

The door, leading into the cabin of the houseboat was locked, and they all went on shore, over the gangplank, the board that extended from the dock to the boat.

"Good-bye, Bluebird!" called Flossie, waving her fat, chubby, little hand toward the houseboat. "We'll soon be back."

"And I'm going to bring my fire engine, when I come again," exclaimed Freddie. "If the boat gets on fire I can put it out."

"Boats can't get on fire in the water!" declared Flossie.

"They can so -- can't they, papa?" appealed the little boy.

"Well, sometimes, perhaps. But we hope ours doesn't," replied Mr. Bobbsey with a smile. He led the way off the boat, and as Will was about to walk on along the lake shore, on his return to Lemby, Mrs. Bobbsey said:

"Wouldn't you like a ride back, little boy?"

"Indeed I would," he said. "My feet hurt, on account of my shoes being so full of holes, I guess. I'm pretty tired, but I had a little rest. I don't expect to get back much before dark."

"Well, perhaps you can ride nearly all the way," went on Mrs. Bobbsey. "My husband has some lumber wagons going in your direction."

"Yes, come along and we'll see what we can do for you," put in the twins' father, nodding at the strange boy.

Will went off with Mr. Bobbsey, while Nan, Bert, Flossie and Freddie walked with their mother.

"Oh, mamma, when do you think we can go in our boat?" asked Flossie.

"Well, as soon as school closes, my dear."

"And will we sail across the ocean?" Freddie wanted to know.

"Of course not!" cried Bert. "A houseboat isn't a ship."

"That boy knew about ships," said Nan. "I like him, don't you, mamma?"

"Yes, he seemed real nice. He hasn't a very easy life, I'm afraid, working on a farm. But we must hurry on to supper. We'll talk about the boat after papa comes home."



Chapter VI

Freddie's Fire Engine


"Papa, when can we go sailing in the houseboat?"

"May I take my fire engine along?"

"Where did you leave that boy?"

"Did he get a ride to Lemby?"

"Thus Bert, Freddie, Flossie and Nan questioned Mr. Bobbsey when he came home to supper after the visit to the Bluebird.

"My! My!" exclaimed the lumber merchant, as he stopped in the hall to hang up his hat. "What a lot of talk all at once! Let me see -- whose question shall I answer first?"

"Did you manage to get that poor boy a ride?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

It was the first time she had had a chance to ask her question.

"Answer mamma first," said Bert politely. "The rest of us can wait."

Mr. Bobbsey gave his older son a pleased look, and then replied:

"Yes, I found that one of our lumber wagons was going within half a mile of the village of Lemby, so I let the boy ride with the driver. It will give him a good lift."

"Indeed it will," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "I felt so sorry for him. I wish I could help him!"

"I hope the horses don't run away," spoke Freddie with such a serious air that they all laughed.

"I guess they won't run away, little fat fireman!" said Mr. Bobbsey, as he caught Freddie up in his arms. "They are good, steady horses, and they had a pretty heavy load to drag. So Will won't be in any danger. But I hope supper is ready. I'm hungry!"

"But you didn't answer my question," said Nan. "When are we going in the houseboat, father?"

"Oh, whenever school ends and your mother is ready," was the answer. "I should say in about two weeks."

"Good!" cried Bert. "And are we going to take Snap along?" he asked, as he caught sight of the trick dog outside, standing on his hind legs, while Sam Johnson held up a bone for him. Snap was "begging" for his supper, as he often did.

"Yes, I think we can find room for Snap on board," the lumber man said.

"What about our cat, Snoop?" asked Flossie. "I want to take Snoop along. Wouldn't you like to go in a boat, Snoop?" and Flossie picked the fat cat up in her arms. Snoop was quite an armful now. "Don't you want to go, Snoop?"

"Meow!" was all Snoop said, and that might have meant anything at all.

"Supper first," suggested Mr. Bobbsey, "and after that we'll talk about the boat."

The meal was a merry one, and there was much talk and laughter. As Dinah brought on one good thing to eat after another, Mrs. Bobbsey said:

"I hope every one has as nice a supper as we have."

"Were you thinking of any one in particular?" asked her husband.

"Yes, of that poor boy who came on the boat to-day," she answered. "I wonder if he has a good supper after his long walk this morning?"

"Well, they say Mr. Hardee doesn't feed his help any too well," spoke Mr. Bobbsey. "But now let's talk about our houseboat trip."

"Oh, what fun we'll have!" cried Freddie and Flossie, clapping their chubby hands.

"Did you plan a trip?" Mrs. Bobbsey wanted to know.

"Well, partly, yes. I thought we could go down Lake Metoka to Lemby Creek. We haven't been down that direction in some time."

"Lemby Creek!" exclaimed Bert. "Isn't that the name of the place where that boy came from?" "Well, Lemby is a town on Lemby Creek," spoke his father. "Will Watson works on Mr. Hardee's farm, and that is just outside the village. Lemby Creek is about ten miles long, and by going along that we can get into Lake Romano. That is a large body of water, and there is a waterfall at the farther end."

"A waterfall!" cried Freddie. "Oh, goodie! Can we go see it, papa?"

"I guess so," said Mr. Bobbsey. "We'll make this a long trip. It will take over a month, but of course we won't travel every day. Some days we'll just anchor the boat in a shady place, and -- -"

"Fish!" interrupted Bert.

"Yes, fish, or go in swimming -- anything to have a good time," Mr. Bobbsey said.

"Oh, won't we have fun!" cried Freddie again. "We'll take Snoop and Snap along, and they'll like it, too."

"I guess Snap will, because he's fond of the water," said Bert, with a laugh. "But Snoop doesn't care for it."

"Snoop can sleep on deck in the sun," said Nan. "She'll like that. I wish I could ask one of my girl friends to come along with us for the houseboat trip. We have so many nice rooms on the Bluebird it seems a pity not to use them."

"And I'd like one of my boy chums, too," spoke Bert. Flossie and Freddie were busy trying to make Snoop do one of the tricks the circus lady had taught her. But Snoop wanted to go out in the kitchen, and have Dinah give her some supper.

"Company, eh?" exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey, slowly. "Well, I don't know. We have plenty of room on the Bluebird. I wonder how it would do to ask Harry and Dorothy to come with us?" he inquired of his wife.

"Oh, Cousin Harry!" cried Bert. "That would be fine!"

"And Cousin Dorothy!" added Nan. "She and I could have lovely times together. Do ask her, mother!"

"We might ask the cousins," agreed Mrs. Bobbsey. "They haven't been to visit us in some time, and I think both Harry and Dorothy would enjoy the trip."

Harry and Dorothy, as I have told you, were cousins of the Bobbseys. Harry lived at Meadow Brook, in the country, and Dorothy at Ocean Cliff, near the sea.

"I'll write to-morrow," said Mrs. Bobbsey, "and find out if they can go with us. Now have we anything else to settle about our trip?"

"What about something to eat?" asked Freddie, in such a funny, anxious voice, that all the others laughed.

"My goodness, little fat fireman!" exclaimed his father. "Here you have just finished your supper, and you are already hungry again."

"Oh, I'm not hungry now," explained Freddie, "but I will be on the boat."

"Don't worry," said his mother. "Dinah is coming with us."

"Oh, then it will be all right," went on the little twin, with a contented sigh. "Come on, Flossie," he called to his small sister, "I know how we can have some fun. 'Scuse me," he murmured, as he and the other little twin slipped from their chairs.

Mr. and Mrs. Bobbsey, with Nan and Bert, remained at the table for some time longer, talking about the coming trip in the Bluebird. As Mr. Bobbsey had said, it would be about two weeks, yet, before they could start. There were two weeks more of school, but the classes would close earlier than usual that summer, because an addition was to be built to the school building, and the men wanted to get to work on it, to have it finished in time for school early in September.

"So we'll get an extra week or so of vacation," explained Bert. "And we'll spend it all on the houseboat."

"Well, perhaps not all of it," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I may not be able to stay with you all that while. But we'll spend a month or two on the Bluebird."

"What will we do the rest of vacation?" asked Bert.

"Oh, perhaps we'll go to the mountains, or some place like that," his mother said with a smile. "It isn't settled yet."

"Is it a high waterfall at Lake Romano?" asked Nan. "I just love them."

"Yes, it's a pretty high one," her father said. "I haven't been to Lake Romano in some years, but I remember it as a very beautiful place."

"I'm sure we shall enjoy it," Mrs. Bobbsey said.

"Is the fishing good?" Bert wanted to know.

"So I have heard. We'll take some poles and lines along, anyhow, and try our luck," his father replied.

Mr. Bobbsey pushed back his chair from the table, and looked around for the evening paper. Bert and Nan had some home work to do, to get ready their lessons for the next day's school classes, and Mrs. Bobbsey got out her sewing basket. There were always stockings to mend, if there was nothing else of the children's that needed attention.

The house was quiet except for the distant rattling of dishes in the kitchen, where fat Dinah was singing away as she worked. Suddenly her song ceased, and she was heard to exclaim:

"Now yo' want t' be careful, honey lamb! Doan't yo' go to muxin' up Dinah's clean kitchen flo'."

"No, we won't, Dinah!" replied Freddie's voice.

"If any gets spilled, I'll wipe it up," said Flossie.

"I wonder what those children are up to now?" remarked Mrs. Bobbsey, as she rolled up two stockings she had just darned.

"Oh, I guess they're all right," said Mr. Bobbsey easily, as he turned over a page of the evening paper.

The next moment there came a shout from Dinah in the kitchen.

"Stop it, Freddie. Stop it, I say!" cried the fat, colored cook. "Yo' suah am gittin' me all wet! Oh, there it goes ag'in! Stop it!"

"I -- I can't!" cried Freddie. "Hold your hand over it, Flossie!"

"Oh, now it's squirting on me!" came in Flossie's tones. "Make it stop, Freddie."

"It -- it won't stop!" was the frightened answer.

"Oh! Land ob massy!" shouted Dinah. "Sam! Sam! Mr. Bobbsey, come heah quick! It's squirtin' all ober!"

"Oh! Something has happened!" exclaimed Mrs. Bobbsey, starting toward the kitchen.

"Maybe a water pipe has burst," suggested Mr. Bobbsey, dropping his paper and making a jump toward the kitchen. As he did so, he heard Dinah cry again:

"Oh, yo' am all wet, honey lamb! Yo' is all soakin' wet! Oh, now it's comin' fo' me ag'in! Oh, stop it, Freddie! Stop it!"

"I -- I can't!" was all Freddie said.

The next moment Mr. Bobbsey, followed by his wife, had reached the kitchen. There they saw a queer sight.

In the middle of the floor stood Flossie and Freddie, water dripping from their hands and faces. Dinah, too, was wet, and she was fairly flying around, with a plate in one hand and a dish towel in the other.

And, all about the kitchen was spurting a stream of water, while over by the stove stood Freddie's toy fire engine. It was this engine that was spraying the water all over the room.



Chapter VII

The Two Cousins


"Oh, Freddie! What has happened?" cried Mrs. Bobbsey.

"It -- it's the -- -" began Freddie, but that was as far as he got, for just then the stream of water from his toy engine spurted right into his open mouth.

"Shut it off!" cried Mr. Bobbsey. "Here, I'll do it!"

He started across the kitchen floor.

"Look out, Massa Bobbsey!" yelled Dinah. "It'll cotch yo' shuah. It done cotched me!" and then as she saw the little rubber hose of Freddie's fire engine swing around, and the nozzle point at her, the fat cook ran into the dish-closet and shut the door.

"How did it happen?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, not so excited, now that she found nothing serious was the matter.

"Freddie -- Freddie -- he wanted to try how his fire engine worked, 'cause he hadn't played with it this week," explained Flossie. Freddie was busy wiping the water from his face. "So he filled the tank, and wound it up, and now -- and now -- it won't -- it won't stop-squirtin'!" went on Flossie. "It -- it -- -"

And then she, too, had to stop talking, for the hose was spurting water at her now.

"I'll shut it off. Something must be the matter with the spring," said Mr. Bobbsey. He walked toward Freddie's fire engine, which was pretty large, for a toy. But before he reached it, the water hose had swung around, and, instead of sprinkling Flossie, was aimed at Mr. Bobbsey. However he did not mind. Holding the newspaper in front of his face, Freddie's father reached the fire engine, and turned off the machinery that pumped the water.

"There!" he cried. "The fire's out! The only damage is from water," and he laughed, for he was wet, and so were Mrs. Bobbsey, Flossie and Freddie; and the kitchen itself was pretty well sprinkled.

"What's it all about?" asked Bert, for he and Nan, who had been studying their lessons, had heard the noise of the excitement, and had run to the kitchen to see what had caused it.

"Oh, Freddie turned in a false alarm," said Mr. Bobbsey. "How did you come to put water in your engine, when mamma has told you not to do so in the house?" he asked the little boy.

"Be -- be -- cause," said Freddie slowly, "I wanted to see if it would -- work. I'm going to take it on the houseboat with me."

"Well, I guess it WORKED all right," Bert said, as he looked around at the wet kitchen. Luckily there was oil cloth on the floor, and the walls were painted, so the water really did no harm.

Dinah slowly opened the door of the dish-closet, and peered out.

"Am it all done, honey lamb?" she asked, looking at Freddie.

"Yes, Dinah! It's all done squirtin'," he said. "I guess there isn't any more water, anyhow."

"No," said Mr. Bobbsey, with a smile, as he looked in the tank of the engine, "it's all pumped out."

Freddie's toy fire engine was a large and expensive one his uncle had given him on Christmas. It was made as nearly like a real engine as possible, only instead of working by steam, it worked by a spring. When a spring was wound up, it operated a small pump in the engine. The pump made water spurt out through a little rubber hose, and the water for the engine was poured into a tank. The tank held about two gallons, so you see when it was all pumped out in the kitchen, and spurted on those in the room, it made them pretty wet.

"It's clean water," said Nan, when every one had somewhat cooled down, "and it's so warm to-night, I wouldn't mind being sprayed with a hose myself."

"Still, Freddie shouldn't have done it," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "I have told you not to play with your engine in the house, when it had water in it, Freddie. How did you come to disobey me?" she asked, for usually the little fellow was very good about minding.

"I -- I didn't mean to, mamma," he said "First I just wanted to see if the engine tank leaked, so I put in some water. I didn't think it would hurt, out here on the kitchen oil cloth, and honestly I wasn't going to squirt it."

"No, I suppose not," said Mr. Bobbsey, wiping the water from his face, and glancing at his soaked newspaper.

"So I just filled the tank with water from the sink," explained Freddie.

"I -- I helped him," confessed Flossie, ready to take her share of the blame.

"What happened next?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Why -- er -- I just wanted to see if the spring was all right, so I wound that up," Freddie went on. "Then I sort of forgot about the water in the tank, and before I knew it, why it -- it went off -- sudden like."

"Land ob massy! I should say it done did go off -- suddint laik!" exclaimed Dinah. "Fust I knowed I was dryin' de dishes an' den I got a mouth full ob watah. I shuah did t'ink a watah pipe had done gone an' busted. I shuah did!"

"It -- it just kept on squirtin'!" said Freddie. "I couldn't stop it like it always used to stop."

"No, the pump is out of order," said Mr. Bobbsey, as he looked at the now empty fire engine. "It wouldn't stop pumping. Well, I'm glad it wasn't a real fire, and glad that no one is hurt. Put your engine away now, Freddie, and, after this, don't play with water in the house, when mamma has told you not to."

"I won't," promised Freddie. "But it's a good engine, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, it's a good engine, all right."

"And I can take it on the houseboat, can't I?"

"Yes, but you won't need to put any water in. There'll be enough in the creek and lakes," said Mrs. Bobbsey with a smile. "Come now, Flossie and Freddie, you are wet, so you might as well get undressed and go to bed. It is nearly time, anyhow, and you have had quite a day of it. Off to bed!"

Off to bed the twins went.

Dinah wiped up the kitchen, and, as she did so, she murmured over and over again: "It shuah did go off suddint laik! It shuah did!"

Flossie and Freddie, little the worse for their wetting, went off to school next day, with Nan and Bert. The two sets of twins talked of many things on their way to their classes, but, most of all, they talked of the coming trip on the houseboat, and of the accident to the fire engine the night before.

"I do hope Cousin Dorothy can come with us," said Nan, as she left Bert to walk along with Nellie Parks.

"And I hope Harry can go," said Bert. "Better hurry along, Freddie," he called to his little brother. "There goes your bell, and yours, too, Flossie."

The two little tots turned into the gate of the school that led to the yard where the smallest pupils formed in line.

"Well, even if Harry and Dorothy can't go, I'll take my fire engine," said Freddie.

"And we'll take Snoop and Snap, so we won't be lonesome," suggested Flossie. "Oh, won't it be fun, Freddie!"

"Yes, I wish it was time to go now. I'm tired of school," said the little fellow.

But school must go on, whether there are houseboat parties or not, so the Bobbsey twins had to study their lessons. I think that day, however, Bert must have been thinking of other things than his books, for when the teacher asked him what an island was, Bert gave a queer answer. Instead of saying it was a body of land, surrounded by water, Bert said:

"An island is a fire engine in the kitchen."

"Why, Bert Bobbsey! What ARE you thinking of?" asked the teacher.

"Oh, I -- I was thinking of something that happened at our house last night," Bert went on, while all the children in the room laughed.

"Then you'd better tell us about it," suggested Miss Teeter, the instructor, for she was very kind. So Bert told of Freddie's mishap, and how it was he happened to be thinking of that instead of the right answer to the question about the island.

"I hear you have a houseboat, Bert," said John Blake, a boy in the same room, as the children came out of school that afternoon.

"Yes, my father bought the one Mr. Marvin owned," said Bert. "It's a fine one, too. We're going to have a trip in her soon."

"You're a lucky boy!" exclaimed John. "Can't you take me down and show me over the boat?"

"I'd like to," said Bert, "but father said I wasn't to go aboard, when he was not with me."

"Pooh! He'll never know," suggested Danny Rugg, a boy with whom Bert had had more or less trouble. "You needn't tell your father you went to the boat. Come on, take us down and let's see it."

"No," said Bert, quietly but firmly. "Maybe my father wouldn't know I had been on board, but I'd know it."

"Aw, you're a fraid-cat!" sneered Danny. "Come on, take us down, and we'll have some fun."

"No," said Bert with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry. Some other time, after I've asked my father if I may, I'll show you all over the Bluebird."

"I want to go now," Danny said.

"Oh, there's plenty of time," spoke John, pleasantly. "I wouldn't want Bert to do what his father told him not to, just to oblige me. I'll see the boat some other time, Bert; that will do just as well."

"Huh! He's a fraid-cat!" muttered Danny again, as he shuffled off, muttering to himself. Several times he had made trouble for the Bobbsey twins, and Bert was not any too friendly with him. Danny was a bully in the school.

Bert wished, very much indeed, that he could have taken some of his boy friends down to the houseboat, but his father had a good reason for not wanting any boys aboard, unless he could be with them. Workmen were making certain changes in the craft, and doing some painting inside and outside.

A few days after this, when the Bobbsey twins reached home from school, Mrs. Bobbsey met them at the door, saying:

"I have good news for you, children!"

"What is it?" cried Bert.

"Don't we have to go to school any more?" Freddie.

"Are we going on the houseboat sooner than we expected?" Nan wanted to know.

"It's about your two cousins -- Harry and Dorothy," went on Mrs. Bobbsey. "They have both accepted our invitations, and they will come with us on the trip! Won't that be nice?"

"Lovely!" exclaimed Nan, her eyes shining with delight. "Dorothy and I'll have such nice times together!"

"And Harry and I'll catch a lot of fish," declared Bert.

The days went on. The houseboat was nearly ready for her trip. Very soon school would close.

"Come on, Bert, can't you show us over the boat now?" asked Danny Rugg one afternoon, on his way home from school, with Nan's brother, and some other boys.

"I can't to-day, but perhaps I can to-morrow," said Bert. "I'll ask my father."

"He'll never know about it," tempted Danny again, but Bert could not be influenced that way.

"Never mind, I'll fix you!" threatened Danny, which was what he usually said, when he could not have his own way.

Bert thought little of the threat at the time, though later he recalled it vividly.

It was that night, just as the smaller twins were getting ready for bed, that the telephone in the Bobbsey house rang out a call.

"I'll answer it," said Mr. Bobbsey, as he went to the instrument. "Hello!" he called. Then his wife and children heard him cry:

"What! Is that so! That's too bad! Yes, I'll attend to it right away. I wonder how it happened?"

"Oh, what has happened?" cried Mrs. Bobbsey, in alarm.

"Is the lumber yard on fire again?" asked Freddie, thinking of his toy engine.

"Not as bad as that," said Mr. Bobbsey, as he quickly put on his hat. "But the watchman at the dock just telephoned me that our houseboat, the Bluebird, has gotten adrift, and is floating out into the lake."



Chapter VIII

Off In The "Bluebird"


For a few seconds after Mr. Bobbsey told of the news he had heard over the telephone, none of the twins seemed to know what to say. They just stared at their father, and I really believe, for a moment, that Flossie and Freddie thought he was playing a joke on them. Then Mrs. Bobbsey seemed to understand it.

"What!" she cried. "Our houseboat adrift?"

"That's what the watchman tells me," said Mr. Bobbsey, as he started for the front door.

"But who did it?" asked Bert, managing to get his tongue in working order.

"Can't you get her back again?" asked Nan. "Our boat, I mean."

"Let me come with you!" pleaded Freddie.

"And I want to come, too!" added Flossie. She seldom wanted to be left behind, when her twin brother went anywhere.

"No, no! You children must stay here," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I will hurry down to the lake, and come right back. I'll tell you all about it, when I return."

"But what could have happened?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey. "What would make our boat go adrift?"

"Oh, some of the ropes might have come loose," replied her husband. "Or the ropes might even have been cut through, rubbing against the dock. The wind is blowing a little, and that is sending the boat out into the lake. I'll get one of our steam tugs, and go after her. It will not take long nor be hard work to bring her back."

A number of small steam tugs were owned by Mr. Bobbsey for use in hauling lumber boats, and lumber rafts about Lake Metoka. Some of these tugs were always at the dock, and one always had steam up, ready for instant use.

"Well, I hope you get the Bluebird back all right," said Bert. "We don't want to miss our trip, especially after we have asked Harry and Dorothy."

"Oh, it would be too bad to disappoint them," put in Nan.

"Oh, I'll get the boat back all right," declared Mr. Bobbsey.

Flossie and Freddie breathed sighs of relief. They were not worried now, for they knew their father would do as he said.

Fat Dinah put her head in through the door of the sitting room.

"Am anyt'ing de mattah?" she asked. "I done heah yo' all talkin' in heah, an' I t'inks maybe dat honey lamb Freddie done got his steam enjine squirtin' watah ag'in."

"Not this time, Dinah," said Mrs. Bobbsey, for the cook was almost like one of the family. Then the twins' mother explained what the trouble was.

"I 'clar t' goodness!" Dinah exclaimed. "Suffin's always happenin' in dish yeah fambily."

It was not a very serious happening this time. Mr. Bobbsey hurried down to his lumber yard in the darkness of the June evening.

He was gone about an hour, when the telephone rang. On account of the little excitement Flossie and Freddie had been allowed to stay up, although it was long past their usual bedtime.

"I'll answer it," said Mrs. Bobbsey, as the telephoned bell stopped jingling, for Bert had started from his seat.

"Oh, it's papa," the twins' mother went on, after she had listened for a second after saying "Hello!"

"Is the boat all right?" asked Nan, anxiously.

"Yes," answered her mother, and then she turned to listen to the rest of Mr. Bobbsey's talk over the telephone.

"Papa went after the Bluebird, and brought her safely back," Mrs. Bobbsey explained, when she had hung up the receiver. "He'll be here in a few minutes to tell us all about it. He telephoned from the lumber office after he had our boat safe."

"Oh, I'm so glad the boat's all right," said Nan.

"Pooh, I knowed it would be -- when papa went after it," said Freddie, with a sleepy yawn.

"You must say 'knew,' not 'knowed,' dear," spoke Mamma Bobbsey. "And now I think it is time for you and Flossie to go to bed."

Neither of the smaller twins offered any objection. They were too sleepy to want to stay up and listen to the story of the bringing back of the Bluebird.

Nan and Bert were anxious to hear it, and Mr. Bobbsey came in soon after Flossie and Freddie were tucked in bed. He told the story of the drifting houseboat.

"How did it break loose?" asked Bert.

"It didn't break loose," said his father. "Some one untied the knots in the ropes."

"Untied!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey. "How did it happen?"

"Why, some one went aboard the boat," explained Mr. Bobbsey, "and I think it must have been some boys, for I found this cap," and he held up a gray one.

"Why!" cried Bert when he saw it. "That's Danny Rugg's cap!"

"I thought so," went on Mr. Bobbsey. "Danny, and some of his chums, must have gone on the boat early this evening. They played about, as boys will, and some of them, either on purpose or accidentally, must have loosed the knots in the ropes before coming ashore. Then the boat just drifted away after that."

"Those boys had no right to go on our boat!" said Nan.

"No, they had not," agreed her father, "But I'm glad there was no real damage done. The watchman saw the Bluebird soon after she had drifted away from the dock, and he telephoned me. I went out in one of our tugs and soon brought her back. So you think this is Danny Rugg's cap, Bert?"

"I'm sure of it, yes, sir. Danny wanted me to take him, and some of the other boys, on the boat, but I wouldn't."

"I'm glad you remembered what I told you," spoke Mr. Bobbsey, and Bert blushed with pleasure.

"I'll give Danny his cap in the morning," Bert went on. "It may surprise him to know where he lost it."

"I don't believe you can surprise that Danny Rugg very much," said Mrs. Bobbsey.

The next morning, when Bert took Danny's cap to school with him, and handed it to the boy who had caused so much trouble, a queer look came over Danny's face.

"Thanks," he said. "I was wondering where I left that. I guess I must have dropped it, when I was -- playing football over in the fields."

"No, you dropped it on our houseboat, the Bluebird, just before you and the other fellows untied the ropes that let her go adrift," said Bert. "And you'd better keep off her after this!"

"Huh! I'm not afraid of your father!" was all Danny growled, as he stuffed his cap in his pocket, for he had worn another to school.

When Danny's chums learned that it was known who had set the boat adrift, they were rather frightened. When they realized the damage they might have done, they kept away from Mr. Bobbsey's lumber yard for a long time.

One day, about a week after this, the Bobbsey twins hurried home from school without stopping to play with any of their friends.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" asked Grace Lavine of Nan.

"We expect our cousins to-day," Nan answered. "Then we are going to get ready to go away in our houseboat."

Surely enough, when the twins reached home, there the cousins were to greet them -- Dorothy and Harry, one from the seashore, and the other from the country.

"Oh, but I'm SO glad to see you!" cried Nan, as she hugged and kissed Dorothy.

"And I'm SO glad to come," Dorothy answered with a smile. "It was lovely of you to invite me to go on your boat."

"We'll have a lot of fun," said Bert to Harry.

"That's what we will," replied the boy from the country.

"We're both awful glad to see you!" chimed in Flossie, speaking both for herself and for Freddie. "But we can't play with the fire engine."

"Not if we put water in," added Freddie.

"What in the world do they mean?" asked Dorothy, wonderingly.

"Oh, I'll have to tell you," laughed Nan, as she explained about the accident.

The cousins had much to tell the twins, and talk about, and the twins had as much more to tell, so, for a time, there was a merry sound of talk and laughter.

Dorothy and Harry had come by different trains, one from the seashore and the other from the country, but they had reached the Bobbsey house at the same time. Their schools had not yet closed, but as they were both well advanced in their studies, their parents had allowed them to leave their classes ahead of time, since they were both sure to "pass."

"Just think!" cried Nan, when there was a moment of quiet. "In three days more OUR school will close, and then we'll go on the trip."

"Won't it be lovely!" murmured Dorothy.

I leave you to imagine all that took place in those three days. Schooldays came to an end, and the Bobbsey twins were among those at the heads of their classes. Then came a packing-up time, and the Bobbsey house was a scene of great excitement. Trunks and boxes were taken aboard the Bluebird, a man was hired to run the gasoline engine. Plenty of good things to eat were stowed away in the kitchen lockers, as cupboards are called on a boat. At last all was ready for the start.

Snoop and Snap, of course, were on hand, as was Dinah. Mr. Bobbsey saw to it that his family, and the two cousins, were safely aboard, and then he gave the order to cast off the lines. The Bluebird floated away from the dock, and out into the lake that was almost as blue as her name.

"All aboard!" cried Bert.

"Toot! Toot!" whistled Freddie, pretending to be an engine.

"Oh, look out! You're stepping on my doll!" screamed Flossie, who had put her toy down on the deck a moment.

"Good-bye! Good-bye!" called Nan to Grace Lavine, and some others of her girl friends, who had come down to the dock to see them off. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" echoed the girls, waving their hands.

"Come on!" called Bert to Harry, as he started for the lower cabin.

"What are you going to do?" asked the boy from the country.

"Let's get out our fishing poles. Maybe we can catch something for dinner."

"That's right!" agreed Harry.

Slowly the Bluebird moved out into the lake, for the gasoline engine was working. The houseboat trip of the Bobbsey twins had begun, and many things were to happen before it was to end.



Chapter IX

Snoop And Snap


Nan and Dorothy, after waving good-bye to the girl friends on the dock, went down to the living room of the houseboat. There they found Mrs. Bobbsey and Dinah putting away some of the things that had been brought on board at the last moment.

"I 'clar t' goodness!" exclaimed the colored cook, "dish yeah houseboatin' am wuss dan movin'!"

"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Mrs. Bobbsey, with a laugh. "But what are you going to do, Nan, dear? Do you like it, Dorothy?"

"Oh! indeed I do," answered the "seashore cousin," as Nan called her to distinguish her from Harry, who lived in the country.

"We are just going to our rooms for a minute, mother," Nan answered. "I want to show Dorothy my new sailor suit."

Every body on the houseboat was busy, even down to Flossie and Freddie, and the two little twins were busy having fun.

Mrs. Bobbsey and Dinah were engaged in putting to rights the different rooms, for there were a number on the Bluebird, which was built for a large family. Bert and Harry were up on deck fishing, as the boat moved slowly through the blue waters of Metoka Lake. Flossie and Freddie, as I have said, were playing, the little girl with her doll, and Freddie with a new toy his father had bought him.

As for Mr. Bobbsey, he was down in the engine room with "Captain White." Mr. White was one of Mr. Bobbsey's men who had once been in charge of a tugboat, but one day there was an accident aboard, and Mr. White was made lame for life.

But Mr. Bobbsey liked his faithful employee, and kept him at work, and since Mr. White could not do heavy tasks, he was allowed to do easy ones.

Mr. White was called "Captain" by every one, though he was not really a captain. Still, he knew a great deal about boats, the weather clouds and storms, and all things such as sea captains are supposed to know.

When Mr. Bobbsey bought Mr. Marvin's houseboat, he at once began to think of some one who could sail it for him, and take care of the gasoline engine. Naturally, he thought of Captain White. So the Bluebird was put in charge of Captain White, who, you may be sure, was very glad to be on the water again, even if it was only in a slow-moving houseboat, and not in a swift steam tug.

Mr. Bobbsey and Captain White were down in the motor, or engine room together. Mr. Bobbsey was learning how to run the gasoline engine.

I have told you how the Bluebird was driven along through the water by a small engine. It was not a steam engine, such as are found in many boats, but a gasoline one, such as those in most automobiles.

Mr. Bobbsey did not intend to sail very fast in the houseboat. In fact, for many days, he expected to just drift along, or push the boat with a long pole through some shallow creek, or in parts of the lake where it was not deep. When he wanted to move more quickly from place to place, there was the gasoline engine all ready to use. And Captain White knew how to use it.

Mr. Bobbsey came up out of the little motor room after a while, and watched his wife and Dinah putting things away. The boat was moving down the lake.

"Oh, look at your face!" suddenly cried Mrs. Bobbsey.

"What's the matter with it?" asked her husband, putting his hand up to his nose, as almost any person will do when you speak of his face.

"It's all black!" went on Mrs. Bobbsey. "So are your hands. Oh, Richard! What have you been doing?"

"Learning to run the gasoline engine," he said. "I want to know how it works so that if we need to start any time when Captain White is on shore, or asleep, I can do it."

"I hope you won't start off any time when Captain White is on shore," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "You don't know enough about a boat to run it without him."

"Very well, then. I promise I'll run the gasoline engine only when Captain White is asleep," said Mr. Bobbsey, with a laugh. "And then, if anything happens, I'll only have to awaken him, and ask him what is wrong."

"That's the best plan," said Mrs. Bobbsey, also laughing. "And now you had better go wash your face. Some one might see you -- looking like that."

There was a nice little bathroom aboard the Bluebird, and Mr. Bobbsey was soon splashing away with the water and soap. Meanwhile Mrs. Bobbsey and Dinah finished their work, and went up on deck.

It was a very pleasant day, and with the sun shining down from a blue sky overhead, just warm enough, and not too hot, with a gentle breeze that hardly ruffled the surface of the lake, but which made it delightfully cool as the boat moved slowly along. In short, it was just perfect weather, as the Bobbsey twins started off on their houseboat.

Nan and Dorothy, having finished looking at each other's dresses, which always seems to delight girls, had come up on deck so that now the whole Bobbsey family, and their country, and seashore cousin visitors also, were there.

"Have you caught any fish yet?" asked Mr. Bobbsey, walking over to where Bert and Harry were dangling their lines in the water.

"Not yet, but we've had two or three bites," said Bert, hopefully.

"I think you'll have better luck when we reach some quiet place, and anchor," Mr. Bobbsey went on. "At any rate, you need not worry, if you don't catch any fish. Dinah will be able to give us something else for dinner, I think."

"I think so, too," said Harry with a laugh. "I can smell something cooking now."

This was so. For, though the Bobbseys had started early that morning, there was so much to do that it was now nearly noon. To them it seemed only an hour or so since they had started. Dinah was a good cook. She kept one eye on the clock and the other on the things she was cooking. And she made up her mind that the meals would be on time, even if they were served on a houseboat. So it was the cooking of dinner that Harry smelled.

"Oh, Dorothy!" exclaimed Nan, after a little while, during which the two girls looked across the lake to the distant shores they had left. "I must show you a new trick Snap has learned."

"What! Another trick?" cried Dorothy. "My! He knows a lot of them now. He certainly is a clever dog!"

Snap, as I have told you, used to belong to a circus before the Bobbseys bought him, so perhaps learning tricks came easier to him than to most dogs.

"Yes, I taught him this trick myself," went on Nan. "He will walk around on his hind legs, and carry a doll in his front paws, just like a nurse girl. When I dress him up in one of my old skirts and a jacket, he is too funny for anything! I'll make him do the trick now, only I won't dress him up, for I can't find the clothes he wears. I don't believe we brought them. But I'll make him carry the doll for you. Here, Snap!" called Nan.

The dog, who had been sleeping in a sunny Spot on deck, near Snoop, the black cat, sprang up, when he heard his name called.

"Where are you going to get a doll for him to carry?" asked Dorothy.

"I'll take Flossie's. You'll let sister take your doll to make Snap do a trick, won't you, dear?" she asked.

"Yes, Nan," answered flaxen-haired Flossie. "I just love to see Snap do that trick! He carries the doll so cute!"

Flossie brought her doll to Nan, and Snap stood near, wagging his tail, for he seemed to know what was coming.

"Now, Snap," said Nan, pointing her finger at the dog, "I want you to show Dorothy how you play nurse-girl, and carry a doll."

"Bow wow!" barked Snap. That was what he always said when any one spoke to him. I suppose HE knew what he meant, but no one else did. At any rate, he seemed to understand what was said to him.

"Up, Snap! Up!" called Nan suddenly, and Snap rose on his hind legs, holding his fore paws out in front of him, so Nan could place the doll on them.

This the little girl did, putting Flossie's "sawdust baby" carefully across Snap's paws.

"Now take the doll for a walk!" ordered Nan, and, with another bark, off Snap started, parading across the deck.

"Oh, isn't he too cute!" cried Dorothy, laughing and clapping her hands. "Oh, what a smart dog he is!"

"Isn't he!" agreed Nan. "Bert said I never could teach him to do a trick, but I did."

"Indeed you did!" agreed Dorothy.

"Now come back here, Snap!" ordered Nan. But just then something happened.

How it was no one knew exactly, but Bert suddenly caught a fish. He was so surprised at getting a hard bite on his line, that he jerked it up quickly. Something flashed in the sunlight, and, the next moment, a little sunfish landed flapping on the deck, right in front of the sleeping black cat Snoop.

"Flop!" went the fish, and Snoop awakened with a jump. Up to her feet she leaped like a flash, and then she saw the fish. Snoop was very fond of fish, and made a spring for the one Bert had caught. But the fish was wet and slippery, and no sooner had Snoop pounced on it with her claws than the fish slid across the deck of the houseboat. Snoop slid after it, just as she often slid across the kitchen oilcloth, when she sprang for a piece of string that Flossie or Freddie would pull along to make the cat play.

Right across the deck, after the slippery fish slid Snoop, and, the next instant, the poor cat had slid right off the deck, and fallen into the lake with a splash!



Chapter X

Down The Creek


"There goes Snoop!"

"Oh, somebody get her!"

Nan and Dorothy both shouted at the same time. As for Bert, he was so surprised at having caught a fish, and at seeing the cat slide off the deck with it, that he could say nothing. It was almost the same with Harry. He had jumped to his feet, however, and had run toward Snoop, but too late.

Then, all of a sudden, Snap, with a loud bark, gave one spring, and the next moment he had jumped right over the deck railing, under which Snoop had slid. Right over it went Snap, and down into the lake. For he knew that Snoop had fallen in, and, being the kind of a dog that asks nothing better than to save something, or somebody, from the water, Snap was right on hand.

"Oh, my doll! My doll!" cried Flossie. "Snap is taking my doll into the lake with him! Come back, Snap! Come back!"

Snap did not stop to listen. He had, indeed, taken Flossie's doll with him. He had been holding it on his front paws as Snoop slid overboard, and, as he gave a jump, Snap did not come down on all four legs. He jumped while he was yet standing on his hind ones, and of course the doll went over the rail with him.

"What has happened?" cried Mrs. Bobbsey, as she heard the screaming, and the splashes in the water. "Have any of the children fallen in?" For she had gone to another part of the deck, with Dinah, out of sight of the twins for a moment. Now she came hurrying back, and a single look showed her that the children were all safe.

"What has happened?" she asked again.

"As nearly as I can figure out," said Mr. Bobbsey, "Bert caught a fish, Snoop tried to get it and fell into the water, and now Snap has gone in after Snoop."

"And Snap has my doll! She'll get all wet -- she'll be drowned!" cried Flossie.

"I'll get her for you," offered Harry. But just now they were all anxious to see what Snap and Snoop did. Mr. and Mrs. Bobbsey and the children looked over the side of the houseboat. They saw the black cat swimming about in the lake, and Snap, who was a fine water-dog, was paddling toward her.

"Hadn't you better stop the boat?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, for the Bluebird was slowly floating away from the dog and the cat.

"Yes, I guess it would be best," said Mr. Bobbsey. So he called out:

"Captain! Captain White! Stop the boat! Something overboard!"

Down in the little motor room Mr. White heard the shout, and he at once shut off the gasoline engine. Then he came up on deck as fast as his lame leg would let him, to see what was wrong.

"What's that you say?" he asked. "Somebody fell overboard?"

"The dog and the cat," explained Mr. Bobbsey. "I wonder how we can get them out? It's Snoop and Snap who are in the water."

"And my doll!" added Flossie. "I want my doll back!"

"Oh, yes, and Flossie's doll," added Mr. Bobbsey. "I guess you'd better get in the rowboat, Captain White. It will be easier to lift them out from there."

"I'll do it, Mr. Bobbsey," the captain said, as he limped down stairs again. By this time Snap had swum to where poor Snoop was paddling about in the water. The dog gently took hold of the cat by the back of the neck, where her loose fur would give a good hold. Then Snap, holding Snoop's head well up out of the water, started back for the houseboat.

"Good old Snap!" called Mr. Bobbsey. Snap wanted to bark and wag his tail, as he always did when any one spoke pleasantly to him, but he knew if he opened his mouth to bark now, he would have to drop Snoop. And Snap had hard enough work swimming, without trying to wag his tail. On he came toward the boat.

By this time Captain White had gotten into the small boat, which was pulled after the Bluebird, by a rope, and he was rowing toward the dog. Seeing that the smaller boat was nearer, Snap swam toward that, instead of toward the larger one. He held Snoop carefully up out of the water.

"That's a good dog, Snap!" called Captain White, as Snap came nearer. "I'll take her now."

The engineer lifted poor, wet, dripping Snoop into his boat. She crawled close up to Captain White, for she was much frightened. After Snap had delivered the cat he had rescued, he turned back again.

"Where are you going?" asked Captain White. "Don't you want to get in my boat, too, Snap?"

"Bow wow!" barked Snap. This time he could open his mouth, as he was not carrying a cat.

"Oh, he's going to get my doll!" cried Flossie. "Look, Snap is after my doll!"

And so he was. After taking Snoop safely to the boat, Snap had seen Flossie's doll floating on the top of the water, and had swum toward that, just as he would have gone toward a floating stick, had there been one near.

"OK, now he's got her!" cried the happy Flossie. "Now Snap has my doll. Goodie!"

"And, as she's a wooden doll, the water won't hurt her," said Nan, with a laugh, "Everything is coming out all right."

And so it seemed.

Taking the doll in his mouth, as he had taken the cat, Snap swam back toward the small boat, where Captain White waited for him, now and then petting poor Snoop. Just as the dog had done with the cat, so he did with the doll, giving her to the engineer of the Bluebird. Then, seeing that his work was all done, Snap once more swam toward the big boat, not trying to get into the small one.

"Good dog, Snap!" cried Mr. Bobbsey, as he leaned over to lift him in, for there were no steps by which to climb up the side of the Bluebird.

This time Snap barked and wagged his tail, and then he gave himself a big shake to get rid of the water. He sent a regular shower of spray all about.

"Come, girls!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey with a laugh, "this is no place for us. We haven't our bathing suits on!" and she, with Nan and Dorothy, ran back out of the way of the scattering drops from Snap's shaggy coat.

A little later Captain White rowed up with Snoop and Flossie's doll, and the little girl at once said she was going to put a dry dress on the doll, so she wouldn't "take cold."

"Well," said Mr. Bobbsey, when the excitement had died down. "That's over, at any rate. All that over one little fish!"

"That's so -- my fish started it all!" said Bert. "I wonder what became of it?" and he looked at his empty hook, dangling from the line of his pole.

"The fish dropped off," said Harry. "I saw it. But it was only a little one. It wouldn't have been any good."

"Poor Snoop!" said Mrs. Bobbsey. "All your trouble for nothing! You didn't get the fish."

"Oh, I'll soon catch some more for her, won't we, Harry?" Bert asked.

"That's what we will," answered the country cousin.

"Now if yo' folks am all done fallin' ovahbo'd I'se ready t' gib yo' all suffin t' eat," said Dinah, coming up from the dining-room.

"And I think we are ready to eat," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "This traveling on the water has given me an appetite."

"I guess it has all of us," spoke Mr. Bobbsey with a laugh, as he noticed the eager, hungry looks on the faces of the children.

"And give Snoop and Snap something good and hot, so they won't take cold," suggested Nan. "Though I don't believe they will this weather, it's so warm."

"I'm going to give my dollie hot chocolate," said Flossie, who, by this time, had put a dry dress on her pet.

The meal was a merry one, though at first the children, especially Flossie and Freddie, were too excited to eat. Then, too, it was so strange eating on a boat that was moving through the water, for the engine had been started again. Several times, during the meal, the two smaller twins jumped up from the table to run to the windows and look out over the lake. At last their mother said:

"Now, Flossie and Freddie, you must sit still and finish your dinner. Otherwise you may be ill. You'll have plenty of time to see things after you leave the table."

Snap was soon dry, from lying in the sun, and, a little later, Snoop was as warm and fluffy as before she had fallen into the lake. She picked out a warm spot on deck near Snap, for they had been the best of friends since the first day they had met, when Snoop came back from her long trip to Cuba, as I have told you in another book.

All the rest of that day the houseboat traveled over Lake Metoka. The children sat on Heck, and watched other boats pass them. Some of them were loaded with lumber for Mr. Bobbsey. Others were pleasure boats, and those on board waved their hands to the Bobbsey twins and their cousins.

"Are we going to travel all night?" asked Bert of his father, when Dinah called that supper was ready.

"No, we are going to anchor soon. We will go a little nearer shore first, though."

"And when will we start through Lemby Creek toward Lake Romano?"

"Oh, in a day or so, I fancy."

It was such a pleasant evening, that even the little twins were allowed to stay up on deck past their usual bedtime, looking at the twinkling stars, and the lights of other boats on the lake.

When Flossie and Freddie did get to bed, they did not go to sleep at once. It was very strange to them, sleeping on a boat in the water.

Finally the two little people dozed off, and then the older folks went to bed. In the middle of the night Freddie woke up. At first he could not remember where he was, and he wondered at the queer rocking motion of the boat, for a little wind was ruffling the lake.

Suddenly there came a loud toot.

"Mamma! Papa! I heard something!" cried Freddie, sitting up.

"Yes, dear. It was only the whistle of another boat," said his mother, who was in the room next to him. "Go to sleep again."

Freddie did.

"Well, I sure am going to catch some fish to-day," said Bert, when he and Harry went up on deck next morning, after breakfast.

"We'll try, anyhow," Harry said. "We're nearer shore now, and the fishing ought to be better. I'll get my line.".

Whether it was on account of the bait they used, or because the fish were not plentiful, the boys did not know, but they did not get even one bite. Anyhow, they had fun.

The Bluebird went slowly across the lake. The Bobbseys were in no hurry, and they wanted to enjoy the pleasant weather. For three days they sailed over the blue waters, and then Mr. Bobbsey told Captain White to steer toward Lemby Creek.

"We'll go through the creek into Lake Romano," said the twins' father. "That is a much larger lake. We'll spend most of our houseboat vacation there. We will also visit the big waterfall."

"That will be lovely!" exclaimed Dorothy. Though she lived near the sea, she also loved inland waters, such as rivers and lakes.

The houseboat moved so slowly, and was such a safe craft, that Bert and Harry were allowed to steer at times, when Mr. Bobbsey or Captain White stood near them in case of any danger. The two boy cousins had taken turns steering, until the Bluebird was close to the place where Lemby Creek emptied into Lake Metoka.

"You'd better let me take the steering wheel, now," said Mr. Bobbsey to Bert. "There is a little current from the creek into the lake, and we don't want to run ashore."

In a little while the houseboat was safely in the creek. This stream of water was narrow, though it was deep enough to float the Bluebird easily. The shores were so close, at times, that the tree branches overhung the deck, and brushed the rails.

"I could almost jump ashore," said Harry.

"But you mustn't try it!" cautioned his aunt. "You might fall in, and Snap couldn't rescue you as easily as he did Snoop or the doll."

As the houseboat went slowly around a bend in the creek, Nan, who stood in front, near her father, suddenly uttered a cry, and pointed toward shore.

"What is it?" asked Mr. Bobbsey.

"There's that boy -- Will Watson!" spoke Nan. "You know -- the one who liked our boat so," and she pointed to the strange lad who worked for Mr. Hardee. The boy was walking along the shore of the creek, a fish pole over his shoulder.

"Oh, let's ask him how to catch fish!" proposed Bert. "We haven't had any luck at all!"



Chapter XI

The Mean Man


Certainly it seemed a good place to fish, in Lemby Creek, for there were many shady pools near the banks -- pools that looked as though fish swam in them, just waiting to be caught.

As Harry and Bert looked more closely at the boy Nan had pointed out to them, they saw that he carried a string of fish, as well as the pole.

"Oh, he's caught some!" cried Bert. "Let's ask how he does it."

"And where he caught them," suggested Harry.

"I will," agreed Bert. "Hey there, Will!" he called. "Where'd you get the fish?"

The farm boy, who had seen the houseboat, and who was hurrying toward her, waved his hand as Bert called to him. Then, as he came nearer across the green meadow through which the creek ran, he shouted:

"Plenty of fish all around you. Just throw in from the boat, and you'll get all you want."

"What kind of bait do you use?" asked Mr. Bobbsey, for neither Bert nor Harry had thought to inquire about that, and the right kind of bait is as much needed in catching fish, as is water itself.

"Grasshoppers are best just now," answered Will.

"And we've been fishing with worms!" said Bert. "No wonder!"

"Oh, worms are all right most times," Will went on. "But the fish are hungry for grasshoppers now. I'll give you some. I've got lots left."

He came to the edge of the creek, and Mr. Bobbsey, who was steering the boat, sent it in close to shore.

"We might as well tie up here for the night, I think," he said. "That will give you boys a chance to talk to Will, and learn how to catch fish."

A little later the houseboat was rubbing along the grassy bank, and the water was so deep close to shore that there was really no need of putting out the board, called the "gangplank," for any one to get off. Mr. Bobbsey, knowing that Flossie and Freddie could not make the little jump needed to take them ashore, called to Captain White to run out a small board instead of the regular large one.

"Come on, Harry!" called Bert. "We'll get some of those grasshoppers."

He started down the stairs leading from the deck, intending to go ashore, but his mother touched him on the arm, and said, in a low voice:

"Why don't you ask that boy to come on board?"

"Why?" asked Bert.

"Well, I was just going to give you children some of the corn muffins Dinah has just baked, and perhaps Will would like -- -"

"Oh, of course! Now I understand!" cried Bert. "Of course. I say, Will!" he went on, calling down from the upper deck, "can't you come aboard? We're going to have some of Dinah's corn muffins, and maybe you'd like to sample one."

Somewhat to the surprise of Mrs. Bobbsey, as well as to the wonderment of Bert and Harry, Will did not seem eager to accept the invitation.

"I'd like to come on board, very much," he said, looking back of him, and on all sides, as though he feared some one was after him. "But you see I haven't got much time. I ought to be back at the farm now. Mr. Hardee set me to hoeing a patch of corn, and I'm supposed to be back in time to feed the horses before supper. And it's almost supper time now."

"Well, we don't want you to be late," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Here, Bert," she said, as Dinah came out of the kitchen with a big plate of muffins, "you take some of these to Will, and you can walk along a little way with him, and talk about fishing. Then he won't be late.

"But don't go too far," she added, "for supper will soon be ready."

"We won't!" promised Bert. Taking some of the delicious corn muffins, the two boys hurried ashore, Snap, the dog, barking joyously, bounding along with them. Flossie and Freddie did not care to go ashore just then, as the little girl twin was playing with her doll, and her brother was trying to make Snoop do one of the tricks that the circus lady had taught the cat in Cuba.

Mrs. Bobbsey went down to the dining-room, to talk to Dinah about the evening meal, while Mr. Bobbsey and Captain White got out the ropes with which to tie the houseboat fast to some trees on the bank of the creek.

Meanwhile Bert and Harry walked along with Will.

"Have some muffins," invited Bert politely, passing his new friend some of the corn cakes that Dinah knew so well how to bake.

"Thanks! They're good!" said Will, as he bit into one.

"Say, you have some fine fish!" exclaimed Harry, half enviously. "Where'd you catch them?"

"Oh, up the creek aways -- near where I was hoeing corn. You can have 'em, if you want 'em."

"What! Do you mean to GIVE them to us?" asked Bert in surprise. "After all the work you had catching them?"

"Oh, it wasn't any work catching 'em," said Will quickly. "It was fun. But it won't be any fun taking 'em home, for Mr. Hardee will be mad."

"Why?" asked Harry, as he began eating a second muffin.

"Well, he'll say I was catching fish instead of hoeing corn. But I caught all these in the noon hour, when I'm supposed to have a little time off. But he wouldn't believe that, so there's no use taking the fish home. You can have 'em. There's some pretty big sunnies, and a couple o' nice perch."

"Sure you don't want them?" asked Bert.

"No. I'd be glad to give 'em to you. And here's some grasshoppers I didn't use. They'll be good to fish with to-morrow."

"Thanks," said Bert, as he took the tin box Will held out. Inside could be heard a queer little "ticking" noise, as the grasshoppers leaped up against the cover.

"Say, these are sure some fine fish!" exclaimed Will.

"Oh, you'll catch just as nice ones to-morrow," the country boy said. "I'll have to run now, or I'll be late at the farm."

"Good-bye!" called Bert and Harry as Will hurried off along the edge of the creek. "See you to-morrow, maybe."

Will had no idea that he would see his friends then. He knew he had a hard day's work in prospect for the next day -- weeding a large patch of onions that were so far away from the creek that he would have no chance, even at his noon hour, of going down to the water for a cool little swim.

Will did not know what queer things were going to happen to him very soon, nor did any of the Bobbseys realize what a part they were to play in the life of poor, friendless Will Watson.

"He's a nice boy, isn't he?" asked Harry of Bert, as they turned back toward the boat, with their fish and bait.

"Yes, I like him a lot. It's too bad he has to work so hard on the farm."

"Yes, it sure is."

Talking of the luck they expected to have the next day, fishing, the cousins soon reached the Bluebird. There they found their father and Captain White waiting for them.

"We've decided to move the boat farther down the creek before we tie up for the night," said Mr. Bobbsey, "but we didn't want to go before you boys came back."

"Are you going to start up the engine again?" asked Bert. "If you are, I wish you'd let me try to do it."

"No, you are too small to go near gasoline motors," said his father. "Besides, we are not going to use the engine. We'll just push the boat along with poles from the bank. We're not going very far, but your mother thought it would be nicer to spend the night in a more open place."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bobbsey, "I thought perhaps some animals might jump out of the trees on our deck."

The trees on shore were very close to the boat, some of the branches overhanging the railing. At the mention of animals, Bert's eyes opened wider.

"Say, if I had a gun I could shoot them, if they came aboard," he said, his eyes glistening.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed his mother. "I'd rather have an animal on board than let you have a gun. You might get shot."

"I -- I could squirt water on 'em with my fire engine!" shouted Freddie, who had given up trying to make Snoop do any tricks.

"Oh, we had enough of your engine, little fat fireman," said Mr. Bobbsey with a laugh. "Now then, if you're all ready, we'll move the boat."

It was rather hard work to start the Bluebird, but once it had begun to move, it went more easily through the water. Captain White had one pushing pole, Mr. Bobbsey another, and Bert and Harry used one between them. Soon the houseboat moved out from the narrow part of the creek, and from under the trees, to a place where wide meadows were found on either side. A little farther, going around a bend in the stream, the Bobbseys came in sight of a farmhouse, a barn and several other buildings near it.

"Oh, look!" cried Nan. "Somebody lives there."

"Yes, that's Mr. Hardee's farm, I think," said Mr. Bobbsey. "We can tie up our boat here, and then, if we want some milk or eggs, we can easily get them."

"I needs some aigs," spoke Dinah. "Done used de lastest one in dem muffins."

"Then we'll make the boat fast here," decided Mr. Bobbsey. "With your corn muffins, Dinah, and the fish Will gave us, we'll have a fine supper. As soon as the boat is fast you and Harry can clean the fish, Bert."

Beyond the broad expanse which lay between the wide meadows, the creek had narrowed again opposite the farmhouse and barn. In fact, it was so narrow, that if there had been another houseboat on the stream, there would have been trouble for the Bluebird to pass. This narrow part was not, however, very long, and beyond it the creek broadened out again.

Mr. Bobbsey and Captain White had just finished fastening the ropes from the boat to some stakes driven into the ground, when Mrs. Bobbsey, who had come up from the dining-room, called out:

"Oh, look, Richard!"

"What is it?" asked her husband.

"That man! See! I'm afraid he is going to give that boy a whipping. And see, it's Will -- the boy who gave Bert the fish!"

Mr. Bobbsey looked to where his wife pointed, and saw, coming out of the barn, a grizzled farmer, leading by the arm a boy whom Mr. Bobbsey at once recognized as Will Watson. Keeping a tight grip on the lad's arm with one hand, the farmer raised his other hand, in which was a long horsewhip.

Then he cried:

"I'll teach you to waste your time goin' fishin'! I'll teach you! Th' idea o' fishin' when I set you to hoein' corn! Wastin' my time! I'll learn you!"

"Oh, but, Mr. Hardee!" cried poor Will. "I only fished in the noon hour when I'm not supposed to work!"

"Not supposed to work!" cried the mean man, as he brought the whip down on Will's shoulders. "You're supposed t' work here all th' while I tell you -- 'cept when you're asleep! I'll teach you!" and again the cruel whip swished down.

"Oh, Richard!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey faintly, as she covered her eyes with her hands. "Can't you stop that?"



Chapter XII

The Wire Fence


Mr. Bobbsey did not waste any time talking. With a run and a jump he was on shore, and then he started across the meadow toward the place where the mean farmer was whipping Will, who was crying out loud. For the cruel whip hurt.

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Hardee!" exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey, when he was near enough to make himself heard. Back on the deck of the houseboat Mrs. Bobbsey, the twins, their cousins and Dinah watched and waited to see what would happen.

"You talkin' to me?" sharply demanded the mean farmer of Mr. Bobbsey.

"Yes, Mr. Hardee. I asked you to wait a minute before you keep on whipping that boy. I happened to hear part of what he said, and I think he is in the right."

"In th' right? What do you mean?"

"I mean I think he tells the truth, when he says he fished only during the noon hour. We saw him as he came along, and he gave the fish he had caught to my boy."

"Oh, he did, hey?" exclaimed Mr. Hardee. "I was wonderin' what become of 'em. Give 'em away, did he? Wa'al, he knowed better'n to bring 'em here. I knowed he'd been wastin' his time. When I set a boy to hoein' corn, an' he comes home smellin' of fish, I know what he's been doin' jest th' same as when I see a boy's head wet on a hot day I know he's been in swimmin'! You can't fool me. He's frittered away his time, when he ought t' be hoein' corn, an' now I'm goin' to take it out of him!"

Again he raised the whip, and struck the boy.

"Oh, please don't!" begged Will. "Honest I didn't fish except at noon hour, an' I ate my lunch in one hand, and fished with the other, so I wouldn't waste any time. I only took half an hour, instead of three-quarters you said I could have at noon, and I went right to work hoein' corn again."

"Humph! That's easy enough to say," spoke Mr. Hardee, "but I don't believe you. I told you I'd whip you if you went fishin' ag'in, an' I'm goin' to do it!"

Again the lash fell.

"Please don't!" begged Will, trying to break loose. But the angry farmer held him in too firm a grip.

"Look here!" exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey with flashing eyes. "I believe that boy is telling the truth!"

"Wa'al, I don't," snapped the mean farmer. "An' I'm goin' to give him a good lesson."

"Not that way, Mr. Hardee!" cried Mr. Bobbsey, taking a step forward.

"Huh! You seem to know my name," said the farmer, stopping in his beating of the boy, "but I don't know you."

"My name is Bobbsey," said the twins' lather, and the farmer started. "I'm in the lumber business over at Lakeport. I guess you bought some lumber of me, didn't you, for your house."

"Wa'al, s'posin' I did?" asked Mr. Hardee. "I paid you for it, didn't I?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Wa'al, then that don't give you no right to interfere with me! This is my hired boy, an' I can do as I please with him."

"Oh, no, you can't, Mr. Hardee!" said Mr. Bobbsey quickly.

"What's that? I can't? Wa'al, I'll show you! Stand back now, I'm goin' to give him a good threshin'!"

Again he raised the whip, but it did not fall on poor, timid, shrinking Will. For Mr. Bobbsey snatched it away from the angry farmer's hand and flung it far to one side.

"Here! What'd you mean by that?" demanded Mr. Hardee, his face more flushed than ever with anger.

"I mean you're not going to beat that boy!" replied the twins' father. "He hasn't done anything to deserve it, and I'm not going to stand by and see him abused. Is he your hired boy?"

"I took him out of the poorhouse -- nobody would hire him. He's bound out to me until he's of age, an' I can do as I please with him."

"Oh, no, you can't," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I happen to know something of the law. You have no right to beat this boy, and if you try to do it now, or again, and I hear of it, I'll make a complaint against you. Don't you strike him again, especially when he hasn't done anything."

Mr. Hardee seemed so surprised that he did not know what to say. His grip on Will's arm slipped off, and Will quickly stepped to one side. There were tears in his eyes, and on his face.

"I believe this boy was telling the truth," said Mr. Bobbsey. "Even if he did fish a little during the time you call yours, that would be no excuse for using a horsewhip on him."

"I tell you he's bound out to me, and I can do as I please with him!" cried Mr. Hardee.

"No, you can't," said Mr. Bobbsey. "You have no right to be cruel, even if he is a poor boy, and is bound out to you. Haven't you any folks, Will?" he asked.

"No -- no, sir," was the half-sobbed answer. "No near folks. I come from th' poorhouse, just as he says. But I've got an uncle somewhere out west. He's a miner. If he knew where I was, he'd look after me."

"Where is your uncle?" asked Mr. Bobbsey.

"I -- I got his address, but I can't write very good, or I'd send him a letter."

"Let me have his address," went on Mr. Bobbsey. "And I'll see what I can do."

"Look here!" cried the farmer. "I won't have you interferin' in my business! You ain't got a right to!"

"Every one has a right to stop a poor boy from being unjustly beaten," said the twins' father. "Will, you get me that address. I'll be here a day or so, in my houseboat, and you can bring it down to me. Do you think you can find it, and let me know where your uncle lives?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then do it."

"Now you look-a-here!" began Mr. Hardee, "I won't have you, nor anybody else, interferin' with my hired help. I -- -"

"I'm not interfering except to stop you from horsewhipping a boy," said Mr. Bobbsey. "Any one has a right to do that."

"Humph!" was all the farmer said, as he over and picked up the horsewhip Mr. Bobbsey had taken from him. The twins' father thought perhaps the farmer was going to use it again, but he did not. Mr. Hardee turned to Will and said:

"Get along up to the house, and eat your supper! There's lots o' work to be done afore dark. An' if I catch you fishin' any more, I'll make you -- -"

"But I wasn't fishin' except at the noon hour," the boy interrupted.

"That's enough of your talk!" the farmer cried as he walked toward the barn. "Go on!"

Mr. Bobbsey went back to the houseboat.

"It's all right," he said cheerfully to his wife and children. "I made him stop hurting Will."

"Did he -- did he hit him very hard?" asked Freddie, for punishment of that sort was totally unknown in the Bobbsey home. Of course the children did not always do right, but they were punished by having some pleasure taken away from them, and never whipped.

"No, Will wasn't much hurt," said Mr. Bobbsey, for he did not want his children, or their cousins, to worry too much over what they had seen. Yet Mr. Bobbsey could not help but think that the cruel lash must have hurt Will more than the boy himself showed.

"He -- he won't whip him any more, will he?" asked little Flossie.

"No, not any more," said Mr. Bobbsey, for he had made up his mind he would, if necessary, take the boy away from the mean farmer before any more whipping could be done.

"Suppah am ready!" called Dinah from the kitchen. "An' I done wants yo' all t' come right away fo' it gits cold!"

"We're coming!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey. "And after supper we'll sit on deck and sing songs."

She wanted to do something to take out of the minds of the children the memory of the unpleasant scene they had just observed.

"I wish it would hurry up and come morning," said Bert.

"Why?" asked his father.

"So Harry and I can go fishing. I'm sure we'll catch some with the grasshoppers for bait."

"Well, I hope you have good luck," laughed Mr. Bobbsey.

The supper was much enjoyed. The fish, which Will had given the Bobbseys, made a fine meal, with the corn muffins and other things Dinah cooked. After supper they all sat out on the deck of the houseboat, enjoying the beautiful June evening. From the farm of Mr. Hardee came the sounds of mooing cows, and whinnying horses, with an occasional grunt of the pigs, or the barking of dogs.

Nothing was seen of the farmer himself, or of poor Will.

"Can you do anything for him?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey of her husband, after the children had gone to bed that night.

"I hope so, yes. If, as he says, he has an uncle somewhere in the West, and I can get his address, I'll write to him, and ask him to look after Will. The boy needs a good home."

"Indeed he does. Oh, I'm so glad you didn't let him get that whipping!"

"I'll help him all I can," promised Mr. Bobbsey.

The twins' father rather hoped that the hired boy might slip down to the houseboat that evening, with his uncle's address, but nothing was seen of him.

In the morning a strange thing happened.

Mr. Bobbsey and Captain White decided that it would be better to take the boat a little farther down Lemby Creek, and tie it fast to the bank in a more shady spot than the one opposite the farm buildings.

"It will be better fishing in the shade, too," Mr. Bobbsey said to the boys.

So the gasoline engine was started, and the boat started off. It had not gone very far, though, before Mr. Bobbsey, who was steering, called to Captain White to shut off the engine.

"What's the matter?" asked Captain White. "You're going farther than this; aren't you?"

"I wanted to, yes. But we can't go any farther."

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey. "Nothing has happened to the boat, has there, Richard?"

"No, not to the boat. But look there!" and Mr. Bobbsey pointed ahead. Stretched across a narrow part of Lemby Creek was a strong wire fence, fastened to posts driven into the bottom of the stream. The Bluebird could go no farther on her voyage. The fence stopped her.

As Mr. Bobbsey, the twins and the cousins looked at the strong wire fence, they saw Mr. Hardee come along the shore. He looked at the houseboat, and shook his fist, grinning in no pleasant fashion.

"I guess you won't go no farther!" he cried. "I've put a stop to your fancy trip all right! Huh!"



Chapter XIII

The Runaway Boy


"Oh, papa, can't we go on to Lake Romano?" asked Nan, as she came up on deck with Dorothy, and saw the big wire fence stretched across the creek to stop them.

"It doesn't look so -- unless we can fly over that," and her brother Bert pointed to the metal strands that went from post to post.

"It does seem to hinder us," said Mr. Bobbsey. He was trying to think of what would be best to do. He looked at Mr. Hardee, who seemed to think it all a fine joke.

"Papa, I know how we can get through," eagerly said little Freddie, who was holding Snoop in his arms. The big black cat was almost too much of a load for the little boy, but Freddie wanted her to do some tricks, and he held her so she would not run away.

"I know how to get past that fence," the little twin went on.

"How?" asked his father, rather absentmindedly. "How?"

"Just cut the wires!" said Freddie, as though no one but himself had thought of that. "If I had one of those cutter-things the telephone man had, when he climbed the pole in front of our house, I could cut the wires and we could go right on up the creek."

"Yes, I suppose so, my little fat fireman," said Mr. Bobbsey. "But I don't believe the man who put that fence up there would let us cut the wires."

"It's queer," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "That fence wasn't across the creek before, was it?"

"I don't know," answered her husband. "It looks as though it had been put up lately -- even last night, perhaps. But I haven't been along the creek in some time, so I can't be sure."

"It wasn't here last week, that's certain," Captain White spoke. "For I was up here then fishing, and I didn't see it. I fancy that Mr. Hardee knows something about it."

"I shouldn't wonder," agreed Mr. Bobbsey. "Now the question is: What are we to do? We can't go on through the fence, and we can't very well go around it, for the Bluebird won't float on dry ground. And I don't want to go back. This is the only way to get to Lake Romano."

"I know what to do, papa," spoke Flossie. "We can ask that man to take down the wires, if Freddie can't cut them with the cutter-thing."

"Yes, I suppose we could do that," Mr. Bobbsey said, slowly.

By this time Mr. Hardee had come closer to the houseboat, which had drifted near to the shore.

"Will you take that fence down, and let us go past?" asked Mr. Bobbsey, as politely as he could.

"No, I won't!" snapped Mr. Hardee in reply. "No!"

"But we want to go on down the creek," explained the twins' father, "and we can't get past the fence."

"I know you can't!" said Mr. Hardee with a chuckle. "That's what I put it up there for. I strung it last night -- me and my hired men. I didn't think you'd hear, and you didn't. Give you a sort of surprise, didn't it?"

"It certainly did," and Mr. Bobbsey's voice was stern. "And I want to say that you had no right to stretch that fence across the creek to stop my boat. You had no right!"

"Oh, yes, I had!" said Mr. Hardee with a sneer.

"This is a public creek," went on Mr. Bobbsey.

"Maybe it is, in certain places," said the mean farmer, "but here the creek runs through my land. I own on both sides of it, and I own the creek itself. If I don't want to let anybody go through in a boat, I don't have to."

"Oh, so you own the creek here, do you?" asked Mr. Bobbsey, rather surprised.

"Yes, I do."

"And you aren't going to let us pass?"

"Nope! That's why I strung that fence last night. It's a good, strong fence, and if you run into it, and try to bust it I'll have th' law on ye!"

"Oh, you needn't worry that I'll do anything like that," spoke Mr. Bobbsey. "But why won't you let us pass?"

"Because of what you did last night -- interferin' between me and my help. You wouldn't let me give Will Watson the threshin' he deserved, an' I won't let you pass through my creek. I want you to back up your boat, too, and go back where you come from. I own that part of the creek where you are now."

"Come now, be reasonable," suggested Mr. Bobbsey. "I stopped you from beating that boy only because you were in the wrong. If you'll just think it over, you'll say so yourself. And, just for that, you shouldn't stop my boat from going up the creek."

"Well, I have stopped you, and I'm going to keep on stoppin' you!" cried Mr. Hardee, again shaking his fist. "You can't get past my fence. It's a good strong fence."

"I -- I could cut it, if I had one of those cutter-things, the telephone man had," said Freddie, in his clear, high voice.

"Hush, Freddie dear," said his mother. "Leave it to papa."

Mr. Bobbsey was silent a moment, and then he went on:

"And so you strung that fence in the night, and won't let my houseboat pass, just because I stopped you from beating that boy?"

"That's it," the mean farmer said. "And for more than that, too."

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Bobbsey quickly.

"I mean that you made that boy, Will Watson, run away."

"Run away!" exclaimed Mrs. Bobbsey, in surprise.

"Yes, run away," repeated the farmer. "He didn't come down to breakfast this mornin', and when I went to call him to do the chores, he was gone. And, what's more, I think you had somethin' to do with him runnin' away," went on the angry farmer. "You put a lot o' notions in his head. You're to blame!"

"Now look here!" exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey. "We don't know any more about that boy running away than you do, Mr. Hardee. If he has gone, I'm sorry for him, for he may have a hard time. I'm not sorry I stopped you from beating him, though. Perhaps he is around the farm somewhere."

"No, he isn't!" insisted the farmer. "He's gone. What clothes he had he took with him. He's run away, and it's your fault, too. I put up that fence last night to pay you back for interferin', an' now I'm glad I did, for you're to blame for Will runnin' off."

"I tell you that you are mistaken," went on Mr. Bobbsey. "But if you feel that way about it, there is no use talking to you. Then you won't take down that wire fence and let us pass?"

"No, I won't, and I order you, and your boat, out of my part of the creek. Go back where you come from. You can't go through to Lake Romano this way!"

Mr. Bobbsey turned and looked at the wire fence. It certainly was a strong one, and the farmer and his hired men had worked well during the night. It was far enough off from where the Bluebird then was so that the pounding on the posts, to drive them into the mud of the creek bottom, was not heard.

"Well, I guess there's nothing for us to do but to go back," said Mr. Bobbsey. He felt very sorry, when he saw the looks of disappointment on the faces of the twins and their cousins.

"Papa," said Freddie again, "if I had one of those wire-cutter things, I could snip that wire like the telephone men did."

"Yes, but we haven't one, little fat fireman, and we would have no right to use it if we had," said Mr. Bobbsey. "No, I must think of some other way."

"It's too bad," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "I wonder what has become of that poor runaway boy?" she asked.

"I don't know," answered Mr. Bobbsey. But, had he only known it, Will Watson was nearer than any one suspected.



Chapter XIV

Off Again


"What are we going to do?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, as she stood at the side of her husband on the deck of the houseboat. Mr. Bobbsey was looking at the wire fence, as though trying to find a way to get past it -- either under it, or over it, or to one side or the other of it. Of course he did not think it wise to try little Freddie's plan of breaking the wire with a "cutter thing" such as the telephone men carried.

"Well," said Mr. Bobbsey, after a bit, "I guess the only thing for us to do is to go back, until we are anchored in some part of Lemby Creek that doesn't belong to Mr. Hardee."

"Does he really own this water?" asked Bert.

"Well, he says so, and I have no doubt but what he does," said Mr. Bobbsey. "If he owns land on both sides of the creek, naturally he owns the creek, too."

"And we can't go up or down it?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Not unless he lets us."

"What about the fishes?" asked Bert "He can't stop them from swimming up and down."

"No, he can't do that," agreed his father, with a smile.

"Then can he stop Harry and me from catching fish?" Bert wanted next to know.

"Not if you fish somewhere else than in his waters," spoke the twins' father. "The best thing for us to do is to go back where we were at first, near where the creek runs into Lake Metoka. There we can anchor for a time."

"But how are we going to get to Lake Romano?" asked Nan. "I want to show Dorothy the big waterfall."

"Well, perhaps we can get there a little later," her father said. "Just now Mr. Hardee has the best of us, and we'll have to do as he says. So, Captain White, I guess we'll have to back up the boat, as we can't go past the fence."

"If I had one of those wire-cutter things," began Freddie, "I could snip that wire as easy as anything." He seemed to think of nothing else.

"Oh, you and Flossie had better go play with Snap, or Snoop," suggested Bert with a laugh. "Or you can come and watch Harry and me fish. We're going to as soon as we get back aways."

"I'm going to fish, too," declared Freddie, eagerly.

The creek, near Mr. Hardee's farm, was so narrow that the houseboat could not be turned around in it, and it had to go backward. This was easy, since the Bluebird was something like a ferry boat, built to go backward or forward.

The twins were a little sad as they saw their boat backing up, but it could not be helped.

"We'll have a good time fishing, anyhow," said Harry.

"That's right," agreed Bert. "I wonder if that boy Will took his fishing rod with him? He'd probably need it, if he has run away, and is going out west to find his uncle."

"Why would he need a fish-rod?" asked Nan.

"To catch fish to eat," her brother said. "He'll have to have something, and fish are the easiest to get. I almost wish I had gone with him. It will be lots of fun."

"Oh, but it will be very hard, too," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Think of the lonely nights he'll have to spend, and perhaps with no place to sleep, but on the hard ground. And when it rains -- -"

"I guess I'll stay home!" laughed Bert, as though he had ever had an idea of running away from home.

Slowly the Bluebird made her way backward until she had passed some posts near the edge of the water. These posts marked the boundary line of Mr. Hardee's farm. He did not own beyond them, and Captain White said the creek was public property there.

"Then we'll anchor here," decided Mr. Bobbsey, as he steered the houseboat toward shore. "Then I think I'll take a little trip back to Lakeport."

"And leave us alone?" cried Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Only for a short while. I want to see some friends of mine, and find out if Mr. Hardee really has the right to fence off Lemby Creek. I don't believe he has."

"Will you be back to-night?"

"Oh, yes. It isn't far to Lakeport. I can walk across the fields and go by trolley."

"I do hope you can find some way of getting past the fence," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "It would be too bad to have our trip spoiled."

As Mr. Bobbsey was getting ready to go back to town, Dinah came out of the dining-room, looking rather puzzled.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey. "Are you worried because we can't get those eggs from Mr. Hardee?"

"Well, yessum, dat's partly it," said the fat cook. "We's got t' hab eggs, an' other things too."

"Bert and Harry can walk to the village," said Mr. Bobbsey. "It isn't far from here. I'll go part way with them. So don't worry, Dinah."

"Oh, dat isn't all dat's worryin' me, Massa Bobbsey. But did yo' say de chillums could hab dem corn muffins whut was left over?" and she looked at Mrs. Bobbsey.

"The corn muffins that were left over?" repeated the twins' mother. "No, I said nothing about them. And they know they should not eat between meals without asking me. Why, are the muffins gone, Dinah?"

"Yessum; fo' ob 'em. I put 'em on a plate on de dinin' room table, but now dey's gone."

"Maybe Snap took them," suggested Mr. Bobbsey. "Snoop wouldn't, for she doesn't like such things. But Snap is very fond of them."

Freddie, who heard the talk, hurried over to where the dog was lying asleep in a patch of sunlight, and opened his mouth.

"No, Snap didn't take 'em," said Freddie. "There aren't any crumbs in his teeth."

"Well, maybe you can tell that way, but I doubt it," laughed Mr. Bobbsey. "Perhaps you forgot where you put the muffins, Dinah, or maybe there were none left."

"Oh, I'se shuah I done put 'em on de table," said the fat cook, "an' I'se shuah dey was some left. I'll go look some mo', though."

As there were a few other things besides eggs that were needed for the kitchen of the houseboat, Bert and Harry planned to take a basket, and go to the nearest village store for them. They would walk across the fields with Mr. Bobbsey.

"We'll fish when we come back," said Bert.

"And get enough for dinner and supper," added Harry.

"Better get enough for one meal first," suggested Nan, with a laugh.

The houseboat was now made fast to the bank of the creek some distance away from the wire fence Mr. Hardee had stretched across the stream. It was not to be seen, nor were the farm buildings. The last the Bobbseys had observed of the farmer was as he stood near his wire fence, shaking his fist at the houseboat.

Mr. Bobbsey did not just know how he was going to get past the fence with the Bluebird, or how he could get Mr. Hardee to cut the wire. The twins' father decided to ask the advice of some friends.

Meanwhile Bert and Harry had reached the store, and had brought the eggs, and other groceries, back to Dinah.

"Did you find those corn muffins?" asked Bert. "Because, if you did, Harry and I would like some. May we have one, mother?"

"If Dinah has them, yes."

"But I cain't find 'em!" complained the fat cook. "Dem muffins hab jest done gone an' hid de'se'ves."

"Oh, I guess we ate them up without knowing it," Bert said, with a laugh. "Never mind, Dinah, a piece of cake, or pie will do just as well."

"Go 'long wif yo'!" cried the cook with a laugh. "I'se got suffin else t' do 'cept make cake an' pies fo' two hungry boys. Yo' jest take a piece ob bread an' butter 'till dinnah am ready."

"All right," agreed Bert. "It won't be long until twelve o'clock. Come on, Harry, and we'll see what luck we have fishing."

"I'm ready," was Harry's answer.

"I'll get you the bread and butter," offered Nan, and she did, adding some jam to the bread, which was a delightful surprise to the two boys.

"I want to fish, too," said Freddie.

"All right, I'll fix you a line," offered Bert. "But be careful you don't fall in. A fish might pull you overboard."

Soon the three boys were dangling their lines over the rail of the Bluebird, while Nan helped her mother with some of the rooms, which, even though they were on a boat, needed "putting to rights." Dinah was busy in the kitchen.

By this time Mr. Bobbsey had reached Lakeport by the trolley. He was going to his lumber office, thinking some of his friends, whom he might call on the telephone could suggest a way out of the trouble. Before he reached the lumber yard, however, he met an acquaintance on the street, a Mr. Murphy.

"Why, hello, Mr. Bobbsey!" exclaimed Mr. Murphy. "I thought you were off on a vacation with your family in a houseboat."

"I was," said the lumber merchant, "but I came back."

"Back so soon? Didn't you like it?"

"Oh, yes, first rate. But we can't go any farther."

"Can't go any farther? What's the matter, did your boat sink?"

"No, but we're stuck in Lemby Creek. Mr. Hardee, a farmer who owns land on both sides of the creek, has put a wire fence across to stop us from going on to Lake Romano."

"Is that so! Well, that's too bad. How did it happen?"

"I'll tell you," said Mr. Bobbsey.

Then he told the story of stopping the angry farmer from beating Will Watson, and how the fence had been built in the night.

"Well, that certainly was a mean trick on the part of Mr. Hardee," said Mr. Murphy. "And so the boy ran away?"

"Yes, and Mr. Hardee accused me of knowing something about him, but I don't -- any more than you do."

"I suppose not. But now the question is, How are you going to get past that wire fence?"

"I don't know. The only way I see is to get Mr. Hardee to cut it, or take it down, and he says he won't do either."

"Humph! Let me see. There ought to be a way out of it. I believe he has the right, as far as the law goes, to put that fence up, but no one else would be so mean. I guess we'll just have to force him to cut those wires, as your little boy, Freddie, suggested."

"Yes, but how can we do it?" asked Mr. Bobbsey. "Mr. Hardee is very headstrong, and set in his ways."

"Let me see," spoke Mr. Murphy slowly, "isn't his name Jake Hardee?"

"Yes, I believe it is."

"And didn't he buy from you the lumber to build his house?"

"Yes, I sold him the lumber, but he paid me for it," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I couldn't get any hold on him that way. He paid for the lumber in cash."

"Yes," cried Mr. Murphy, "but he got the money from me to pay you, and he hasn't paid ME back. He still owes ME the money, and he gave me a mortgage on his house as security. I've got a hold on him all right. He owes me some interest money, too."

I might say to you little children that when a man wants to build a house and has not enough money, he goes to another man and borrows cash, just as your mamma sometimes borrows sugar, or tea, from the lady next door.

When the man borrows money to build his house, he gives to the man who lends him the cash, a piece of paper, called a mortgage. That paper says that if the man who borrowed the money does not pay it back, and also pay interest for the use of it, the man who lent him the money can take the house. The house is "security" for the loaned money.

It is just as if your mamma went next door to borrow a cup of sugar, and said:

"Now, Mrs. Jones, if I don't pay you back this sugar, and a little more than you gave me, for being so kind as to lend it to me -- if I don't pay it back in a week, why you can keep my new Sunday hat." And your mamma might give Mrs. Jones a Sunday hat as "security" for the cup of sugar. Of course ladies do not do those things, but that is what a mortgage is like.

"Yes." said Mr. Murphy to Mr. Bobbsey, "Mr. Hardee borrowed from me the money to buy from you the lumber for his house. And he hasn't paid me back the money, nor any interest on it. I think I'll go up and have a talk with him. And, when I get through talking, I guess he'll let you go through his wire fence."

"I hope he will," said Mr. Bobbsey, "for it would be too bad to have our trip spoiled."

"I'll go right back with you," offered Mr. Murphy.

So it happened that Mr. Bobbsey, with his friend, reached the houseboat, in Lemby Creek, shortly after dinner.

"Oh, back so soon?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey. "What are you going to do, Mr. Murphy?"

"Have a talk with Mr. Hardee."

Mr. Bobbsey and Mr. Murphy walked down the bank of the creek to the farm. They found Mr. Hardee mending a broken harness.

"Mr. Hardee," said Mr. Murphy, "I hear you have put a wire fence across Lemby Creek, so my friend, Mr. Bobbsey, can't get past with his houseboat."

"Yes, I have," growled the farmer, "and that fence is going to stay up, too! I'll show him he can't come around here, interferin' with me when I try to punish my help. He made Will run away too."

"No, I did not. I know nothing of him," said Mr. Bobbsey.

"Mr. Hardee," went on Mr. Murphy. "I want you to take down that fence, and let the houseboat go on up the creek."

"And I'm not going to!"

"Very well, then," said Mr. Murphy, quietly, "perhaps you are ready to pay me the interest on my mortgage which has been due me for some time, Mr. Hardee."

The farmer seemed uneasy.

"Well, to tell you the truth," he said, "I haven't got that money just now, Mr. Murphy. Times have been hard, and crops are poor, and I'm short of cash. Can't you wait a while?"

"I have waited some time."

"Well, I'd like to have you wait a little longer. I'll pay you after a while."

"And I suppose you'll take down that wire fence, and let Mr. Bobbsey and the twins go past -- after a while?"

"Well -- maybe," growled the mean farmer.

"Maybe won't do!" exclaimed Mr. Murphy. "I want you to take the wire fence down RIGHT AWAY."

"Well, I'm not going to do it. He interfered with me, and made that boy run away, and I'm not going to let him go up my part of the creek."

"Well, then, Mr. Hardee, if you can't do something for Mr. Bobbsey, as a favor, I can't do anything to oblige you. Mr. Bobbsey is a friend of mine and unless you cut your wire fence, I'll have to foreclose that mortgage, and take your house in payment for the money you owe me. That's all there is about it. Either pay me my money -- or cut that fence. It must be one or the other."

Mr. Hardee squirmed in his seat, and seemed very uneasy.

"I -- I just can't pay that money," he said.

"Then I'll have to take your house away."

"I -- I don't want you to do that, either."

"Then cut the wire fence!" cried Mr. Murphy.

"Wa'al, I -- I guess I'll have to," said Mr. Hardee, but it was clearly to be seen that he did not want to. He went into the barn, and came out wearing a pair of rubber boots, and carrying a pair of pincers -- the "wire-cutting things," as Freddie called them.

Wading out into the creek Mr. Hardee snipped the wires of the fence.

"There, now you can go on," he said to Mr. Bobbsey, but his tone was not pleasant.

"I thought I knew how to make him give in," whispered Mr. Murphy.

"Thank you," said Mr. Bobbsey to his friend. They hurried back to the houseboat.

"We're going on again!" cried the twins' father. "The fence is down."

"Oh, fine!" said Bert.

"Now for the waterfall!" sighed Nan, who loved beautiful scenery.

"Oh, I've caught a fish!" suddenly shouted Freddie and he jumped about so that his mother, with a scream, ran toward him, fearing he would go overboard.



Chapter XV

Overboard


"Look out, Freddie!"

"Be careful there, little fat fireman!"

Thus Mrs. Bobbsey cried to the small twin, and thus Mr. Bobbsey also warned his son, who had pulled up his pole with a jerk, when he felt a nibble on the fish-line.

"I'll look out for him!" cried Bert, and he got between his little brother and the railing of the boat, so there would be no danger of Freddie's falling overboard. Freddie had no intention of getting into the water, but he was much excited over his fish.

"I caught it all myself!" he cried. "I caught a fish all by myself, and nobody helped me. Didn't I, Bert?"

"Yes, Freddie, except that Harry put on the grasshopper bait."

"But where's the fish?" asked Nan, who, as yet, had not seen one.

"Here it is!" cried Freddie, as he ran toward the end of his line which lay on deck. "I caught a fish, and it's all mine -- every bit," and he held up a little, wiggling sunfish which, somehow or other, had been caught on the tiny hook.

"Oh, it's a real, live fish!" squealed Flossie, dropping her doll to get a better view of this new plaything. "Are we going to have it for supper, Freddie?"

"No!" cried the little fat fellow, as he tried to hold the fish up by the swinging line in one hand, and grasp it in the other. The fish was so slippery that, every time Freddie had it, his hand slid off of it. "We're not going to eat my fish!" cried Freddie. "I'm going to keep it forever, in a glass globe, and make it do tricks!"

The others gathered around to see Freddie's catch, for the little fellow was very proud of his success, though, once or twice before, on trips to the country, he had been allowed to fish with Bert and Nan. He was too impatient to sit still long, so he never caught much.

"Here comes Snoop," said Mr. Bobbsey, with a laughing glance at his friend Mr. Murphy, who had come back to the houseboat with him, after the mean farmer had cut the wire fence.

"Snoop can't have my fish!" cried Freddie, now hugging his dangling prize close to his waist.

"Oh, you'll get your clothes all dirty!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey, as the black cat came snooping and sniffing around, for she smelled fish, which she very much liked.

"Go 'way, Snoop! You can't have my fish!" cried Freddie. "I'm going to put it in a glass globe, and keep it forever and teach it to do tricks."

"I guess swimming is the only trick a fish can do," said Bert, with a laugh, "and you don't have to teach them that. They know it already."

Freddie was so afraid that Snoop might get his fish, that Dinah brought him up a glass dish, in which, when it was filled with water, the little "sunny" was allowed to swim around. The hook had become fastened in only a corner of the mouth, and the fish was not hurt in the least.

Freddie was as proud as though he had caught a whale or a shark. He did not care to fish any more, but stood on deck near the box on which had been placed the dish containing his fish.

Bert and Harry, who had caught some larger fish, went back to their rods and lines, while Nan took up Freddie's pole and used it for herself. Flossie divided her time between getting her doll to "sleep" and watching Freddie's fish.

"Well, are we really going up the creek?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Yes, Mr. Murphy got the farmer to cut the wire fence, so we can get past," said Mr. Bobbsey. "We had better start, too, for Mr. Hardee might change his mind, and put back the wire fence."

"I guess there isn't much danger of that," spoke Mr. Murphy. "But you have a fine boat. I don't wonder that you didn't want to stay cooped up here in this creek."

Flossie, who had come over near the visitor, said:

"There's a stove in our kitchen, and Dinah cooks things on it -- good things to eat!"

"Does she?" cried Mr. Murphy, catching the little girl up in his arms. "That's fine!"

"I think you might take that as an invitation to dinner," said Mrs. Bobbsey, with a laugh.

"Thanks, I will stay, and see how it feels to eat on board a houseboat," replied the man who had helped Mr. Bobbsey.

Bert and Harry decided that they had caught enough fish now, so they pulled in their lines, and soon the Bluebird was moving slowly up the creek, toward Lake Romano, though it would be a day or so before the Bobbseys reached it.

As the houseboat went past the wire fence, which had been cut, the twins and their cousins looked at it in wonder. Only the posts stood there now, and there was room enough between them for the houseboat to pass. A little way back from the shore stood Mr. Hardee.

"I'm not going to let every boat go past that wants to!" he called to Mr. Bobbsey. "I'll let you through, as a favor to Mr. Murphy, but I'm not going to have a whole lot of them sailin' up and down my creek!"

"Just as if it would hurt the water," said Bert, in a low voice.

They were all glad when a turn of the stream hid Mr. Hardee from sight. The mean farmer evidently thought he had not been unpleasant enough, for he ran after the houseboat a little way, crying:

"If you see anything of that good-for-nothing boy of mine, I want you to tell him to come back here, or it will be the worse for him."

"We're not likely to see him," said Mr. Bobbsey.

"I don't know about that," went on the farmer. "I believe you folks know something about him."

"That's all nonsense!" said Mr. Bobbsey, sharply. "I've told you we don't know where he is, and haven't seen him since you tried to horsewhip him. That ought to be enough."

"Wa'al, we'll see," was the growling answer, as the mean farmer turned away.

The houseboat kept on, until it was well past Mr. Hardee's land, and then, in a pleasant part of the creek, it was tied to the bank. Dinah served supper.

"See! I told you we had a stove, and that Dinah could cook things," said Flossie, as a plate full of steaming hot corn muffins was set on the table.

"So you did, my dear!" exclaimed Mr. Murphy, who sat next to the little "fat fairy."

Flossie seemed to think the most wonderful part of the houseboat was the kitchen and the stove.

When the pleasant meal was over, they sat on deck in the evening, until it was time for Mr. Murphy to go home. He was to walk across the meadow, about a mile, to get a trolley car. Mr. Bobbsey went with him, part of the way.

For several days after this, the Bobbsey twins had all sorts of amusements on the house-boat. The BLUEBIRD was still kept in the creek, for it was so pleasant there, along the shady waterway, that Mrs. Bobbsey said they might as well enjoy it as long as possible.

"But I want to see the big lake and the waterfall," said Nan.

"We'll soon be there," promised her father.

One day the houseboat was moved along the creek for about a mile, and anchored there. Bert and Harry found the fishing so good, that they wanted to stay a long time. They really caught some large perch and chub.

"But we didn't come on this trip just to fish," said Mr. Bobbsey. "There are other things to do. We want to go in swimming, when it gets a little warmer, and then, too, we can take some walks in the woods on the shores of Lake Romano."

"And can we have picnics, and take our lunch?" asked Freddie.

"Yes, little fat fireman," answered his father, laughing.

Freddie had been kept so busy with other amusements, that he had not once played with his fire engine, since coming on board.

"Let me catch some fish," begged Flossie, on the afternoon of the day when they were to move from the place that Bert and Harry liked so well.

"You may take my line," offered Freddie. "I'm tired of fishing."

I think perhaps Freddie grew weary because he had had no bites. That one fish he had caught, and which had caused so much excitement, seemed to be all he could get. That one was still alive in the glass dish, which Bert had made into sort of an aquarium.

"I'm going to catch a big fish," said Flossie, as she laid her doll down beside the sleeping dog Snap, and took Freddie's pole.

"Don't fall in -- that's all," cautioned Mrs. Bobbsey.

"I'll watch her," offered Dorothy, for Nan had gone down to help dry the dishes, it being her "turn."

Somehow or other, every one forgot Flossie for a moment, and even Dorothy, who had promised to watch her, forgot when she saw some small boats, filled with young folks on an excursion, pass the houseboat.

Suddenly there came a scream from little Flossie.

"I see him! I see him!" she cried. "He's on our boat!"

The next moment her mother, who turned quickly as she heard Flossie's voice, saw the little girl lean far over the rail of the Bluebird. Then came a splash. Flossie had fallen overboard!



Chapter XVI

The Missing Sandwiches


"Flossie is in the water!"

"Get the boat!"

"Snap! Jump in and get her!"

"Oh, Flossie!"

So many were the excited cries that followed the falling over the rail of little Flossie, that no one could tell who was speaking, or crying out.

Harry, who was near the rail, turned sharply as he heard the splash, and then, quickly casting off his coat, he gave a clean dive over the side. Harry was a country boy, and had learned to swim when very young. He was not at all afraid of the water, and, more than once, he had pulled from "the old swimming hole," boys smaller than himself, who had gone beyond their depth, and could not get out.

"I'll get her!" cried Harry, as he dived over the side.

"Oh, it's all my fault!" sobbed Dorothy. "I said I'd watch her. But I forgot! It's all my fault!"

"No, it isn't, dear!" said Nan, quickly putting her arms around her cousin. "Flossie does things so quickly, sometimes, that no one can watch her. But we'll get her out, for the water isn't deep."

It was deep enough though, on that side of the boat, to be well over Flossie's head, and of course, plunging down from the height she did, she at once went under water.

Snap seemed to understand what had happened, and to know that his services were needed, for he gave a bark, and made a rush for the rail.

"Don't let him jump in!" cried Mr. Bobbsey to Bert. "If Harry can get her, Snap might only make trouble. Hold him back, Bert, while I get the rowboat."

Mrs. Bobbsey, with one arm around Freddie, had rushed to the rail to look down. She saw Flossie come to the surface, choking and gasping for breath, and then saw Harry, who had gone under, but who had come up again, strike out for the little girl.

"Oh, save her!" gasped Mrs. Bobbsey.

"He will!" said Bert. "Harry's a fine swimmer. Come back, Snap!" he called to the big dog, getting his hands on his collar, just in time, for Snap was determined to go to the rescue himself. He whined, pulled and tugged to get away from Bert.

"Help me hold him!" cried Bert to Nan.

"I will!" she answered, glad to be doing something. Together the two older Bobbsey twins managed to keep Snap back. Dorothy, too, helped, for Snap was very strong.

"Did Flossie go after a fish?" asked Freddie, and he asked it in such a queer way that it would have caused a laugh at any other time. Just now every one was too frightened to laugh.

After all, there really was not so much danger. Mr. Bobbsey had taught Flossie some of the things one must do when learning to swim, and that is to hold your breath when you are under water. For it is the water getting into the lungs that causes a person to drown. After her first plunge into the creek, the little girl thought of what her father had told her, and did hold her breath.

"I -- I'll get you!" called Harry to her. "Don't be afraid, Flossie! I'll get you!"

Flossie was too much out of breath to answer, so she did not try to speak. Harry was soon at her side, and called to her:

"Now put your hands on my shoulders, Flossie, and I'll swim to the boat with you. Don't try to grab me around the neck."

Harry knew how dangerous it was for a person trying to rescue another in the water to be choked. Flossie was a wise little girl, even if she was not very old. She did as her cousin told her, and, with Flossie's hands on his shoulders, Harry began to swim toward the Bluebird.

He did not have to go very far, though, for by this time Mr. Bobbsey and Captain White were there with the rowboat, and the two children were soon lifted in. They were safe, and not harmed a bit, except for being wet through.

"Oh, Flossie, whatever did you do it for?" asked her mother, when she had hugged the dripping little girl in her arms. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what, mamma?" Flossie asked.

"Lean over so far."

"I wanted to see if I had a fish," went on Flossie. "And I had to lean over. And then I saw him."

"Saw whom?" asked her father. "What do you mean?"

"Why, I saw him -- that boy," and Flossie seemed surprised that her father did not understand.

"What boy?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey. "Did you fall asleep there, Flossie, and were you dreaming, when you fell in?"

"No, mamma. I didn't fall asleep. I saw HIM, I tell you."

"I heard her say something about seeing some one, just as she went over the rail, head first," Dorothy said.

"But whom do you mean, Flossie?" asked puzzled Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Why, that boy -- the one the bad man whipped."

"Oh, Will Watson!" exclaimed Bert. "Where did you see him, Flossie? Was he in one of the excursion boats that went past?"

"No, he was on our boat -- down there," and Flossie pointed straight down. "I saw him!" she declared.

"I guess she must have dozed off a little, and dreamed it," spoke Mr. Bobbsey, with a smile. "That was it. The sun was so hot, that she just slept a little as she was fishing. She might have had a bite, and that awakened her so suddenly that she gave a jump and fell over the rail. I must have it built higher. Then there won't be any danger."

"Yes, do," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "We've had scares enough."

"But I did see that boy -- the one that gave Bert the fish," insisted Flossie. "He was on our boat. I saw him as plain as anything."

"It must have been some one in the excursion boats that looked like him," spoke Nan.

"No, I saw Will!" declared the little twin, and, rather than get her excited by disputing, they allowed her to think she really had seen a strange face, as she leaned over.

"But of course she either dreamed it, or saw some one she thought was that runaway boy," Mr. Bobbsey said, afterward. "It's all nonsense to think he was on our boat."

Snap, who had not been allowed to go to the rescue, much as he had wanted to, leaped about Flossie, barking and wagging his tail in joy.

"Anybody would think he'd done it all," said Bert. "Say, Harry, you're all right! That was a dandy dive!" and he clapped his cousin on the back.

"Indeed we never can thank you enough. Harry," said Mrs. Bobbsey, and tears of thankfulness glistened in her eyes.

"Oh, it wasn't anything at all," the country boy said, modestly blushing, for he did not like such a "fuss" made over him. "I knew I could get her out."

"Well, it was very fine of you," said Mr. Bobbsey, warmly. "Now then, you had better change your clothes, for, though it is summer, you might take cold. And Flossie, too, must change."

"Yes, I'll look after her," said her mother "Now remember, little fat fairy," Mrs. Bobbsey went on, giving Flossie her father's pet name, "you must never lean over the rail again. If you do -- -"

"But I saw -- -" began Flossie.

"No matter what you saw -- don't lean over the rail!" said her mother. "If you do, we shall have to give up this houseboat trip."

This seemed such a dreadful thing, that Flossie quickly promised to be very careful indeed.

"But I did see him, all the same!" she murmured, as her mother took her to the bedroom to change her clothes. "I saw that boy on our boat."

The others only laughed at Flossie for thinking such a queer thing.

"That poor boy is far enough away from here now," said Bert. "I wonder if he will really try to make his way out west?"

"I don't know," answered Harry, who had changed to a dry suit, hanging his other in the sun to let the water drip out of it. "I've read of boys making long journeys that way."

"I wouldn't want to try it," spoke Bert.

"Neither would I," said his cousin. "This houseboat suits me!"

Flossie was little the worse for her accident, and was soon playing about again with Snoop and Snap, and with Freddie. The little fellow and his sister made the dog and cat do many tricks.

It was the day after this, when the Bluebird had gone a little farther up the creek, that Mrs. Bobbsey planned a little picnic on shore. They were not far from a nice, green forest.

"We'll have Dinah put us up a little lunch, and we'll go in the woods and eat it," said Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Oh, that will be fun!" cried Nan. "Won't it, Dorothy?"

"Indeed it will," said the seashore cousin.

"I'm going to take my doll," Flossie said. "There's no water in the woods for her to fall in, is there, mamma?"

"No, not unless you drop her into a spring," laughed Mrs. Bobbsey.

"I'll see if Dinah has finished making the sandwiches," offered Nan. "She had them almost finished a little while ago."

But when Nan went to the dining-room, she found the colored cook very much excited.

"What is the matter, Dinah?" asked Nan.

"Mattah! What am de mattah?" Dinah repeated, "Dey's lots de mattah, Missie Nan."

"Why, what can it be?"

"De sandwiches is gone, dat's what's de mattah!"

"The sandwiches, Dinah?"

"Yes'm, de sandwiches what I done make fo' de excursnick!"

"Oh, you mean for our picnic, Dinah?"

"Yes'm, dat's it. Excursnick I calls it. But de sandwiches I done jest made am gone. I s'pects Massa Bert or his cousin done take 'em fo' fun."

"Oh, no, Dinah. Bert nor Harry wouldn't do that. Are you sure you made the sandwiches?"

"I'se jest as shuah, Missie Nan, as I am dat I'se standin' heah. I'se jest as shuah as I is dat time when I made de corn cakes, an' somebody tuck dem! Dat's how shuah I is! Dem sandwiches what was fo' de excursnick am done gone completely."

"But have you looked everywhere, Dinah?" asked Nan.

"Eberywhere! Under de table an' on top ob de table. I had dem sandwiches all made an' on a plate. I left dem in de dinin' room to go git a basket, an' when I come back, dey was gone entirely. I want t' see yo' ma, Missie Nan. I ain't gwing t' stay on dish yeah boat no mo, dat's what I ain't!"

"But why not, Dinah?" asked Nan, in some alarm.

"Because dey's ghostests on dish yeah boat; dat's what dey is! An' I ain't gwine stay on no ha'nted boat. Fust it were de corn cakes, an' now it's de sandwiches. I'se gwine away -- I ain't gwine stay heah no mo'!"



Chapter XVII

In The Storm


Dinah was certainly very much frightened, but Nan was not. She knew better than to believe in such things as "ghosts," and, though the sandwiches might have disappeared, the little girl felt sure there must be some reasonable explanation about the mystery.

"I'll call mamma, Dinah," offered Nan. "She won't want you to leave us now, when we have just started on this trip."

"Go on, honey lamb, call yo' ma," agreed the fat cook. "But I ain't gwine t' stay on dish yeah boat no mo'! Dat's settled. Call yo' ma, honey lamb, an' I'll tell her about it."

Mrs. Bobbsey had heard the excited voice of Dinah and had come down to the dining-room of the houseboat to see what it was all about.

"What is it, Dinah?" she asked.

"It's ghostests, Mrs. Bobbsey -- dat's what it is," said the cook. "Ghostests what takes de sandwiches as fast as I make 'em -- dat's de trouble. I can't stay heah no mo'!"

Mrs. Bobbsey looked to Nan for an explanation. The little girl said:

"Dinah made a plate of sandwiches for our picnic -- -"

"Dat's right, for de excursnick," put in Dinah.

"And she left them on the table," went on Nan. "But when she went to get a basket to put them in, and came back -- -"

"Dey was clean gone!" burst out the colored cook, finishing the story for Nan. "An' ghostests took 'em; ob dat I'se shuah. So you'd bettah look fo' anoder cook, Mrs. Bobbsey."

"Nonsense, Dinah! We can't let you go that way. It's all foolishness to talk about ghosts. Probably the door was left open, and Snap might have taken the sandwiches, though I never knew him to take anything off the table. But it must have been Snap."

"No'm, it couldn't be," said Dinah. "It wasn't Snap."

"How do you know?"

"Could Snap come through a closed do', Mrs. Bobbsey. Could Snap do that?"

"Come through a door? No, I don't believe he could. But he might open it. Snoop can open doors."

"Yes, maybe do's that hab a catch on, but not knob-do's, Snoop can't open, an' Snap can't neither. Besides, de do' was shut when I left de sandwiches on de table an' went fo' de basket."

"Oh, was it?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, trying to think of how the pieces of bread and meat could have been taken.

"It shuah was," went on Dinah. "Nobody took dem sandwiches, but a ghostest, an' I can't stay in no boat what has ghostests."

"Nonsense!" laughed Mrs. Bobbsey. "I know how it was done, Dinah. I know how the sandwiches were taken."

"How, Mrs. Bobbsey?" asked the colored cook, as she stood looking first at the empty plate on the table, and then at Nan and lastly at Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Why, through that window," said the twins' mother, pointing to an open window on the side of the Bluebird. "Snap must have come in that window, and taken the sandwiches. He was probably very hungry, poor dog, though he knows better than to do anything like that." "No'm, Mrs. Bobbsey," went on Dinah. "Snap couldn't hab come in fru dat window, fo' it opens right on to de watah. He'd hab to stand in de watah to jump in, an' he can't do that."

"No, perhaps not," admitted Mrs. Bobbsey. "Oh, I dare say you forgot where you put the sandwiches, Dinah. Now don't worry a bit more about them. Just make some fresh ones, and we'll go on our little picnic."

"But I'se gwine t' leab," said Dinah. "I ain't gwine stay on a boat, where ghostests takes sandwiches as fast as I can make 'em."

"You shall come with us on the picnic," said Nan's mother. "When we come back, there won't be any ghost. Now don't fuss. Just make some fresh sandwiches, and we'll go. I'm sure it was Snap."

"And I'se shuah it were a ghostest," murmured Dinah, as she went out to the kitchen.

"Mamma, who do you think it could have been?" asked Nan of her mother.

"Why, Snap, to be sure, little daughter."

"But with the door shut, and the window opening out on the water?" went on Nan.

"Oh, dogs are very smart," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Smarter than we think. Now suppose you help Dinah make more sandwiches. We are late."

Nan went out to the kitchen, while Mrs. Bobbsey made her way up on deck, where she found her husband talking to Captain White about the motor engine of the houseboat.

"Richard, I want to speak to you," said Mrs. Bobbsey, and when she and the twins' father were in a quiet corner of the deck, Mrs. Bobbsey went on:

"Richard, I think there are thieves about here."

"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Thieves! What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean that Dinah says a plate of sandwiches was just taken, and you remember the time the corn muffins were missing?"

"Yes, but perhaps Dinah was mistaken both times, or Snap might have taken a bite between meals."

"Hardly Snap this time," Mrs. Bobbsey went on, "and Dinah, though she does forget once in a while, would not be likely to do so twice in such a short time. No, I think some tramps along shore must have come along quietly in a boat, reached or climbed in through the window and taken the sandwiches."

"Well, perhaps they did," Mr. Bobbsey, said. "I'll tell Captain White, and we'll keep a lookout. We don't want thieves coming around."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Dinah threatens to leave, if any more queer things happen."

"Well, we wouldn't know how to get along without Dinah," said Mr. Bobbsey, with a smile. "I'll put some wire netting over the windows. I was going to do it anyhow, for the mosquitoes will soon be buzzing around. The netting will keep thieves from reaching in and taking our nice sandwiches."

"Yes, I think the netting would be a good idea," said his wife. "But it certainly is queer."

A little later, the Bobbsey twins -- both sets of them -- with their cousins, mother, father, and Dinah went ashore for the little picnic in the woods, taking with them the fresh sandwiches that Nan had helped to make.

"You shan't have any of these -- at least not until we want you to have them," said Nan to Snap, the dog, who, of course, was not left behind. Yet, the more she thought of it the more sure Nan was that Snap had not taken the others.

"But, if he didn't, who did?" she wondered.

"Oh, isn't it just lovely in these woods!" exclaimed Dorothy, as they walked along on the soft moss under the trees. At the seashore, where she lived, the woods were too far away to allow her to pay many visits to them, and she always liked to walk in the cool forests.

Harry, though he lived in the country, not far from the woods, liked them as well as did the Bobbsey twins, and the children were soon running about, playing games, while Snap raced about with them, barking and wagging his tail.

Dinah sat down near the lunch basket.

"Don't you want to walk around a bit?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

"No'm," answered the fat cook. "I ain't gwine t' leab dish yeah basket ob victuals until dey's eaten. Dey ain't no ghostests, nor no dogs, gwine t' git nothin' when I'se heah! No'm!" and Dinah slipped her fat arm in through the handle of the basket.

"Let's look for chestnuts!" cried Freddie. "I love chestnuts!"

"It's too early for them," said his father. "But if you find me a willow tree, I can make you some whistles."

The children found one, near a little brook, and Mr. Bobbsey was soon busy with his knife. The bark slipped off easily from the willow wood, which is why it is so often used for whistles.

Soon all four children were blowing whistles of different tones, and making so much noise that, with the barking of Snap, who seemed to think he must bark every time a whistle was blown, Mrs. Bobbsey cried out for quietness.

"Come on, we'll go farther off in the woods and play Indian," suggested Bert, and soon this game was under way.

It was lunch time almost before the children knew it, and what fun it was to sit around the table cloth Dinah spread out on the grass, and eat the good things from the basket. Snap was given his share, but Snoop, the black cat, had not come along, staying on the houseboat with Captain White.

"Isn't this fun?" cried Nan to Dorothy.

"Indeed it is! Oh, I can't tell you how glad I am that you asked me to come on this trip!"

"Oh! Look at that big bug!" suddenly cried Freddie, and he made a jump toward his mother, to get out of the way of a big cricket that had hopped onto the white table cloth.

"Look out, Freddie!" called his father. "You'll upset your glass of lemonade!"

Mr. Bobbsey spoke too late. Freddie's heel kicked over the glass, and the lemonade spilled right into Mrs. Bobbsey's lap.

"Oh, Freddie!" cried Bert.

"Never mind -- it's an old dress," laughed Mrs. Bobbsey, "and there's more lemonade. Accidents will happen on picnics. Never mind, Freddie."

The cricket was "shooed" away by Nan, Freddie's glass was filled again, and the picnic went on merrily. Soon it was time to go back to the boat.

As they walked along through the woods, Mr. Bobbsey glanced up now and then through the trees at the sky.

"Do you think it's going to rain?" his wife asked.

"Not right away, but I think we are soon going to have a storm," he said.

"Oh, well, the houseboat doesn't leak, does it?"

"No, but I don't want to go out on Lake Romano in a storm, and I intended this evening to go on up the creek until we reached the lake. But I'll wait and see what the weather does."

"Well, did anything happen while we were gone?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey of Captain White, as they got back to the houseboat.

"No, not a thing," he answered. "It was so still and quiet here, that Snoop and I had a nice sleep," and he pointed to the black cat, who was stretched out in his lap, as he sat on deck.

As it did not look so much like a storm now, Mr. Bobbsey decided to move the houseboat farther up the creek, almost to where the stream flowed from Lake Romano, so as to be ready to go out on the larger body of water in the morning, if everything was all right.

The engine was started, and just before supper, the Bluebird came to a stop in Lemby Creek about a mile from the big lake. She was tied to the bank, and then supper was served.

Then followed a pleasant hour or two on deck, and when it was dark, the children went into the cabin and played games until bedtime -- Nan and Bert, as well as the smaller twins and the cousins, were asleep when Mrs. Bobbsey, who had sat up to write some letters, heard her husband walking about on deck.

"What are you doing?" she called to him through a window.

"Oh, just looking at the weather," he answered. "I think we're going to have a storm after all, and a hard one, too. I'm glad we're safely anchored."

Sure enough. That night, about twelve o'clock, the storm came. There was at first distant, muttering thunder, which soon became louder. Then lightning followed, flashing in through the windows of the houseboat, so that Mrs. Bobbsey was awakened.

"Oh, it's going to be a terrible storm," she said to her husband.

"Oh, perhaps not so very bad," he answered. "Here comes the rain!"

Then it began to pour. But the houseboat was well built, and did not leak a bit.

Next the wind began to blow, gently at first, but finally so hard that Mr. Bobbsey could hear the creaking of the ropes that tied the boat to trees on shore.

"I think I'd better look and see if those ropes are well tied," he said, getting up to dress, and putting on a raincoat.

He had hardly gotten out on deck, before the houseboat gave a sudden lurch to one side, and then began to move quickly down stream.

"Oh, what has happened?" cried Mrs. Bobbsey.

At the same time Flossie and Freddie awakened, because of the loud noise from the storm.

"Mamma! Mamma!" they cried.

"Richard, has anything happened?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

"Yes!" he shouted. "The strong wind has broken the ropes, and we are adrift. But don't worry. We'll soon be all right!"

Faster and faster went the Bluebird, while all about her the rain splashed down, the wind blew, the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed.



Chapter XVIII

Strange Noises


The frightened cries of Flossie and Freddie soon awakened Nan and Bert, and it was not long before Harry and Dorothy, too, had roused themselves.

"What's the matter?" asked Bert.

"Oh, we've gone adrift in the storm," his mother said. "But don't worry. Papa says it will be all right."

"Come up on deck and see what's going on!" cried Bert to Harry.

He had begun to dress, and now he thrust his head out from his room. "Hurry up, Harry," he added. "We want to see this storm."

"No, you must stay here," Mrs. Bobbsey said. "It is too bad a storm for you children to be out in, especially this dark night. Your papa and Captain White will do all that needs to be done."

"Mamma, it -- it isn't dark when the lightning comes," said Freddie. He did not seem to be afraid of the brilliant flashes.

"No, it's light when the flashes come," said his mother. "But I want you all to stay here with me. It is raining very hard."

"I should say it was!" exclaimed Harry, as he heard the swish of the drops against the windows of the houseboat.

"Is Snap all right, mamma?" asked Flossie. "And Snoop? I wouldn't want them out in the storm."

"They're all right," Mrs. Bobbsey said.

"Oh, what's that!" suddenly cried Nan, as the houseboat gave a bump, and leaned to one side.

"We hit something," Bert said. "Oh, I wish I could go out on the deck!"

"No, indeed!" cried his mother. "There! They've started the engine. Now we'll be all right."

As soon as Mr. Bobbsey had found out that the houseboat had broken loose from the mooring ropes in the storm, he awakened Captain White, and told him to start the motor.

This had been done, and now, instead of drifting with the current of the creek, the boat could be more easily steered. Soon it had been run into a sheltered place, against the bank, where, no matter how hard the wind blew, it would be safe.

"Are we all right now?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, as her husband came down to the cabin.

"Yes, all right again," he said. "There really was not much danger, once we got the motor started."

"Is it raining yet?" asked Freddie, who was sitting in his mother's lap, wrapped in a sweater.

"Indeed it is, little fat fireman," his father answered. "You wouldn't need your engine to put out a fire to-night."

The patter of the raindrops on the deck of the houseboat could still be heard, and the wind still blew hard. But the thunder and lightning were not so bad, and gradually the storm grew less.

"Well, we'd better get to bed now," said Mr. Bobbsey. "To-morrow we shall go to the big lake."

"Did the storm take us far back down the creek?" asked Bert.

"Not more than a mile," said his father.

"And the man can't tie us in with wire again, can he?" Freddie wanted to know. "If he does, and I had one of those cutter-things, I could snip it."

"You won't have to, Freddie," laughed Bert.

"Speaking of that mean farmer reminds me of the poor boy who ran away from him," said Mrs. Bobbsey to her husband, when the children had gone to bed. "I wonder where he is to-night, in this storm?"

"I hope he has a sheltered place," spoke the father of the Bobbsey twins.

Not very much damage had been done by the storm, though it was a very hard one. In the morning the children could see where some big tree branches had blown off, and there had been so much rain, that the water of the creek was higher. But the houseboat was all right, and after breakfast, when they went up the creek again, they stopped and got the pieces of broken rope, where the Bluebird had been tied before.

The houseboat then went on, and at noon, just before Dinah called them to dinner, Nan, who was standing near her father at the steering wheel, cried:

"Oh, what a lot of water!"

"Yes, that is Lake Romano," said Mr. Bobbsey. "We'll soon be floating on that, and we'll spend the rest of our houseboat vacation there."

"And where shall we spend the rest of our vacation?" asked Bert, for it had been decided that the houseboat voyage would last only until about the middle of August.

"Oh, we haven't settled that yet," his father answered.

On and on went the Bluebird, and, in a little while, she was on the sparkling waters of the lake.

"I don't see any waterfall," said Freddie, coming toward his father, after having made Snap do some of his circus tricks.

"The waterfall is at the far end of the lake," said Mr. Bobbsey.

"I wonder if there are any fish in this lake?" spoke Bert.

"Let's try to catch some," suggested his cousin Harry, and soon the two boys were busy with poles and lines.

The Bobbsey twins, and their cousin-guests, liked Lake Romano very much indeed. It was much bigger than the lake at home, and there were some very large boats on it.

Bert and Harry caught no fish before dinner, but in the afternoon they had better luck, and got enough for supper. The evening meal had been served by Dinah, Snap and Snoop had been fed, and the family and their guests were up on deck, watching the sunset, when Dinah came waddling up the stairs, with a queer look on her face.

"Why, Dinah! What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, seeing that something was wrong. "Have you lost some more sandwiches?"

"No'm, it ain't sandwiches dish yeah time," Dinah answered. "But I done heard a funny noise jest now down near mah kitchen."

"A funny noise?" repeated Mr. Bobbsey. "What was it like?"

"Jes like some one cryin'," Dinah answered. "I thought mebby one ob de chilluns done got locked in de pantry, but I opened de do', an' dey wasn't anybody dere. 'Sides, all de chilluns is up heah. But I shuah did heah a funny noise ob somebody cryin'!"

Mrs. Bobbsey looked at her husband and said:

"You'd better go see what it is, Richard."



Chapter XIX

Snap's Queer Actions


The Bobbsey twins looked at one another. Then they glanced at their cousins, Harry and Dorothy. Next the eyes of all the children were turned on fat Dinah.

"Was -- was it a baby crying?" Freddie wanted to know.

"Yes, honey lamb -- it done did sound laik a baby -- only a big baby," explained the colored cook.

"Maybe it was one of Flossie's dolls," the little "fat fireman" went on.

"Flossie's dolls can't cry!" exclaimed Nan. "Not even the one that says 'mama,' when you punch it in the back. That can't cry, because it's broken."

"Well, Flossie says her dolls cry, sometimes," said Freddie, "and I thought maybe It was one of them now."

"It was Snoop, our cat," said Bert, with a laugh. "That's what you heard, Dinah, Snoop crying for something to eat. Maybe she's shut up in a closet."

"Probably that's what it was, Dinah," said Mrs. Bobbsey.

"I'll go let her out," said Mr. Bobbsey, starting toward the lower part of the houseboat.

"'Scuse me, Mr. Bobbsey," said Dinah firmly, "but dey ain't no use yo' going t' let out no cat Snoop."

"Why not, Dinah?"

"Because it wasn't any cat dat I done heah. It was a human bein' dat I heard cryin', dat's what it was, an' I know who it was, too," the colored woman insisted.

"Who, Dinah?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey.

"It was de same ghostest dat done took mah cakes an' sandwiches, dat's who it was. I'se mighty sorry t' leab yo', Mrs. Bobbsey, but I guess I'll done be goin' now."

"What, Dinah!" cried her mistress. "Going? Where?"

"Offen dish yeah boat, Mrs. Bobbsey. I cain't stay heah any mo' wif a lot of ghostests."

"Nonsense, Dinah!" exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey. "There isn't any such thing as a ghost, and you know it! It's silly to even talk about such a thing. Now you just come with me, and show me where you heard those noises."

"No, sah, I cain't do it, Mr. Bobbsey," the colored cook exclaimed, moving backward.

"Why not?" Mr. Bobbsey wanted to know.

"'Cause it's bad luck, dat's why. I ain't goin' neah no ghostest -- -"

"Don't say that again, Dinah!" exclaimed Mrs. Bobbsey sharply, with a glance at the children.

"Oh, we're not afraid, mother!" chimed in Bert. "We know there's no such thing as a ghost."

"That's right," spoke his father. "But, Dinah, I must get this matter settled. It won't do for you to be frightened all the while. You must come and show me where you heard the noise."

"Has I got to do it, Mrs. Bobbsey?" asked Dinah.

"Yes, I think you had better."

"Well, den, I heard de noise right down in de passageway dat goes from de kitchen to de dinin' room. Dat's where it was. A noise laik somebody cryin' an' weepin'."

"And are you sure it wasn't Snoop, Dinah?"

"Shuah, Mr. Bobbsey. 'Cause why? 'Cause heah's Snoop now, right ober by Miss Dorothy."

This was very true. The little seashore Cousin had been playing with the black cat.

"Snap howls sometimes," said Freddie, who seemed to be trying to find some explanation of the queer noise. "Lots of times he used to howl under my window, and I'd think it was some boy, but it was only Snap. He used to like to howl at the moon."

"Dat's right, so he does, honey lamb," Dinah admitted. "But dere ain't no moon now, an' Snap's eatin' a bone. He don't never howl when he's eatin' a bone, I'se sartain ob dat."

"Oh, well, if it wasn't the dog or cat, it was some other noise that can easily be found," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I'll go have a look."

"I'm coming, too," said Nan.

"And so am I!" exclaimed Bert.

Harry and Dorothy looked at each other a moment, and then Dorothy said, rather unhesitatingly:

"I'm not afraid!"

"I should say not!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey. "What is there to be afraid of, just in a noise?"

"Let's all go!" suggested Harry.

"Good!" cried Mr. Bobbsey, for he wanted his children not to give way to foolish fears. They were not "afraid of the dark," as some children are, and from the time when they were little tots, their parents had tried to teach them that most things, such as children fear, are really nothing but things they think they see, or hear.

"Aren't you coming, Dinah?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, as they all started for the lower part of the houseboat.

"No'm, I'll jest stay up heah an' -- an' git a breff ob fresh air," said the colored cook.

"Come on, children," called Mr. Bobbsey, with a laugh. "We'll very soon find out what it was."

They went down off the deck, to the passageway between the kitchen and dining-room. This place was like a long, narrow hall, and on one side of it were closets, or "lockers," as they are called on ships. They were places where different articles could be stored away. Just now, the lockers were filled with odds and ends -- bits of canvass that were sometimes used as sails, or awnings, old boxes, barrels and the like. Mr. Bobbsey opened the lockers and looked in.

"There isn't a thing here that could make a crying noise, unless it was a little mouse," he said, "and they are so little, I can't see them. I guess Dinah must have imagined it."

"Let's listen and see if we can hear it," suggested Mrs. Bobbsey.

All of them, including the children, kept very quiet. Snap, the trick dog, was still gnawing his bone in the kitchen. They could hear him banging it on the floor as he tried to get from it the last shreds of meat. Snoop, the black cat, was up on deck in the sun.

"I don't hear a thing," said Mrs. Bobbsey.

Indeed it was very quiet.

"Hark!" suddenly called Nan. "Isn't that a noise?"

They all listened sharply, and then they did hear a faint sort of crying, or whining, noise.

"Oh!" exclaimed Freddie. "It's a -- -"

"It's the boat pulling on one of the anchor ropes," said Mr. Bobbsey, for the Bluebird was anchored out in the lake by two anchors and ropes, one at each end. "The wind blows the boat a little," the children's father explained, "and that makes it pull on the ropes, which creak on the wooden posts with a crying noise."

"I know!" exclaimed Flossie. "Just like our swing rope creaks, when it's going slow."

"Exactly," said her mother. Mrs. Bobbsey was glad that the little girl could think out an explanation for herself that way.

"There it goes again!" suddenly exclaimed Bert.

They all heard the funny noise. There was no doubt but that it was the creaking of the rope by which the boat was tied.

"Here, Dinah!" called Mr. Bobbsey, with a laugh. "Come down here. We've found your ghost."

"I doan't want to see it!" exclaimed the colored cook, "Jest toss it overbo'd!"

"It's nothing but a noise made by a creaking rope," said Nan. "And you can't throw that overboard."

"All right, honey lamb. Yo' can call it a rope-noise ef yo' all laiks," said Dinah, when finally she had been induced to come down. "But I knows it wasn't. It was some real pusson cryin', dat's what it was."

"But you said it was a ghost, Dinah!" laughed Bert, "and a ghost is never a real person, you know. Oh, Dinah!"

"Oh, go long wif yo', honey lamb!" exclaimed the fat cook. "I ain't got no time t' bodder wif you'. I'se got t' set mah bread t' bake t'morrow. An' dere's some corn cakes, ef yo' ma will let yo' hab 'em."

"I guess she will," said Bert, with a laugh. "Some cakes and then bed."

They all thought the "ghost" scare was over, but Mr. Bobbsey noticed that when Dinah went through the passage between the kitchen and dining-room, she hurried as fast as her feet would take her, and she glanced from side to side, as though afraid of seeing something.

Every one slept soundly that sight, except perhaps Dinah, but if anything disturbed her, she said nothing about it, when she got up to get breakfast. It was a fine, sunny day, and a little later the Bluebird was moving across the lake, the motor turning the propeller, which churned the blue water into foam.

Mr. Bobbsey steered the boat to various places of interest on the lake. There were several little islands that were to be visited, and on one of the tiniest, they went ashore to eat their lunch.

"Let's play we're shipwrecked," suggested Freddie, who was always anxious to "pretend" something or other.

"All right," agreed Flossie. "You'll be Robinson Crusoe, and I'll be your man Thursday."

"Friday -- not Thursday," corrected Freddie, for his father had read to him part of Robinson's adventures.

The little twins were allowed to take some of their lunch, and go off to one side of the island, there to play at being shipwrecked. Mr. and Mrs. Bobbsey sat in the shade and talked, while Nan, Dorothy, Bert and Harry went off on a little "exploring expedition," as Bert called it. Bert was making a collection of stones and minerals that year, and he wanted to see what new specimens he could find.

Suddenly the peacefulness of the little island was broken by a cry of:

"Oh, Mamma! Papa! Come quick! Freddie's in the cave, and can't get out. Oh, hurry!"

"That's Flossie's voice!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey, in alarm.

Mr. Bobbsey did not say anything. He just ran, and soon he came to the place where Flossie and Freddie had gone to play shipwreck. He saw Flossie jumping up and down in front of a little hill.

"Where's Freddie?" asked Mr. Bobbsey.

"In there," Flossie answered, pointing to the pile of dirt that looked to have been freshly dug. "We made a cave in the side of the and Freddie went in to hide, but he dirt slid down on him and he -- he's there yet!"

"Gracious!" cried Mr. Bobbsey. "It's a good thing we're here!"

With a piece of board he soon scattered the dirt until he came to Freddie's head. Fortunately the little fellow was covered with only a few inches of the soil, and as a piece of brush had fallen over his face, he had had no trouble in breathing. He was rather badly frightened, however, when he was dug out, little the worse, otherwise, for his adventure.

"What did you do it for?" asked his father, when he and his mother had brushed the dirt from the little chap, while the other children gathered around to look on.

"I -- I was making a cave, same as Robinson Crusoe did," Freddie explained. "I dug it with a board in the sand, and I went in -- I mean, I went in the cave, and it -- it came down -- all of a sudden."

"Well, don't do it again," cautioned his mother. "You might have been badly hurt."

They finished their visit on the island, and went back on board the Bluebird again. Snap, who always went with them on these little excursions, bounded on deck, and then made a rush for the kitchen, for he was hungry, and he knew Dinah generally had a bone, or something nice for him.

Mr. Bobbsey, who was following close behind Snap, was surprised to see the dog come to a sudden stop in the passageway between the kitchen and dining-room. Snap growled, and showed his teeth, as he did when some savage dog, or other enemy, was near at hand.

"What's the matter, old fellow?" asked Mr. Bobbsey. "Do you see something?"

Snap turned and looked at Mr. Bobbsey. Then the dog looked at one of the locker doors, and, with a loud bark, sprang toward it, as though he would go through the panels.



Chapter XX

At The Waterfall


"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey, who had followed her husband into the passageway. "Snap and Snoop aren't quarreling, are they?"

"Indeed, no," answered Mr. Bobbsey. "But Snap is acting very strangely. I don't know what to make of him."

By this time Mrs. Bobbsey had come up, where she could see the dog. Snap was still standing in front of the door, growling, whining, and, now and then, uttering a low bark.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey. "Is he hungry?"

"Well, I guess he's always more or less hungry," her husband said, "but that isn't the matter with him now. I think perhaps he imagines he sees Dinah's ghost!" and he laughed.

"Snap, come here!" called Mrs. Bobbsey, and, though the dog usually minded her, this time he did not obey. He only stood near the door, growling.

"Why don't you open it, and let him see what's in there," said Bert. "Maybe it's only some of those mice that made the noise," he went on.

"Perhaps it is," his father answered. "I'll let Snap have a chance at them."

As Mr. Bobbsey stepped up to turn the knob of the "locker," or closet door, there was a noise inside, as though something had been knocked down off a shelf. Snap barked loudly and made a spring, to be ready to jump inside the closet as soon as it was opened.

"What's that?" cried Mrs. Bobbsey, while Flossie and Freddie, a little alarmed, clung together and moved nearer to their mother.

"There's something inside there, that's sure," declared Mr. Bobbsey. "It must be a big rat!"

"Mercy!" cried Mrs. Bobbsey. "A rat!"

"I'll have to set a trap," Mr. Bobbsey went on. "That rat has probably been taking the things to eat that Dinah missed -- the corn-cakes and the sandwiches."

"That's right!" cried Bert. "That ends the mystery. Go for him, Snap!"

"Bow wow!" barked the dog, only too willing to get in the closet and shake the rat.

But, when Mr. Bobbsey opened the door, no rat ran out, not even a little mouse. Snap was ready for one, had there been any; but though he pawed around on the floor, and nosed behind the boxes and barrels, he caught nothing.

"Where is it?" asked Flossie.

"I want to see the rat!" cried Freddie. Neither of the smaller twins was afraid of animals. Of course, they did not know that rats can sometimes bite very fiercely, or they might not have been nearly so anxious to see one.

"I guess the rat got away," said Mr. Bobbsey, as he watched Snap pawing around in the locker, even pushing aside boxes with his nose.

"Hab yo' cotched de ghost?" asked Dinah, looking out from her kitchen.

"Not yet -- but almost," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I must clean out this closet, and find the rat-hole. Then I'll set the trap. Come away Snap. You missed him that time."

The dog was not so sure of this. He stayed near the closet, while Mr. Bobbsey set out the boxes and barrels, but no rat was to be seen, nor even a mouse. And, the odd part of it was that, when everything was out of the locker, there was no hole to be seen, through which any of the gnawing animals might have slipped.

"That's funny," said the twins' father, as he peered about. "I don't see how that rat got in here, or got out again."

"Perhaps it wasn't a rat," suggested Mrs. Bobbsey.

"What was it, then, that made the noise?" asked her husband.

"I don't know," she answered. "Something might have bumped against the boat outside."

"Yes, that's so," admitted Mr. Bobbsey. "But Snap wouldn't act that way just on account of a noise."

The boxes and barrels were put back into the closet, but even that did not seem to satisfy Snap. He remained near the locker for some time, now and then growling and showing his teeth. Mr. Bobbsey looked in some of the other, and smaller, lockers, but all he found was a tiny hole, hardly big enough for a mouse.

"Perhaps it was a mouse," he said. "Anyhow, I'll set a trap there. Dinah, toast me a bit of cheese."

"Cheese, Massa Bobbsey!" exclaimed the colored cook. "Yo' knows yo' cain't eat cheese. Ebery time yo' does, yo' gits de insispepsia suffin terrible -- specially toasted cheese."

"I don't intend to eat it!" answered the twins' father, with a laugh. "I'm going to bait a trap with cheese to catch the mice. I don't care whether they get the indigestion or not."

"Oh! Dat's diffunt," said Dinah. "I'll toast yo' some."

The trap was set, but for two or three days, though it was often looked at, no mice were caught. Meanwhile, several times, Dinah said she missed food from her kitchen. It was only little things, though, and the Bobbseys paid small attention to her, for Dinah was often forgetful, and might have been mistaken.

"I really think we have some rats aboard," said Mr. Bobbsey. "There are some on nearly every boat. I have heard noises in the night that could be made only by rats."

"And Snap still acts queerly, whenever he passes that locker," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "I'm not so sure it is a rat that made that noise, Richard."

"No?" her husband asked. "What was it, then?"

But Mrs. Bobbsey either could not, or would not, say.

"I say, Harry," said Bert to his country cousin one day, when the Bluebird had come to anchor some distance down the lake, "let's try to get to the bottom of this mystery."

"What mystery?"

"Why, the one about the noise, and the sandwiches and cakes being taken, and Snap acting so funny. I'm sure there's a mystery on this boat, and we ought to find out what it is."

"I'm with you!" exclaimed Harry. "What shall we do?"

"Let's sit up some night and watch that closet," said Bert. "We can easily do it."

"Will your folks let us?"

"We won't ask them. Oh, I wouldn't do anything I knew they didn't want me to do without asking," Bert said quickly, as he saw his cousin's startled glance.

"But there's no harm in this," Bert went on. "We'll go to bed early some night, and, when all the rest of them are asleep, we'll get up and stand watch all night. You can watch part of the time, and when you get sleepy I'll take my turn. Then we can see whether anything is hiding in that closet."

"Do you think there is?" asked Harry.

"I'm sure I don't know what to think," Bert answered. "Only it's a mystery, and we ought to find out what it is."

"I'm with you," said Harry again.

"Are you talking secrets?" asked Nan, suddenly coming up just then.

"Sort of," admitted her brother, laughing.

"Oh, tell me -- do!" she begged.

"No, Nan. Not now," said Bert. "This is only for us boys."

Nan tried to find out the secret, but they would not tell her.

Two days later, during which the Bluebird cruised about on the lake, Bert said to Harry, after supper:

"We'll watch to-night, and find out what's, in that closet. Snap barked and growled every time to-day, that he passed it. I'm sure something's there."

"It does seem so," admitted Harry.

Mr. Bobbsey was steering the boat toward shore, intending to come to anchor for the night, when Flossie, who was standing up in front cried:

"Oh, look! Here's the waterfall! Oh, isn't it beautiful!"

Just before them, as they turned around a bend in the bank, was a cataract of white water, tumbling down into the lake over a precipice of black rocks -- a most beautiful sight.



Chapter XXI

What Bert Saw


The waterfall of Lake Romano was still some little distance off, and, as the wind was blowing toward it, only a faint roar of the falling water came to the ears of the Bobbsey twins, and the others on the houseboat.

"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Nan. "May we go close up and see the cataract?"

"Yes," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I intended to give you a good view of the waterfall. We shall spend a day or so here, as it is a great curiosity. There is one place where you can walk right behind the falls."

"Behind it!" cried Harry. "I don't understand how that can be, uncle."

"You'll see to-morrow, when we visit them," said the twins' father. "And there are some oddly-marked stones to be picked up, too, Bert. They will do for your collection."

"Fine!" Bert exclaimed. "Say, this has been a dandy trip all right!"

"It isn't ended yet, is it, Dorothy?" asked Nan.

"No, indeed," replied the seashore cousin, with a smile.

"And we haven't solved the mystery," said Bert in a low voice to Harry. "But we will to-night, all right."

"We sure will," agreed the boy from the country.

The Bobbsey twins stayed up rather later that night than usual. Mr. Bobbsey did not find a good anchorage for the boat for some time, as he wanted to get in a safe place. It looked as though there might be a storm before morning, and he did not want to drift away again. Then, too, he wanted to get nearer to the waterfall, so they could reach it early the next morning and look at it more closely.

So the motor was kept in action by Captain White until after supper, and finally the Bluebird came to rest not far from the waterfall. Then Bert and Nan, with Dorothy and Harry were so interested in listening to Mr. Bobbsey tell stories about waterfalls, and what caused them, that the older twins and their cousins did not get to bed until nearly ten o'clock, whereas nine was the usual hour.

Of course Flossie and Freddie "turned in," as sailors say, about eight o'clock, for their little eyes would not stay open any longer.

"We'll wake up as soon as my father and mother are asleep," said Bert to Harry, as they went to their rooms, which were adjoining ones. "Then we'll take turns watching that closet."

"Sure," agreed Harry. "Whoever wakes up first, will call the other."

To this Bert agreed, but the truth of it was that neither of them awakened until morning. Whether it was that they were too tired, or slept later than usual, they could not tell. But it was broad daylight, when they sat up in their beds, or "bunks," as beds are called on ships.

"I thought you were going to call me," said Bert to his cousin.

"And I thought you were going to call ME," laughed the boy from the country.

Then they both laughed, for it was a good joke on each of them.

"Never mind," spoke Bert, as he got up and dressed. "We'll try it again to-night."

"Try what?" asked Nan from the next room, for she could hear her brother speak. "If you boys try to play any tricks on us girls -- -"

"Don't worry," broke in Harry. "The secret isn't about you."

"I think you're real mean not to tell us!" called Dorothy, from her room. "Nan and I are going to have a marshmallow roast, when we go on shore near the waterfall, and we won't give you boys a single one, will we, Nan?"

"Not a one!" cried Bert's sister.

"Will you give me one -- whatever it is?" asked Freddie from the room where his mother was dressing him.

"And me, too?" added Flossie, for she always wanted to share in her little twin brother's fun.

"Yes, you may have some, but not Bert and Harry," went on Nan, though she knew when the time came, that she would share her treat with her brother and cousin.

"Well, I didn't hear any noises last night," said Mr. Bobbsey to his wife at the breakfast table.

"Nor I," said she. But when Dinah came in with a platter of ham and eggs, there was such a funny look on the cook's face that Mrs. Bobbsey asked:

"Aren't you well, Dinah?"

"Oh, yes'm, I'se well enough," the fat cook answered. "But dey shuah is suffin strange gwine on abo'd dish yeah boat."

"What's the matter now?" asked Mr. Bobbsey.

"A whole loaf of bread was tooken last night," said Dinah. "It was tooken right out ob de bread box," she went on, "and I'se shuah it wasn't no rat, fo' he couldn't open my box."

"I don't know," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Rats are pretty smart sometimes."

"They are smart enough to keep out of my trap," said Papa Bobbsey. "I must set some new ones, I think."

"Well, I don't think it was any rat," said Dinah, as she went on serving breakfast.

There was so much to do that day, and so much to see, that the Bobbsey twins, at least, and their cousins, paid little attention to the story of the missing loaf of bread. Bert did say to Harry:

"It's too bad we didn't watch last night. We might have caught whoever it was that took the bread."

"Who do you think it was?" asked Harry.

"Oh, some tramps," said Bert. "It couldn't be anybody else."

They went ashore after breakfast, close to the waterfall.

"Papa, you said you would show us where we could walk under the water without getting wet," Nan reminded him.

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Bobbsey. "I have never been to these falls, but I have read about them." Then he showed the children a place, near the shore of the lake, where they could slip in right behind the thin veil of water that fell over the black rocks, high above their heads. Back of the falling water there was a space which the waves had worn in the stone. It was damp, but not enough to wet their feet. There they stood, behind the sheet of water, and looked out through it to the lake, into which it fell with a great splashing and foaming.

"Oh, isn't this wonderful!" cried Nan.

"It surely is," said Dorothy, with a sigh. "I never saw anything so pretty."

"And what queer stones!" cried Bert, as he picked up some that had been worn into odd shapes by the action of the water.

The Bobbseys spent some little time at the waterfall, and then, as there was a pretty little island near it, where picnic parties often went for the day, they went there in the Bluebird, going ashore for their dinner.

"But I'm not going to play Robinson Crusoe again," said Freddie, as he remembered the time he had been caught in the cave.

At the end of a pleasant day on the island, the Bobbseys again went on board the houseboat for supper.

"We'll watch sure to-night," said Bert to Harry, as they got ready for bed. "We won't go to sleep at all."

"All right," agreed the country cousin.

It was hard work, but they managed to stay awake. When the boat was quiet, and every one else asleep, Harry and Bert stole softly out of their room and went to the passageway between the dining-room and kitchen.

"You watch from the kitchen, and I'll watch from the dining-room," Bert told his cousin. "Then, no matter which way that rat goes, we'll see him."

"Do you think it was a rat?" asked Harry.

"Well, I'm not sure," his cousin answered. "But maybe we'll find out to-night."

"We ought to have something to hit him with, if we see a rat," suggested Harry.

"That's right," Bert agreed. "I'll take the stove poker, and you can have the fire shovel. Now keep very still."

The two cousins took their places, Bert in the dining-room, and Harry in the kitchen. It was very still and quiet on the Bluebird. Up on deck Snap, the dog, could be heard moving about now and then, for he slept up there.

Bert, who had sat down in a dining-room chair, began to feel sleepy. He tried to keep open his eyes, but it was hard work. Suddenly he dozed off, and he was just on the point of falling asleep, when he heard a noise. It was a squeaking sound, as though a door had been opened.

"Or," thought Bert, "it might be the squeak of a mouse. I wonder if Harry heard it?"

He wanted to call out, in a whisper, and ask his cousin in the dining-room, just beyond the passage. Bert could not see Harry. But Bert thought if he called, even in a whisper, he might scare the rat, or whoever, or whatever, it was, that had caused the mystery.

So Bert kept quiet and watched. The squeaking noise of the loose boards in the floor went on, and then Bert heard a sound, as though soft footsteps were coming toward him. He wanted to jump up and yell, but he kept still.

Then, suddenly, Bert saw something.

Standing in the dining-room door, looking at him, was a boy, about his own age -- a boy dressed in ragged clothes, and in bare feet, and in his hand this boy held a piece of bread, and a slice of cake.

"You -- you!" began Bert, wondering where he had seen that boy before. And then, before Bert could say any more, the boy turned to run away, and Bert jumped up to catch him.



Chapter XXII

The Stowaway


"Come back here!" cried Bert, as he rushed on.

There was the sound of a fall in the passageway, and some one groaned.

"What is it?" cried Harry, running from the kitchen. "What's the matter, Bert? Did you catch the rat?"

"No, but I caught something else," Bert answered. By this time he had run into the passageway, and there, in front of the locker, or closet, where the strange noises had been heard, lay the ragged boy. He had fallen and hurt his head. The cake and bread had been knocked from his hands. The door of the locker or closet was open.

"Why -- why -- -" began Harry, in surprise. "It's a -- a boy."

"Yes, and now I know who he is," said Bert, as the stowaway sat up, not having been badly hurt by his fall. He had tripped in his bare feet.

"Who -- who is it?" asked Harry.

"It's that boy who gave us the fish -- Will Watson, who worked for the man that made the wire fence -- Mr. Hardee."

"Yes, I'm that boy," said the other, slowly. "Oh, I hope your folks won't be very mad at me. I -- I didn't know what to do, so when I ran away, I hid on your boat."

"And have you been here ever since?" asked Bert.

"Yes," answered Will. "I've been hiding here ever since."

"And was it you who took the things?" Harry wanted to know.

"Yes, I took them. I was half starved. But I'll pay you back as soon as I get out west, where my uncle lives. He's a gold miner, and I guess he's got lots of money. Oh, I hope your father and mother will forgive me."

"Of course they will," said Bert, seeing tears in the eyes of the ragged boy.

"What's the matter there?" called Mr. Bobbsey. "Has anything happened, Bert?"

"Yes," answered Bert. "We've solved the mystery -- Harry and I."

"Solved the mystery!" cried Mr. Bobbsey. "I'll be right there."

"Oh, what can it be?" his wife asked.

Meanwhile, Captain White, Dinah and the little Bobbsey twins had been awakened by the loud voices. Up on deck Snap, the dog, feeling that something was wrong, was barking loudly.

"I -- I hope the dog doesn't get me!" said Will, looking about.

"I won't let him hurt you," promised Bert. "So it was you, hiding in the closet that made Snap act so funny?" he asked. "He knew you were there."

"Yes, only I wasn't in the closet all the while. There was a loose board at the back. I could slip out of the closet through that hole. I hid down in the lower part of the boat. I'll show you."

"You poor boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Bobbsey when, with her husband, she had come to see the "mystery," as Bert laughingly called him.

"Indeed we'll forgive you. You must have had a terrible time, hiding away as you did. Now tell us all about it. But first I want you to drink this warm milk Dinah has made for you," for Mrs. Bobbsey had told the cook to heat some. "You look half starved," she said to the boy.

"I am," answered Will. "I -- I didn't take any more of your food than I could help, though."

"Yo' am welcome to all yo' want, honey lamb!" exclaimed Dinah. "Mah land, but I shuah am glad yo' ain't no ghostest! I shuah am!" and she sighed in relief, as she saw that Will was a real, flesh-and-blood boy. He was, however, very thin and starved-looking.

"Now tell us all about it," said Mr. Bobbsey. "How did you come on our boat?"

Will told them. After Mr. Bobbsey had stopped the cruel farmer from beating him, Will crawled up to his room to sob himself to sleep. Then he began to think that after the houseboat had gone, Mr. Hardee would probably treat him all the more meanly, on account of having been interfered with.

"So I just ran away," said Will. "I packed up what few things I had, and when I saw your boat near shore, I crept aboard and hid myself away. I easily found a place down -- down cellar," he said with a smile.

"I suppose you mean in the hold, or the place below the lower deck," spoke Mr. Bobbsey. "Cellars on a boat are called 'holds.' Well, what happened?"

"I -- I just stayed there. I found some old bags, and made a bed on them," Will said. "Then when my food gave out, I used to crawl out during the nights and take some from your kitchen.

"I had some bread when I ran away," Will went on. "I took it from Mrs. Hardee's kitchen, but they owed me money for working, and I didn't take more bread than I ought."

"I'm sure you didn't," said Mrs. Bobbsey, kindly.

"I didn't want you to know I was on board the boat," Will resumed, "for I was afraid you'd send me off, and I didn't want Mr. Hardee to find me again. I was afraid he'd whip me."

"But what did you intend to do?" asked Mr. Bobbsey.

"Well, I heard you say you were going to Lake Romano," said the boy, "and I thought I would ride as far as you went. Then I wouldn't have so far to walk to get to my uncle out west. I'm going to him. He'll look after me, I know. I can't stand Mr. Hardee any more."

"You poor boy. We'll help you find your uncle," said Mrs. Bobbsey.

"And you've been on board ever since?" asked Mr. Bobbsey.

"Yes, sir. I hid down in the 'hold,' as you call it. Then when I got hungry, I found a loose board, so I could get into the closet. Then at night I would come out and get things to eat and a little water or milk to drink. I didn't mean any harm."

"No, I'm sure you did not," the twins' father said. "Well, I'm glad Bert found you," he went on, as Bert and Harry told how they had kept watch. "So it was you who took the things, and who made the noises that frightened Dinah?"

"Yes, but I didn't mean, to scare her," Will said. "That day I got my hand caught in the loose board, and it hurt so, and I felt so bad that I -- I cried. That was what she heard, I guess."

"You poor boy!" said Mrs. Bobbsey again.

"And -- and did you see any rats in the cellar?" asked Freddie, who was moving about in his little night dress.

"No," answered Will, "I didn't see any rats. It was bad enough in the dark place, without any rats."

"Well, I guess your troubles are over, for a time," said Mr. Bobbsey. "We'll fix you up a bed, and then I'll have a talk with you about this miner uncle of yours."

Will finished his warm milk, and ate some bread and cake -- the same he had taken from Dinah's kitchen. He had gone in there and taken it, but Harry had not heard him, for Harry had fallen asleep.

"And so it was a stowaway boy, and not rats or ghosts or anything else that was the mystery," said Mrs. Bobbsey, when everything once more quiet on the Bluebird.

"That's what it was," her husband said "Bert was real smart to sit up and watch."

"And he never told us a thing about it."

"Oh, he wanted to surprise us," laughed Mr. Bobbsey.

"And didn't I see you, the time I fell overboard?" asked Flossie, looking at Will.

"I think you did," he laughed. "I happened to put my head out of a ventilating hole just as you looked. I pulled it in again, soon enough, though. I hope I didn't scare you."

"Not very much," Flossie said. "I was sure I saw you, but nobody else would believe me."

Snap soon made friends with the new boy. It was Will, hiding behind the closet wall, that had made the dog act as though a rat were there.

I must bring my story to a close, now that the mystery is explained. And, really, there is little else to tell. Will had, in the little bundle of things he had brought away from Mr. Hardee's with him, the address of a man he thought knew where the miner uncle was. Mr. Bobbsey wrote several letters, and, in due time, word came back that Will's uncle was well off now, and would look after him. His name was Mr. Jackson. He had lost track of Will for some years and had just begun a search for him, when Mr. Bobbsey's letter came. Enough money was sent on to enable Will to make the trip out west, where he would be well cared for. He could not thank the Bobbsey family enough for what they had done for him.

Mr. Hardee heard where his runaway boy had been found, and tried to get him back, but Mr. Bobbsey would not permit this. So Will's life began to be a pleasant one. The time he had spent on the houseboat, after coming from his hiding place, was the happiest he had ever known.

"Well, what shall we do now?" asked Bert one day, after Will had gone. "It seems queer not to have to be on the lookout for a mystery or something like that."

"Doesn't it," agreed Harry.

"And so that was your secret?" asked Nan.

"Yes, that was it," her brother answered. "But I wish we had something to do now."

"Whatever you do, you want to do in the next two weeks," said Mr. Bobbsey, coming up on deck.

"Why?" asked Bert.

"Because our houseboat trip will come to an end then."

"Oh!" cried the Bobbsey twins in a chorus. "That's too bad!"

"But I have other pleasures for you," went on Mr. Bobbsey. "The summer vacation is not yet over."

And those of you who wish to read of what further pleasures the children had, may do so in the following volume, which will be called "The Bobbsey Twins at Meadow Brook."

"Let's have one more picnic on an island!" proposed Nan, a few days before the trip on Lake Romano was to end.

"And a marshmallow roast!" added Dorothy.

"Fine!" cried Bert. "I'll eat all the candies you toast!"

"And I'll help!" added Harry.

"You boys will have to make the fire," Nan said.

"I'll gather wood!" offered Freddie. "And I'll have my little fire engine all ready to put out the blaze, if it gets too big."

"A pail of water will be better," laughed Bert. "Your engine might get going so fast, like it did once, we couldn't stop it."

"I'll sharpen the sticks to put the marshmallows on," offered Harry.

"I wish Will Watson was here to help us eat these," said Nan a little later that afternoon, when the children were having their marshmallow roast on a little island in the lake. "He was a nice boy."

"Yes, and he will be well looked after now," said Mrs. Bobbsey. "Your father had a letter from the miner uncle to-day, saying he was going to make a miner of Will. He gave up the idea of going to sea."

"And will he dig gold?" asked Flossie.

"I suppose so, dear!"

"Oh, I'm going to dig gold when I grow to be a man," said Freddie. "May I have another marshmallow, Nan?" "Yes, little fat fireman," she laughed.

A few days later, after making a trip around the lower end of the lake, the Bobbsey twins started for home, reaching there safely, and having no more trouble with Mr. Hardee and his wire fence.

And so, as they are now safe at home, we shall say good-bye to the Bobbsey twins and their friends.

<eob>

The Moving Picture Girls At Sea

Or

A Pictured Shipwreck That Became Real

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

The Great Marine Film


"Well, at last a breathing period, Ruth. Oh, I am surely tired!" and the girl threw herself on the couch, without stopping to remove her light jacket and hat. Her head sank wearily on a cushion.

"Oh, Alice! Be careful! Look out!" exclaimed the other occupant of the pleasant little room, a room made habitable by the articles of tasteful adornment in it, rather than by the location of the apartment, or the place itself. There was a "homey" air about it.

"I'm too tired to look out, or even look in," was the answer, as the younger girl closed her eyes. Truly she seemed much "fagged," and worn out.

"But, Alice, dear -- your hat!"

"It doesn't matter, Ruth. Please let me rest. I thought we'd never get home."

"But it isn't your old hat, Alice, and --  -- "

"It's an old hat from now on!" broke in the younger girl, not opening her eyes. "It's spoiled anyhow. Some of the water from that parlor scene, where Mr. Bunn upset the globe of gold fish, splashed on it, and the spots never will come out."

"Oh, Alice, is your hat spoiled?"

"It doesn't matter. Mr. Pertell is going to buy me a new one. He said it was up to the company to do that, especially as I did so well in that burning room scene the other day. There!" and the girl on the couch raised her small fist and plumped it full on the crown of the chic little toque she was wearing.

"Alice DeVere!" cried her sister, aghast.

"Ruth DeVere -- Lady Clarissa -- Senorita Alamondi! Whatever you like, only let me -- alone! I've posed and acted and otherwise contorted myself before at least five thousand feet of film today, and I'm not going to be disturbed now, just for the sake of a hat that is as good as paid for anyhow, so 'please go 'way and let me sleep,'" and Alice murmured the chorus of a once popular song.

Ruth sighed. Somehow, looking at her gentle and refined face, one understood that a sigh, from her, was the only possible answer under the circumstances. Not that the girl on the couch, with closed eyes, was unrefined. But there was a wholesome air of good health about her that caused one to think of a "jolly good fellow," rather than a girl who needed to be helped on and off trolley cars.

"You are tired," commented Ruth, after a pause. "Shall I make you a cup of tea, dear? Or we could go over to Mrs. Dalton's, if you like. You know she told us always to come in when we came from the theatre, and have tea."

"No, dear, thank you. It's awfully good of you to offer, but I don't want you to trouble. I'll be all right in a few minutes. I just want to rest."

"It was a tiresome day; wasn't it, dear?"

"I should say so, 'and then -- some,' as Russ would say."

"You shouldn't quote Russ when he uses slang," was the older girl's rebuke.

"Can't help it, Ruth. That just seemed to fit. But you can't feel so very rested yourself. You had some heavy parts today."

"Oh, I don't mind. I really was in love with that role of Lady Clarissa. I always did like English plays, anyhow."

"Well, we are getting more than our share of them this season. I wish Mr. Pertell would swing to a good American drama again. Say, didn't we have fun at Rocky Ranch?" and as she asked this some of the weariness seemed to slip off Alice as a discarded garment is let fall. She sat up, her eyes flashing with fun, and her cheeks that had been pale were now suffused with a heightened color.

"Yes, we did have fun," assented Ruth. "But it was hard work, too, -- especially when that prairie fire came a little too close for comfort."

"That was rather scary," assented Alice. "But it was outdoors, and that was what I love. Oh, I can just smell that wonderful air yet!" and she breathed in a long breath. A look of annoyance passed over her face, and she made a gesture of disapproval, "wrinkling" her nose.

"They're having corned beef and cabbage again downstairs," she said, pointing to the apartment below them.

"Well, they have a right to it," Ruth said, with a tolerant smile.

"Not when daddy hates it so," disagreed Alice. "Come on, let's make a cup of tea. And is there any cheese?"

"Cheese?"

"Yes," the younger girl went on. "I'm going to make a Welsh rarebit. Daddy just adores them, and the smell of the toast will take away the odor of that cabbage. Is there any cheese?"

"I think so. But I thought you were tired."

"I was, but I guess thinking of the moving picture days at Rocky Ranch acted as a tonic. I'm rested now. There!"

She tossed the hat, which she had so mistreated, on a chair, slipped off her jacket and started for the kitchen.

"I think there is some cheese," went on Ruth, following her younger sister. "But don't make the rarebit as you did last time. It was so tough that Russ said it would do very well to half sole his rubber boots."

"That was because I put the milk in too suddenly. I won't do it that way this time. Come on, we'll get up a nice little tea for daddy. He's sure to be tired also. They had to film that big scene of the accusation over three times before Mr. Pertell was satisfied."

"Is that so? I didn't know that, I was so busy with that English play. Then father will be late."

"A little. He said he'd follow us in about an hour, though. So we'll just about have it ready in time. Did Russ come out with you?"

"No," and though she uttered but this simple word the cheeks of Ruth took on a more ruddy hue.

"I saw Pearl waiting for him," went on Alice. "But --  -- "

"You did?" cried Ruth, and then she added quickly: "Oh, I mean I suppose he had to go with her to film that scene in Central Park, near the lion's cage."

"Don't get jealous now," teased Alice. "I said Pearl waited for him, but, she is -- still waiting, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

Ruth tried to appear indifferent, but it was not an unqualified success.

"I mean that Russ got one of the other camera men to take his place, and go out with Miss Pennington," said Alice with a laugh as she began cutting the bread in thin slices for toast.

"But Russ -- "

"He went up town. He told me to tell you he thought he could get that book you spoke of."

"Oh, I didn't want him to go to all that trouble!" remonstrated Ruth, looking at her sister, and then suddenly averting her gaze.

"Guess he doesn't call much trouble where you are concerned," said Alice significantly, cutting up some chunks of cheese which she put in a double boiler with some lumps of butter. "He said if you wanted a book to give you some of the details of the country, where that English play was supposed to take place, you were going to have it."

"It's awfully good of him," murmured Ruth. "I just casually mentioned that I'd like to know something about the people of that section, and he offered to get a book he had once heard of. But I didn't want him to make such a fuss over it."

"La-la-la!" chanted Alice, about nothing in particular.

The girls busied themselves getting tea. The kettle was soon singing on the gas stove, the crisp odor of toast had replaced the heavier one of cabbage, and the rarebit was almost ready to serve, when a step was heard out in the hall of the apartment house where the DeVere family had their New York home.

"There's daddy!" exclaimed Alice.

"And just in time," added Ruth, as she poured the boiling water on the tea, adding to the fragrant food perfumes that now filled the apartment.

The key clicked in the lock, the door opened, and a rather imposing figure of a man entered, laying aside his hat and light overcoat, for the Spring day was a bit chilly.

"Hello, Daddy!" called Alice, putting up her face to be kissed, as she came in from the kitchen with a plate of delicately browned toast. "You're just in time. And it's such a lovely rarebit!"

"That's good, my dear."

"Oh, Father, how hoarse you are!" cried Ruth. "Is your throat bad again?"

"Well, this harbor dampness isn't just the best medicine for it. But I shall spray it, and it will be better."

He sank somewhat wearily into a chair as he spoke, and Ruth glided over to him.

"Daddy," she said, "you look worried. Has anything happened? Is anything wrong at the moving picture studio?"

"No, nothing wrong, but -- "

It was evident that something out of the usual had occurred. Even light-hearted Alice sensed it.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing so much," her father said in weary tones. "I suppose I shouldn't make such a fuss over it. But Mr. Pertell has finally decided to film the great marine drama, and that means we shall have to go out on the water, more or less. And with my sore throat that isn't just the best thing in the world for me."

"A marine drama!" cried Alice. "Oh, I shall just love that!"

A look of worry still clouded Mr. DeVere's face.

"Father, there is something else," insisted Ruth. "You haven't told us all about this sea film."

"No, I -- I haven't," he said. "And, to tell the truth, I'd rather we weren't going to be in that marine drama."



Chapter II

Jack Jepson


Hosmer DeVere's words and manner alike were alarming to his daughters. Seldom had they seen him so moved, especially over such a seemingly simple matter as the announcement of a new moving picture drama. He and the girls, in common with the other members of the Comet Film Company, had to portray many different scenes in the course of a season's work, and though some of it was distasteful, it was seldom objected to by anyone, unless perhaps by Pepper Sneed, the "grouch," or perhaps by Mr. Wellington Bunn, an actor of the old school, who could not reconcile himself to the silent drama.

"Why, Daddy, what is the matter?" asked Alice. "I think it will be perfectly fine to have a little trip out to sea, especially now that Summer is coming on."

"But not if the damp salty air is going to irritate his throat," declared Ruth.

"Oh, it isn't so much that," Mr. DeVere said, "but you girls evidently don't know that the big scene in this drama is a shipwreck, and what follows. I am to be 'cast' in that, and so are you."

"Well, what of it?" asked Alice. "It won't be a real shipwreck; will it?"

"Real? Of course not!" exclaimed Ruth. "The idea!"

"I certainly hope it won't be real," Mr. DeVere said, "But -- Oh, well, I suppose I may as well admit the truth. You'll probably call me fussy and all that, and laugh at the superstition of an old actor. But you know we have our traditions, though I am free to confess that I have lost many of them since entering on this moving picture work. But I had a dream about this same shipwreck, and that was before I knew we were to be in it, for I might mention that Mr. Pertell has included you girls in the drama, and has prominent parts selected for you."

"Oh, I'm glad!" cried Alice enthusiastically.

"I'm not," her father said, and he did not smile. "As I said I had a dream about this drama before I knew we were to have parts in it. And in that dream I saw --  -- "

"Oh, Daddy! Now don't tell a depressing dream before tea!" begged Alice, slipping her arms about his neck, and imprinting a kiss on a spot, which, if it were not already bald, was fast becoming so. "Wait until after supper -- the rarebit will spoil if we don't eat it at once. Wait, Daddy dear!"

"All right, I will," he assented with a sigh. "Perhaps I may have a less gloomy view of it after a cup of tea."

And while the little family party is gathered about the table, I shall take just a moment to tell my new readers something about the previous books of this series.

Ruth and Alice DeVere were moving picture girls, which you have probably guessed already. That is, they were actresses for the silent film dramas that make so much for enjoyment nowadays. Mr. DeVere was also an actor in the same company. He had been a semi-tragedian of the "old school," but his voice had failed, because of a throat ailment, and he could no longer declaim his lines over the footlights. He was in distress until it was suggested to him that he take up moving picture work.

This suggestion came from young Russ Dalwood, who, with his widowed mother and little brother, lived across the hall from the DeVere family, in the Fenmore Apartment on one of the West Sixty streets of New York. Russ had invented a new attachment for a moving picture camera, and he himself was a camera operator of ability.

At first Mr. DeVere had refused to consider moving picture work, but he finally consented, and even allowed his daughters to take their parts in the silent drama. In the initial book of the series, "The Moving Picture Girls," I related their first experiences.

All was not smooth sailing. Though Mr. Frank Pertell, manager of the Comet Film Company, was a most agreeable man, the other members of the theatrical company were like those of any other organization -- some were liked, and some were not. Among the former, at least from the standpoint of Ruth and Alice, was Russ; Paul Ardite, who played juvenile leads; Pop Snooks, the property man and one who did all the odd tasks; and Carl Switzer, a round-faced German, who was funny without knowing it.

But neither Ruth nor Alice cared much for Laura Dixon and Pearl Pennington, two former vaudeville actresses who thought they were conferring a favor on the cameras to pose for moving pictures. Mr. Bunn, an actor of the kind styled "Hams", was in like case.

Mr. Bunn was always bemoaning the fact that he had left the "legitimate" drama with a chance of playing "Hamlet", to take up moving picture work. But he might have been glad -- especially on paydays -- for he had made more out of camera work than he could have done on the regular stage.

Pepper Sneed was never satisfied. He was of a gloomy nature, and always looking for trouble. Sometimes he found it, and for a time he was happy in saying "I told you so." But more often he proved a dismal failure as a predicter of calamities.

This was the company, with others whom you will meet from time to time, in whose fortunes Ruth and Alice DeVere had cast their lots.

After the girls' first introduction to the camera they went to Oak Farm where a series of pictures were taken, and, incidentally, a mystery was cleared up. Getting snowbound was another experience for our friends, but they forgot the cruelties of Winter in the happy days under the palms. And they had only recently come back from Rocky Ranch, where a number of Western dramas had been filmed, when the little scene of our opening chapter took place.

Those of you who have read the previous books of this series do not need to be told much about moving pictures. And even those who select this volume as their first venture in becoming acquainted with our heroines must well know how the film pictures look from the front of the screen.

To the uninitiated I might say that in making picture plays a company, somewhat like a regular theatrical organization, is gotten together. The play is decided upon, but instead of the acts taking place before an audience they are enacted before a camera and a man who acts as director, or manager.

Some of the action takes place out of doors, amid the surroundings of nature, but most interior scenes are "filmed," or taken, in the studio, under the brilliant glare of electric lights. The pictures are taken in succession on a narrow strip of celluloid film, of the same nature as those in any camera. The strips are of a standard length of one thousand feet, though some plays may "split," and take only half a "reel" while others will fill several.

When the film has been exposed, it is developed in a dark tank, and from that one "master" film, any number of "positives" can be made for use in the projecting machines. Doubtless you know that the same machine which takes the pictures does not show them on the screen.

But enough of this detail.

"Was the rarebit good?" asked Alice, smiling up into her father's face, as the supper progressed.

"You may give me some more, which is the best answer in the world, my dear," he replied, smiling.

"Be careful!" Ruth warned him. "You may have dreams, Daddy!"

A shadow seemed to pass over the face of the old actor. He had been jokingly gay during the meal, but now there seemed to be a sense of depression.

"Might as well tell us, and have it over with," suggested Ruth. "We don't believe in dreams, anyhow. Do we Alice?"

"Not a bit, and I've named the corners of my bed ever so many times," and she laughed at that old sweethearts' superstition.

"Well, my dream was very vivid," Mr. DeVere said. "I don't usually believe in omens, but this one impressed me. I dreamed we were all at sea, on a vessel in a storm, and, somehow, we became separated. I saw you girls going down with the ship, while I was taken up on a life raft."

"Well, what of it, Daddy?" asked Alice. "I've often had unpleasant dreams myself. Probably you ate something you ought not to have taken. I'm rather sorry, now, I made this rarebit."

"Oh, not at all! It was excellent!" he exclaimed. "I would perhaps, have thought nothing of my dream had not Mr. Pertell, a short time ago, told me something of his plans for the future. He spoke of a great marine drama he had in prospect, and we are to have prominent parts in it. But I was startled when he told me that one scene -- the great one, in fact -- was to be a shipwreck. He has engaged an old vessel for this purpose, and he is going to sink it with all on board."

"All on board!" cried Ruth. "You don't mean --  -- "

"Well, that's how it will appear in the camera, anyhow. You girls are to be well in front, and your swimming abilities will be very necessary, for you will have to go into the water."

"I hope it is warm," murmured Alice.

"Oh, it will be Summer before we get to the shipwreck part," went on Mr. DeVere. "But what worries me is my dream in connection with the drama. I almost told Mr. Pertell we would have nothing to do with it."

"Oh, Father! You can't do that!" exclaimed Ruth. She, as housekeeper, knew how much money was required in these days of the high cost of living. Though Mr. DeVere and his daughters received fair salaries, there were many expenses to be met, and if they refused present engagements they might not find it so easy to get others.

"Oh, of course I didn't actually turn it down," said the old actor, "but it gave me quite a turn, I must say. I haven't gotten over it yet, seeing you girls disappear under the waves."

"Don't think of it, Daddy!" urged Alice. "Have some of this apple slump. Mrs. Dalwood sent it in."

"Your idea is that a man's mind is in his stomach, isn't it, daughter," laughed her father. "Well, I will have some of the dessert. Oh, but I almost forgot, you will have to go down an hour earlier in the morning to the studio."

"Why?" Ruth wanted to know.

"A heavy day's work on, and Mr. Pertell wants to sketch out the preliminary scenes of the marine drama. We are actually going to sea, I believe, and he has engaged some old sailors, or at least one so far, to give it a proper nautical flavor. It's only for tomorrow that we have to go earlier than usual."

Mr. DeVere seemed more like himself after he had told his daughters of his vision. It did not so depress him now, and the rest of the meal passed off in a much more jolly manner.

In the evening Russ Dalwood came in from across the hall, and they played bridge whist, of which Mr. DeVere was fond.

"Fancy daddy, Russ," laughed Alice, "wanting us to give up a chance to go to sea just because he dreamed of a shipwreck!"

"Oh, I didn't actually want you to give it up," her father remonstrated. "Perhaps I was foolish even to mention it. But I can't forget it -- I can't!" and he seemed to look through the walls of the room on some distant and fateful scene.

"Well, I must be getting back," Russ said. "You've won the rubber, as usual, Mr. DeVere. Lots to do tomorrow, and I have a new assistant to break in, so I'll say good-night."

There were busy times for all next day, in the studio of the moving picture concern. In the big room brilliant with electric lights as well as from the illumination that came through a sky-glass, there were several scenes from different dramas being filmed at the same time.

When Ruth and Alice DeVere entered with their father, Mr. Pertell, the manager of the Comet company, was engaged off to one side, evidently instructing a man in what he must do before the camera. The man was a sailor, and it needed but a glance to show that he was a real one, and not "made up" for the occasion.

"You see," said Mr. Pertell, "you come into the shipping office, and pretend to hand over the papers. But you slip the clerk the wrong ones, and while he is examining them you reach over behind him and take the documents you want."

"Avast there! Belay!" came the hoarse voice of the sailor. "I do that there, do I?"

"Yes."

"Steal the papers?"

"Well, it isn't stealing, exactly. It's only --  -- "

"Stealin' is what I call it, and it can't be called by another name to my way of thinkin'. It won't do, sir, it won't do! Jack Jepson got into trouble once, but he isn't goin' to do it again. No sir! That stealin' won't do for Jack Jepson. You've got to get someone else to sign them articles for you. No stealin' for Jack Jepson!" and the figure of the old sailor turned and, with a rolling gait, he started across the big studio room.



Chapter III

Something Of A Mystery


"Look out there!"

"Where you going?"

"Hold him back, somebody! Look out, you'll spoil that scene! Don't cross in front of the camera!"

Half a dozen frantic voices were calling to the sailor who, with dogged persistence, kept on, shaking his grizzled and gray head, and muttering over and over again:

"It won't do for Jack Jepson! No sir! It won't do. I had one experience with trouble and I don't want any more. No sir!"

Evidently utterly unused to a moving picture studio, the old man kept on his way. He was headed directly toward a camera that was "filming" an elaborate ball room scene.

If any figure came between the scene and the camera with the pictures it was imprinting on the sensitive celluloid film (at the rate of sixteen per second) part of the elaborate work would have to be done over again. And as one of the characters in the little play was a celebrated dancer, whose time was paid for at an almost unbelieveable sum per hour, it would mean a heavy expense.

"Stop him!" cried Mr. Pertell. "Come back here!"

"Halt! Vamoose! Turn about!" Paul Ardite called to the worked-up traveler of the deep blue sea.

This had no effect.

"Avast there! Belay!" cried Russ Dalwood, who was not at that moment engaged at the crank of some camera. He used the same sea terms the old man himself had uttered, but this salt-water "lingo," or translation of the command to halt, had no effect either.

Then came an interruption at a most opportune time. Just ahead of the sailor a scene from a Wild West drama was being enacted. A group of cowboys were engaged in a quarrel in the bunk house, which had been set up in the studio. The outdoor scenes of the little play were to be made later, for it is the custom in this business to make all the scenes, taking place in one locality, at the same time, regardless of their sequence in the finished play. Later the film is cut up into strips, pasted together with the proper headings, or captions, and the finished play results.

And just as the old sailor, who called himself Jack Jepson, was about to step in front of the ball room scene camera, to the frantic horror of the operator, one of the cowboys, following out his lines, drew his revolver, and fired a blank cartridge at the "villain."

In the studio the noise was like that of a small cannon.

"Mutiny!" yelled Jack Jepson, jumping in the air a foot or more. "Mutiny!"

But he stopped, and just in time. Two steps more would have brought him in front of the clicking camera.

"Mutiny!" he fairly roared. "What is this! Who's firin' a shot across my bows? All hands on deck t' repel boarders! Avast there!" and he stood looking around in bewilderment, while the smoke from the revolver floated upward.

"Come here!" called Mr. Pertell running forward, and grasping the arm of the sailor before he could get away to step in front of any of the other moving picture machines. "You don't understand, Mr. Jepson. I merely want you to --  -- "

"Yes, I reckon I heard you say what you wanted me to do. Now look here! I don't know much about you, but you come over t' our Sailors' Snug Harbor, an' you took some pictures. That was all right, I'm not captain there an' I haven't anything t' say. You said you wanted an old able-bodied man for certain work, an' I volunteered. I didn't know where the voyage was, but I signed on, an' come here; didn't I?"

"You did," said Mr. Pertell. "But let me explain."

"No, you listen to me, first!" exclaimed the old salt, shaking a thickened and roughened finger at the manager. "I come here, willin' to do anything from slushin' th' mast, or holystonin' th' decks t' furlin' sail in a blow. But what do I get; eh? I ask you what do I get? Why an order to steal shippin' papers, that's what I get! An' that's a serious crime. I'm not goin' t' be mixed up with it. No sir! Not for Jack Jepson!" and he tried to break away.

"Wait a minute!" Mr. Pertell begged. "You don't understand. It's only the business of stealing the papers, you know."

"Well, it's mighty poor business for any man t' be in; that's my opinion. I was raised honest, an', man and boy, I've lived honest for fifty years, with one exception, an' that wasn't my fault, and now --  -- "

Again he made an effort to leave, which effort, if not blocked, would have once more taken him in front of some clicking camera.

"Oh, can't you understand!" cried the manager with a hopeless gesture.

"Perhaps I could explain to him," suggested Ruth in a low voice. "I have plenty of time, Mr. Pertell, and though I don't know this gentleman --  -- "

"Oh, I forgot. He's going to act with you and your sister, Miss DeVere," said the manager. "Come over and be introduced. You too, Mr. DeVere. He's to have a part in our great sea drama, that is, if I can ever get it started. I began explaining to Jepson, here, about taking the papers which have to do with the case, but he can't --  -- "

"You can't make me believe stealin's right, no matter how you go at it!" interrupted the old salt, doggedly shaking his head.

"Perhaps I can," put in Ruth with a smile, as the manager mentioned their names to the newest and, seemingly, the most refractory member of the company.

"Well, Miss," said the sailor, "you look honest. I would believe what you'd tell me, for I know you couldn't do no wrong. Perhaps I was a bit hasty, but you see this is all new to me -- this play-actin', an' shootin' at folks unexpected like. I wouldn't have tried it, only the captain at the Sailors' Snug Harbor, over on Staten Island, where I'm berthed, asked me as a favor to come here. But I don't like it!"

"I didn't at first," said Alice, joining with her sister, in an attempt to placate the old salt. "But I became used to it."

"Ha! You're pretty young to be in this business," said Jack Jepson, who evidently said what he thought.

"Oh, I'm older than I look," replied Alice with a smile. "I just love the sea. I wish you would tell me about some of your voyages, for I'm sure you must have been on many."

"That I have, Miss, but this is th' queerest cruise I ever started on," and he looked around at the many scenes being enacted.

Meanwhile Ruth had slipped to Mr. Pertell's side.

"Give me a brief outline of the play," she suggested. "I think I can make it plain to him. He is all fussed up because it's something new. You haven't time to go into details."

"That's right -- I haven't," agreed the harassed manager. "Well, this is enough for you to know just now. There's a plot to sink a ship, and it is necessary that certain papers appear to be stolen.

"I picked Jepson up, as he says, at a sailors' home, over on Staten Island. He's a typical salt, but he balks at even a semblance of wrong-doing."

"I think I can make him understand," Ruth said as she took the typewritten pages of the scenario, or plot, of the drama from the manager.

"I wish you would," Mr. Pertell said. "I've a thousand and one things to do."

Ruth started toward the old sailor. To her surprise her sister Alice was now in earnest conversation with him. Jack Jepson seemed to have warmed to Alice at once. And Ruth heard him saying, as she approached:

"Well, Miss, you see it was this way. There was a mutiny, an' I was accused, but I wasn't guilty. There was a mystery about it when the captain disappeared, an' that mystery hasn't been solved yet, though I'd give a good bit if it were. It's hangin' over me like a nightmare, Miss. Now I'll tell you all about it, if I don't tire you."

"I should love to listen!" exclaimed Alice, with dancing eyes and flushed cheeks.



Chapter IV

The Sailor's Story


Ruth, on her way to explain to sailor Jack Jepson what was wanted of him in the matter of acting for moving pictures, paused as she saw Alice and the aged salt in earnest conversation.

"I think I had better defer my explanations a while," Ruth told herself. "Perhaps he will be in a bettor frame of mind to listen, after he has talked with Alice. What a wonderful way she has of making friends!" the older girl mused as she looked at the interested and flushed face of her pretty sister. At that moment Alice glanced up and caught Ruth's gaze on her.

"Do come and listen," she called. "I'm going to hear a wonderful story, Ruth dear."

The old sailor looked up quickly, stopping in his progress toward a bench, whither Alice was leading him. It was in a quiet corner of the studio, some distance away from the various little groups that, in three-sided rooms (before the open part of which cameras were placed, and over which big lights hissed) were going through their parts in the silent dramas.

"This is my sister," Alice said.

"Oh, yes, I remember now," Jack Jepson said. "There's so much goin' on that I get a bit confused. But I can see you two look alike. Are you goin' to put me reefin' sails or scrubbin' decks?" he asked.

"Neither one," Ruth said with a smile. "I told Mr. Pertell, our manager, that I'd explain what was wanted of you. It is very simple, and --  -- "

"I don't call it simple t' rob an' cheat!" cried Jack with energy, "an' that's what he wanted me to do."

"I'll explain, and I think you'll find it all right," Ruth went on. "My sister and I are in this business," she added, "and I don't believe you think we would do anything wrong."

"Far be it -- far be it," said the old salt, earnestly.

"Oh, but before you came, Ruth dear," suggested Alice, "Mr. Jepson was going to tell me --  -- "

"Avast there! Belay! Hold on!" exclaimed the sailor, his voice ringing out through the studio, above the tones of those actors who, to give greater verisimilitude to their work were talking their parts, as well as going through them. They smiled at the old salt's energy.

"Wait a minute, Miss," he went on in lower tones. "I didn't mean t' be so quick, but that Mr. Jepson business won't do. Not at all!"

"Why, isn't that your name?" asked Ruth. "I understood Mr. Pertell to say --  -- "

"Oh, that's my name -- at least the Jepson part of it is. But I don't like the mister. I'm not used to it. The only time of late years when I was called Mister was when I was up before the lawyers, and I didn't like it then. Jest please call me Jack Jepson, an' 'twill sound more natural. I ask it as a favor, Miss," and he looked from Ruth to Alice.

"Why of course we'll call you Jack," assented the latter. "It will sound nicer anyhow, I think," she added. "Now go on with your story. You said there was a mystery in it. Has it anything to do with -- buried treasure?" and Alice leaned forward eagerly.

"Buried treasure? No, Miss. What made you ask that?"

"The idea!" exclaimed Ruth with a laugh. "I'm afraid you'll think my sister very romantic, Mr. -- er -- Jack."

"That's better!" he laughed. "Well, I don't know much about romance. My life's been mostly hard work."

"I just mentioned treasure," Alice said with a little laugh, and a glance toward where Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, having a rest from their moving picture work, were curiously eyeing the old sailor and the two girls.

"Well, my mystery hasn't anything t' do with buried treasure," resumed Jack Jepson. "It's about a mutiny that took place off th' Hole in th' Wall, about five years ago, an' --  -- "

"Hole in the Wall!" interrupted Ruth. "I thought mutinies always took place on the high seas."

"Well, this was the high seas," Jack answered.

"But the Hole -- ?"

"That's the name of a passage between Great Abaco Island and Eleuthera, in the West Indies," the sailor replied. "I don't know why it's called that, but it is."

"A queer name," murmured Ruth.

"Go on, please," urged Alice.

"Well, I was second mate aboard a five masted schooner engaged in the lumber business," went on Jack Jepson. "We were going down to South America, in ballast t' bring back a cargo of hard woods, an' off the Hole in the Wall th' trouble started.

"Some of the crew kicked on account of the grub -- that's the stuff we eat on a ship," he explained.

"Oh, we know something of such talk," said Alice with a laugh. "We haven't been out West among the cowboys for nothing!"

"Well, some of th' hands laid it to the grub, an' others t' th' hard work of sailing th' craft," went on Jack. "She was a mighty poor schooner in ballast, an' owing t' storms an' rough weather we had t' be takin' in or lettin' out reefs all th' while. It wasn't so bad up t' th' time we got off th' Hole in th' Wall, but from then on it was fierce!

"I'd heard rumors that th' crew was goin' t' mutiny an' demand that we put in at some port, an' get better grub, an' more hands, for we was short of sailors. But I didn't pay much attention to th' underhand talk until it was too late. Then, all at once, when we had got away down about off Anegada, th' mutiny broke in full force. The men riz up, an' overpowered th' officers -- th' captain was made a prisoner in his cabin, an' I was given my choice of joinin' th' mutineers or walkin' th' plank."

"What's that?" asked Ruth, a bit startled.

"That's when they blindfold a man, and make him walk a plank that is put out over the bulwarks, or side of the ship," said Alice.

"Why, if he were blindfolded I should think he'd fall off, not knowing when he came to the end," Ruth remarked, with a little shudder.

"He doesn't know," Alice said. "That's an easy way of sending a man to his doom."

"That's it, Miss!" chimed in Jack. "You got th' idea!"

"But Alice, how did you know that dreadful thing?" her sister wonderingly demanded.

"Read it in a book. Go on please, Mr. -- er -- Jack."

"Of course I didn't want t' walk no plank," resumed the sailor, "so I temporized. I thought maybe I could beat th' mutineers after all. So I pretended t' join 'em. Things got pretty bad. Many of 'em was for puttin' th' captain away -- tossin' him overboard, an' there was a fight about it. Matters got t' such a pass that pistols were fired, an' th' captain would have been shot, an' killed, only a fellow named Mike Tullane, a rough character, an' one of the leaders of th' mutiny, stepped up sudden like an' saved th' captain's life by knockin' aside th' ruffian's gun.

"Well, of course there was a fight then, but Mike seemed t' come out all right, bein' a leader, an' havin' th' men pretty well with him. Anyhow, th' mutineers were in charge of th' ship, an' off Anegada, one of th' little British Islands of the West Indies, we were put about t' run for port. Jest what was t' be done no one seemed to know. After the men got th' ship they didn't know what to do with her.

"Then came th' mystery. One night th' captain an' Mike Tullane disappeared. They was seen in th' cabin, talkin' together, an' some of th' hot-headed ones thought Mike was goin' back on his pals. They was for makin' him walk th' plank.

"But cooler heads made 'em wait. They said they wanted t' give Mike a chance to explain. But he never got it."

"Do you mean they -- " began Alice, somewhat horrified.

"I mean that night he an' th' captain disappeared," Jack said. "They couldn't be found anywhere. No boat was taken, so they couldn't have gotten off in one of them craft, an' we wasn't near enough land t' make swimmin' safe. But they totally disappeared, an' that was th' mystery. Whether they had a fight, an' jumped overboard together in th' darkness, no one ever knowed, for them mutineers didn't keep extra good watch.

"But anyhow they was gone -- mysteriously missin' as they say in the paper. That sort of took the heart out of some of th' mutineers and they got careless. First we knew a British vessel overhauled us, and, not likin' th' looks of things, began to ask questions. Of course there wasn't any captain, such as there should be on a ship, an' that made it look suspicious. Th' worst of it was that nobody could say where the captain was. None of us knew.

"Then th' story of th' mutiny came out, of course, an' it was all up. The Britisher took charge of us. I was arrested as the ringleader of the mutiny, an' put in chains! An' I had no more to do with it than a baby, Miss. No more than a baby!" and Jack Jepson looked from Ruth to Alice, his blue eyes expressing the indignation he had felt at the time.

"An' that's th' story of th' mystery, as I said I'd tell your sister," he added turning to Ruth.



Chapter V

The Mary Ellen


During the silence that followed the rather sudden ending of the old salt's story, Ruth and Alice looked at each other with wonder in their eyes. On all sides of them could be heard the clicking of the moving picture cameras, the loud directions issued by the men who were managing the different little dramas, and occasionally the sound of shots from the cowboy play that was going on in front of where our friends were seated on the bench, though at some distance away, for the studio was large.

"But that can't be all of it," said Alice, at length.

"All of what, Miss?" Jack Jepson asked.

"The mystery."

"That's all there is to any mystery, Miss," he said. "A mystery is a mystery, an' if it isn't solved, it's a mystery still, an' nobody can make any more of it. Th' captain and Mike Tullane completely disappeared, an' were never heard of afterward. That's th' mystery, an' all there is to it, jest as I told you."

"But about yourself?" asked Ruth. "You said you were put in chains, under arrest, as the ringleader of the mutiny."

"So I was."

"But what became of you?"

"Well, I escaped, Miss. It may not be a very nice thing to confess, but I escaped. Th' British ship took us to a jail on some island -- I forget th' name of it. Anyhow I was locked up, an' so were a lot of th' others. We were tried, an' I was accused of startin' th' mutiny. Some of th' worst men on th' ship put th' blame on me, an' I wasn't a bit guilty. But it was no use in denyin' it. They was all banded together t' accuse me t' save themselves. I was found guilty, though I wasn't at all, an' I was sentenced to a long imprisonment. I just escaped hanging by a hair, for mutiny on th' high seas is a serious crime.

"But I was innocent, an' I knew it, an' when I found th' trial goin' against me, I took a chance that offered, an' planned t' escape. I found a French vessel puttin' t' sea an' as they was short handed I signed on. Since then I've been in many vessels, but I always keep away from English ones, and from English ports, for I would be arrested the minute I set my foot on shore in one. A big reward is out for me."

"How long ago was all this?" asked Ruth.

"Oh, some years."

"But isn't the unjust charge outlawed now?" Alice wanted to know.

"I'm afraid not, Miss. Such things are never outlawed. I daren't go t' an English port, an' that's hampered me. I have to take what berths I can get."

"Can't you disprove the mutiny charge?" asked Ruth.

"Not unless some of them involved was to confess, Miss. An' land knows where those fellers are now. They've disappeared with th' captain an' Mike Tullane. Of course if I could find either one of them, I could prove my innocence, an' then I'd be free t' go where I pleased. But I've about given that up, Miss.

"So I sort of come t' anchor in th' Sailors' Snug Harbor, an' when I heard about this movin' picture business, and th' chance it gave t' make a little money, I took it. But when it comes t' doin' some crime for it, I draws th' line. As I said, I've always lived honest, man and boy, for many years, an' that one charge is th' only one against me. I'm not goin' t' take them papers, and substitute false ones."

"But you don't exactly understand," Ruth said with a smile. "I am going to explain it to you. Mr. Pertell said I might. Now here is the story we are supposed to act out; and, mind you, it is only supposing -- make believe, as we children used to say."

"Oh, it's make believe; is it?" asked Jack Jepson.

"Yes, just make-believe."

"I had a little gal once -- long years ago," he said softly, "an' she used to be great on make-believe games. Is this takin' of them papers a make believe game?"

"Exactly!" chimed in Alice. "My sister and I have to pretend every day. It's fun!"

"Well, of course I didn't know that," said Jack. "Maybe I made a mistake in bein' so quick. There was nothin' wrong in it?" he questioned.

"Not the least in the world," said Ruth. "It is just a game, played for the amusement of the public. I'll explain," and from the typewritten scenario she held she went over the outlines of the big marine drama, as one of the authors of the Comet company had written it. As she gave the details, the simple, kindly face of the sailor cleared. His doubts vanished.

"Say, wasn't I th' old landlubber though!" he cried. "T' think I thought I was really committin' a crime. Ha! Ha!"

"Well, your past experience had made you careful," Alice said.

"That's what it had, Miss. It's no fun t' be barred from the ports of the country that has more of 'em than any nation of the world. It hampers a man. But I daren't go on British soil."

"Could they come here and take you?" asked Ruth.

The old man looked around before replying.

"They maybe wouldn't know me," he hoarsely whispered. "I've grown a beard since those days."

"Well, then, how would the British authorities know you?" asked Alice with a smile.

"I'm not takin' any chances, Miss," was the answer. And though it might seem to an outsider that it would be safe, under those circumstances, for Jepson to visit British ports, if he kept away from the island where he had been imprisoned, he could not see it that way.

"No sir!" he exclaimed. "No British ports for mine!"

By this time Mr. DeVere, who had been engaged in finishing a few scenes in a play that had started the day before, came up to join his daughters.

"Well, how is the great marine drama coming on?" he asked, his voice being more hoarse than usual. He had done some talking, as he found it helped to give a better idea of the characters he portrayed, but it was not necessary, in these picture plays, to get his voice "over the footlights."

"There has been a halt," explained Ruth with a smile. "This is Jack Jepson, Father. He is to have one of the principal parts, but he balked at some underhand work, and -- "

"Pleased t' know you," Jack broke in with a jerky bow. "Your daughter's a smart gal," he said. "She made everything as clear as daylight t' me. I'm goin' on with th' play now."

"That is when Mr. Pertell is ready," put in Alice. "He seems to have found some difficulty in that cowboy drama."

This was evident, for the Western play had been stopped, and the camera operator, with a weary look on his face, was leaning against a post, as if in despair of ever completing that day's run of film.

"No, no, Mr. Bunn, you must not do it that way," the manager was saying. "When Ardite, in the character of the young outlaw, shoots at you, stand up without flinching. That's your part -- to be indifferent to gunfire."

"Oh, that's my part, is it? Just to be shot at!" cried the old "Ham" actor. "Well, it's a mighty poor part, that's all I've got to say! It will be the last time I ever take a part like that. Oh, why did I ever leave the legitimate stage?"

"Ha! Maybe it was because the stage would have left you, had you not left it," said Mr. Switzer, who was dressed up as a German comedian, and taking part in another play.

"Ha! What is that?" asked Mr. Bunn pompously. But Mr. Switzer did not repeat his remark. He was called to resume his part.

"Now Mr. Bunn, stand up and be shot at!" commanded Mr. Pertell. "Come, come! We can't lose all day on this little play. I've got to get busy on the marine drama, and I want some of you in that. Ready with that gun now, Paul!"

"Yes, shoot him!" murmured Mr. Pepper Sneed, the human grouch. "Aim it right at him. Of course they are only blank cartridges," he added cheerfully, "but if the wadding hits you Bunn, lockjaw is almost sure to follow. Go on and shoot. I know something will happen," and he looked as though he would be disappointed if his prophesy were not borne out. "Go on, shoot!"

"No! No! I protest! I withdraw from this play!" cried Mr. Bunn, looking around for his tall hat, without which he seldom was seen. It was his one remnant of departed glory.

"No, you'll not withdraw!" cried Mr. Pertell. "We've got half the film run off with you on, and you've got to stick it out. Go on, Paul. And, Mr. Sneed, you needn't trouble to stand here and look on, as you're not in this cast. You have a -- depressing effect."

Mr. Sneed certainly did. However, he moved away, and the play went on. It was successfully filmed, and then Mr. Pertell was free to take up, where he had left off, the discussion of the preliminaries of the marine drama. "Out on The Deep" it was to be called.

"Well, how about it?" asked the manager, as he approached the moving picture girls, their father and sailor Jack. "Have you succeeded in convincing him?"

"That's what they have, Mr. Pertell," the old salt said. "I'm sorry I made such a fuss about those false papers. I didn't know it was only make-believe."

"Well, if that difficulty is over with, we'll go on, though we can do only a few of the simple scenes today," the manager said.

"Do you understand the play?" he asked of Mr. DeVere.

"Not altogether. I will look over the scenario."

"I can save you the trouble," the manager went on. "I'll outline it briefly for you. 'Out on the Deep,' is, as you can tell by the name, a marine story. Part of it will take place in a sailors' home. That will be the Snug Harbor, where I found Jack Jepson. We will go over to Staten Island some day and film those scenes.

"Another part of the drama will take place in a shipping office. Of course that will be a studio scene, taken right here. I was starting in on that when Jack balked."

"Well, I won't again," the sailor promised.

"Glad to hear it," came from the manager. "But the big part of the play will actually take place on deep water," Mr. Pertell resumed. "We are going out in a big schooner, and --  -- "

"A real schooner?" asked Jack, eagerly.

"Yes, a real schooner. It isn't a very good one, but it will answer our purpose, especially as we have to wreck her, and she will be a total loss. I had to pay pretty high for her, too. But I think it will be worth it. The shipwreck scenes, in the storm, ought to be great. And now, as I have decided to postpone the rehearsal of the play for a while, I think it would be a good plan for some of us to go and look at the Mary Ellen, and get familiar with her layout."

"The Mary Ellen!" cried Sailor Jack.

"Yes, that is the name of the schooner I have purchased to use as a shipwreck," said the manager.

"Why -- th' Mary Ellen!" cried Jack. "That was th' name of th' vessel where th' mutiny was!" and he started to his feet in great excitement.



Chapter VI

Captain Brisco


"Mutiny! What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Pertell, a little startled by the action of the old sailor.

"That's just what I mean, sir! Oh, I forgot you don't know. But I told these young ladies about me being in a mutiny, an' I'm under suspicion in connection with it still. I can't go in an English port, and that's a nice blight to put on a man!" he said indignantly.

Mr. Pertell looked bewildered.

"Perhaps I can explain," said Ruth, "and if I go wrong, Jack, please correct me."

"That I will, Miss!" he exclaimed.

Thereupon Ruth told the whole story, much more connectedly, and more briefly, than would have been possible for the old salt. But Ruth had the knack of condensing a long scenario into a few words.

"Was that it?" she asked Jack, when she had finished.

"That's it, Miss, an' you did me more credit in the story than I deserved."

"Oh, no I didn't," Ruth said, smiling. "I'd like to help you solve that mystery, too -- the mystery of the disappearance of the captain and Mike Tullane."

"That's it!" cried Jack. "If I could only find one of them, or if some of th' real mutineers would confess, it would clear me an' I could be free t' roam wherever I wanted t' in th' world. But it's too much t' hope for that. But you said th' name of th' vessel we was t' make believe be shipwrecked on was th' Mary Ellen, sir," and he turned to the manager. "The Mary Ellen was the name of the craft where the mutiny occurred. Could it be -- " he paused, hope showing on his eager face.

"No, there's hardly a chance that this is the same one," said Mr. Pertell. "Mary Ellen is a common name for vessels," he went on, "and there must be scores with it painted on their bows. I don't know anything about the vessel I have bought, but I doubt if she was ever in a mutiny. She is a very old craft, and isn't really fit for service now. But her owners say she will do for what I want. We are going to take her to Southern waters, and the main scenes of the drama will be photographed aboard her, and around her."

"Where is the craft now, if I may ask?" inquired Mr. DeVere.

"Over in Erie Basin," answered the manager. "I am having her fitted up, and a crew is being engaged. Of course it will be some time before we sail, but I want to get everything in readiness. So suppose we take a run over there now, and look at her."

"That suits me!" exclaimed Jack, to whom matters nautical were as the breath of life. "And I hope you'll sign me on, sir; when it comes to makin' up your crew, sir."

"I intend to ship you," was the answer. "Captain Brisco said he would need some good officers. You have a mate's certificate, have you not, Jack."

"Yes, sir, and mighty glad and proud I'll be to fill that berth, sir."

"Oh, won't it be jolly to go sailing!" exclaimed Alice. "I shall just love it!"

Mr. DeVere sighed resignedly.

"I'm afraid it won't be very good for your throat, Daddy," said Ruth in a low tone. "The damp air will be sure to make you cough."

"Oh, well -- " he began.

Mr. Pertell overheard what was said.

"I don't like to ask you, Mr. DeVere," he said, "to do anything that will be bad for your health. But I certainly need your services, and those of your daughters, in this sea drama. Otherwise I would not ask you to run any risks with your throat.

"But I will say this. We shall not be afloat until Summer, and, as we shall be in a warm climate, perhaps the bad effects will not be so pronounced."

"No, I think so myself," the old actor admitted. "It may even do me good. I will doctor up in the meanwhile. And I realize that if I do not go, my daughters cannot. I would not like to have them miss this fine opportunity."

"Oh, Daddy! We wouldn't go if it harmed you!" Alice cried.

"Oh, I dare say I can manage," her father replied. "The new treatment I am taking seems to agree with me. Who knows? Perhaps, when it comes time to sail, my throat may not trouble me at all."

"Let us hope so," Alice broke in. "I do so love the water, and the Southern sea will be a dream!"

Perhaps if Alice could have looked ahead, and seen what lay before her, she would not have been so enthusiastic in anticipating the future.

Mr. Pertell saw that the other plays under way in the studio were running smoothly, and then prepared to take Mr. DeVere, his daughters, and the old sailor over to Erie Basin, to inspect the Mary Ellen, as she lay in her slip, being refitted for another voyage -- her last -- for she was to rest beneath the waves when she had played her part in the moving picture play.

"I wish I were going with you," said Russ Dalwood, as Ruth passed him where he was having a moment's respite from grinding away at the crank of a camera.

"I wish so, too," she answered, in a low voice.

"But I've got to stay here, and grind away at this film," he said hopelessly.

"We'll see you to-night," she called to him, as she went out.

Paul Ardite waved to Alice as she "twinkled" her fingers at him. Paul was in a cowboy costume, playing a scene in the cowboy story, which seemed to be giving more and more trouble as it proceeded.

"This is the fifth time we've done that act," Paul called to Alice in an aside as she passed. "And all because Mr. Bunn is so fussy. They'll take him out, if he isn't careful. Where are you going, Alice?"

"Over to see Mary Ellen."

"Who's she? A new actress?"

"Yes, she's a 'she' I suppose, and she's going to have a big part in a drama. I'll tell you about it later."

The Mary Ellen certainly did not present a very trim appearance as the little party went aboard her at the dock in Erie Basin. The decks were cluttered up with an assortment of ropes, planks, casks, boxes and other things, so that it was impossible to move about without great care. On coming in sight of the craft Jack Jepson's face wore a look of expectancy.

"She might be the same Mary Ellen that I was on," he said.

But when he saw that the craft had three masts, whereas the ship where the mutiny had occurred boasted of five, Jack shook his head.

"She isn't th' same ship," he murmured.

Yet as he stepped on deck he gave a start, and an exclamation escaped his lips.

"What's the matter?" asked Alice, who was near him.

"Well, Miss, you may think it strange," he said, "but if I had my eyes shut, I'd say I was on my old ship -- th' Mary Ellen I was tellin' you about."

"But she had five masts, and this one --  -- "

"Yes, I know, Miss Alice. But, masts or no masts there's somethin' about this craft that's strangely familiar. I'm sure I've been on her before, and yet -- no, it can't be -- three masts can't make five, no matter how you count."

"Well, this is the ship," said Mr. Pertell to his guests. "This will be our home when we get her fitted up in ship-shape. I don't know much about such things myself, so I've given Captain Brisco full charge. He is to get her in readiness."

"Well, if you were to ask me I should say it would take the greater part of a year to get this in ship-shape," said Ruth. "I never saw such confusion -- never!" and she gazed about the deck.

"Why, Miss, this isn't anythin' -- nothin' at all!" cried Jack Jepson. "With a few of my old shipmates I could get this craft ready for a voyage in half a day -- that is, if she's all right below th' water line," he added as an afterthought.

"I'm trusting all that to Captain Brisco," said Mr. Pertell. "He was recommended to me by the ones from whom I purchased this boat. I think he will have everything in ship-shape for us in time."

As they stood looking about the deck a man came up from below. From his appearance he was unmistakably a sailor, and one in authority. He issued several orders, on hearing which a number of men bestirred themselves, and then, catching sight of the little party, he called out in rough tones.

"Come now! What's this? No visitors are allowed on board here. Get ashore at once!"

"Hello, Captain Brisco!" called Mr. Pertell. "That is, if that's the proper nautical greeting."

"Oh, Mr. Pertell. I didn't recognize you," said the commander of the Mary Ellen. "I beg your pardon! Won't you walk this way?"

"We are on a little tour of inspection," the manager went on. "These are some of my principle moving picture actors, and I want them to get familiar with the ship. And, Captain Brisco, this is an old salt who will be with us. He is to be second mate, I believe. Jack Jepson, let me present you to Captain Brisco."

A strange look came over the old salt's face. He stepped forward and burst out with:

"I guess I've met Captain Brisco before, but that wasn't his name -- then!"

Captain Brisco started back as though a shot had been fired near him.



Chapter VII

Jepson Is Worried


For an instant only did the commander of the Mary Ellen show signs of perturbation. He recovered himself with an effort, hardly obvious to the moving picture girls who were watching. It was as though a cloud had passed over the sun so quickly as to give an observer no time to glance up and see it, before the shadow was gone. Then Captain Brisco smiled.

"I think you've made a mistake, my man," he said, with the air of one used to commanding. "I'm sure I don't know you, whether or not you think you have had the pleasure of my acquaintance. How about it?"

He turned a sharp look on Jack Jepson, and the latter faltered.

"Well -- well, maybe I am mistaken," he said slowly. "But I sure did take you for an old shipmate of mine. I sure did -- an old shipmate," and he spoke the words slowly.

"For instance -- who?" asked Captain Brisco, and the words seemed to come out like the closing of the jaws of a steel trap.

"Oh -- er -- you wouldn't know if I told you," said Jack. "I guess I was mistaken," he added.

"And I'm sure of it," Captain Brisco said, coolly. "I don't know many in these parts, for I've been away for some time. And -- er -- who might you be?" he asked, with more of that commanding air.

"This is the sailor who will be one of your mates on our little trip," explained Mr. Pertell. "You said you would need officers, even for a short voyage such as we intend making, so I picked up Jack Jepson. Do you think he'll do?"

"Depends on how much he knows of navigation," was the sharp answer.

"Oh, I have my certificate," Jack answered. "If you want t' see it I have it --  -- "

"Never mind now," interposed Captain Brisco. "There are a thousand and one things to do, and nothing seems to be going right. Lay aloft there, some of you!" he cried to a group of men. "Get those halyards reeved and straightened out. Think we're going to lie here all Summer? Lively now! I think I could use you, if you've any knack of handling men," he added in lower tones, turning to Jack. "It's slow work, getting fitted out."

"I could come any time," Jepson answered, and Alice noted that the old sailor gazed furtively now and then at the captain. It was as though he wanted to impress his memory with the face of the commander. "I'm over in Sailors' Snug Harbor," Jepson went on, "I came over to do some actin' --  -- "

"Yes, this play acting business is new to me, too," said Captain Brisco. "But I suppose I can get used to it. Seems rather queer to go to all this work and expense," he went on to Mr. Pertell, "just to fit a schooner out, and then sink her. It's a waste of good money, I should say."

"We'll get our money back, never fear, if the film turns out all right," said Mr. Pertell. "Now how are you coming on? That's what I came to see. I want some of my principal actors to get familiar with the ship, so I brought them down. I started with Jepson, up in the studio," he added in a lower voice, for the benefit of Captain Brisco, "but he balked, I'll tell you about it later. He can stay and help you if you like."

"Well, I probably can use him," the commander said, as he looked at Jepson, who was wandering about the deck with a curiously abstracted air.

"Sort of funny thinking he knew you, wasn't it?" commented Mr. Pertell, while Alice, Ruth and Mr. DeVere looked on with interest at the various activities connected with getting the Mary Ellen ready for sea.

"Oh, not at all queer," answered Captain Brisco, quickly. "I have commanded so many men and ships in my day that I must be familiar by name, at least, to hundreds of sailors. But I never saw this Jepson before. However, he seems to be a good, honest soul."

"Too honest, by far!" laughed Mr. Pertell. "He wouldn't even pretend to take some false papers to carry out a film idea. Said he'd been in enough trouble over being falsely accused in a mutiny!"

"A mutiny!" exclaimed Captain Brisco. "A mutiny!"

"Yes. Why, is that remarkable?" asked the manager, for Captain Brisco seemed startled.

"No, oh, no! I don't know as it is. I was only thinking if he was given to starting mutinies, he wouldn't be a safe man to have on board here."

"Oh, you needn't fear for Jepson," the manager said. "He was innocent in that mutiny affair, I believe. But now as to details. I want to consult with you in regard to certain matters."

And while the captain and manager sought a quiet corner, where they might converse, and go over the plot of the great marine drama, Alice and Ruth wandered about the ship. The sailors who were fitting her out looked curiously at the girls as they went to and fro. Mr. DeVere found a sheltered spot where he said he would wait until Mr. Pertell was finished with the captain.

"Does your throat pain you much?" asked Alice solicitously.

"Oh, not as much as I expected, coming so near the water. I think it will be all right. Don't worry."

"Isn't it perfectly wonderful, to think we're going to be on board this schooner!" exclaimed Alice to her sister. "And are we going to sleep here and eat here, Jack?" she asked, as the old sailor came toward them.

"Well, Miss, if you goes on a voyage you can't walk off th' ship whenever you want to, you know, to get a berth, and some grub. I mean something to eat and a place to sleep," he quickly translated. "You has to stay right on board until the voyage ends."

"Oh, and could we see where we sleep?" asked Ruth.

"The staterooms? Yes, of course," said Captain Brisco, who with Mr. Pertell came forward just then. "Jepson, take the ladies below. If you're a sailor you don't need to be told the way."

"No, sir," was the respectful answer. Jack seemed to have acquired new dignity since coming aboard; and it was noticeable, a little later, that he took more pains with his talk, being more grammatical, and pronouncing his words better, as befitted a mate.

"And I want to see where they do the cooking," remarked Ruth. "What is it they call it -- the alley?"

"The galley," corrected Alice. "Don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes, so it is. What a funny name for a kitchen."

"This way," directed Jack, as he started for the companionway. Meanwhile Mr. Pertell and Captain Brisco having settled on certain details, called Mr. DeVere into consultation, since that actor was to have a prominent part in the scenes that would take place aboard the ship.

Jack Jepson led his two pretty charges below, where some men were also at work. They inspected the sleeping quarters, the galley and other parts of the ship. Then, at the suggestion of Alice they penetrated to the men's quarters -- the forecastle, or "fo'cas'l," as Jack pronounced it, sailor-fashion.

As they passed two carpenters doing some "patch-work," Jack paused and looked closely at what they were doing. Suddenly he turned to Alice and asked:

"Is this craft to make a voyage all by herself?"

"A short one -- yes," Alice answered, for she had looked over the scenario. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothin' -- nothin' -- ," answered Jack Jepson. "Only, oh, well, I s'pose it's all right," he went on. But as he led the way forward Ruth noticed a look of worriment on the face of the old sailor. It was so evident that it startled her -- the more so as she heard him murmur:

"Going all by herself; eh? Well, she certainly needs a consort."



Chapter VIII

Hard Work


Ruth took advantage of the first opportunity to question Sailor Jack Jepson. The memory of that look on his face haunted her. But it was not until they had come from the Mary Ellen that Ruth found her chance.

While on board, arrangements had been made for taking some of the preliminary scenes of the marine drama, and Mr. Pertell urged Captain Brisco to hasten, as much as he could, the preparations for the voyage.

But finally, when Alice and her father had gone on ahead, walking with Mr. Pertell, and were deep in a discussion about a certain scene, Ruth found a chance to ask:

"Didn't you like what you saw downstairs in the Mary Ellen, Jack?"

"Downstairs, Miss?" the sailor questioned, a puzzled look on his face.

"Or whatever the right sea-term is for under the deck?" she went on.

"Oh, you mean below."

"Yes, didn't you like what you saw below?" asked Ruth.

"What do you mean, Miss?"

"Well, you didn't seem altogether pleased. I don't want them to hear," she went on, motioning to her father and sister, "but you looked worried. Was anything -- wrong?"

"Wrong? No, Miss, not exactly wrong. But some of them fellers didn't seem to know their business in repairin' a ship, that was all. But we aren't goin' on much of a voyage, so I don't s'pose it matters -- much."

"But we are going on a pretty long trip, and for a time we'll all be alone on board the Mary Ellen, some distance from land," Ruth said. "I know, for I've read the outlines."

"Is that so, Miss? Why -- I -- I didn't exactly know that. I wonder if I'd better --  -- "

Before Jack Jepson could continue Mr. Pertell turned back and called:

"Oh, I believe I forgot to tell you people, but we are also to have a motorboat in connection with the Mary Ellen. A big, powerful gasoline craft, she is, called the Ajax. She'll follow us, part of the time, for some of the pictures have to be taken from a distance, as she trails along at the stern. We'll have plenty of time for rehearsal, though."

"Ah, a motorboat to follow us. Then there isn't so much danger," said Jack Jepson, and he seemed talking to himself.

"Danger!" exclaimed Ruth. "What do you mean by that?"

"Danger? Did I say danger, Miss?" he asked, and again Ruth was surprised at the strange look on his face.

"You certainly did say it," she replied.

"Well, I didn't mean it," he said, though he spoke with an obvious effort. "I meant it would be much more company -- company for you folks as aren't used to sailin' the seas. That's all, Miss. Oh, no, there's no real danger -- that is there won't be to you, as long as old Jack Jepson can ward it off," he murmured under his breath.

The little party went back to the studio, and, after lunch, some of the easiest and less important scenes in the marine drama were rehearsed. Sailor Jack soon understood what was wanted of him, and did very well. Ruth and Alice took pleasure in coaching the honest, simple old salt. His too-conscientious scruples about doing a seemingly wrongful act were overcome when it was explained to him, and he went through the scene in the studio shipping office very well.

"And that will be all you'll have to do for a few days," Manager Pertell told him. "You will not be needed to take part in any scenes until we get ready for the second act. Meanwhile you had better arrange to stay aboard the Mary Ellen, while she is in the Erie Basin, and help Captain Brisco."

"That I will! Aye, aye, sir!" exclaimed Jack. "And it'll be a relief to be where I can feel the heave of a deck, even if the craft is anchored, and to smell the real salt water again. I'll go aboard as soon as I can get back to the Snug Harbor, and stow my dunnage in a bag."

He really seemed delighted to make the change, and the worried look left his face, though Ruth could not forget the shadow it had cast. What did it mean? She asked herself this over and over again.

Meanwhile there was hard work for the moving picture girls and Mr. DeVere. A company engaged in the making of films does not content itself with merely producing one big play. There are any number of small reels that are needed, as "fillers." Some of them are called "split reels," meaning that there are two plays, or sketches, on each one. And in the intervals of going through scenes in "Out on The Deep," or rehearsing for them, Ruth and Alice took part, with others of the Comet organization, in the making of many pictures.

Several weeks went by in this way. Spring was gradually turning into Summer, to the delight of the girls, who loved the outdoors. Of course they loved Winter, too, for they had many outdoor scenes to take part in then, since snow effects are always easy to photograph.

"But Summer is the best!" cried Alice, gaily dancing about the studio, after she had finished in a little comedy scene, one day.

"I think so, too," agreed Ruth.

"And when we get out on the deep blue sea," the younger girl added, "it will be ideal. Oh, I can hardly wait for the Mary Ellen to start on her last voyage. Isn't it too bad she has to be sunk?" she asked.

"Yes, it is rather tragic," agreed Ruth. "I hope we get far enough away when she takes her last plunge beneath the waves," she added with an involuntary shudder.

"Oh, trust Captain Brisco for that," Alice said.

"I had rather trust -- Sailor Jack Jepson," murmured Ruth in a low voice.

Meanwhile work on refitting the schooner had gone on apace. The moving picture girls, and their friends, had paid several visits to her, and found Captain Brisco, Jack Jepson and the others hard at work making the vessel a semblance of her former self.

"She's an old tub," said Jack to the girls, "but she's in better shape than she was when you were here afore, Missies."

And indeed the Mary Ellen did seem so. A new coat of paint added as much to her appearance, as a new dress and hat does to a young lady, though Mary Ellen could no longer be classed as young.

Then came a day when many members of the theatrical company, including Jack Jepson, who now enjoyed that distinction, were taken down to the seacoast, some distance from New York. They went in a tug specially hired for the occasion.

"Some of the scenes of the marine drama take place on the seacoast," explained Mr. Pertell. "I want to get them now, when we have the chance. I need a rocky shore, and this is the nearest one we can reach. Get ready now. We have rehearsed these scenes, you remember."

They were not easy scenes, and, even though they had been gone over in the studio, when it came to actually going through them on the beach, one difficulty after another arose.

In the first place it was a raw, windy day, and there was a pretty high sea, dashing up among the rocks of the shore, and sending a spray over toward the cameras.

"I can't do anything from this point!" finally complained Russ Dalwood, who was at the machine. "I've spoiled about a hundred feet of film now. We'll have to get around that point."

"All right," agreed Mr. Pertell, "but the scenery isn't so good there."

But when one difficulty was disposed of another one was found. Mr. Bunn made trouble when he was asked to do a certain "fall" in the water. He complained that he did not want to spoil his tall hat.

"Oh, you and your tall hat!" impatiently exclaimed the manager. "Go on with that scene, I tell you!"

"But I -- er -- I -- " expostulated the old actor.

Before he could make further objection a mist of heavy spray dashed over him, thoroughly wetting his beloved hat.

"There!" cried Mr. Pertell. "Your tile is spoiled anyhow, now go on and fall in. It can't get any wetter!"

"Oh, what a life! What a life!" groaned the "Ham" actor, but he went through the "business." Perhaps he realized that other engagements were not any too plentiful for men of his talent.

Nor did Ruth and Alice have an easy time. They had to scramble over rocks, they had to escape from smugglers, they had to hide in caves, and once Alice had to fall down on the rocks, and pretend to be hurt. It was a very real fall, too, and she did not have to make much of a pretense at limping.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" exclaimed Paul Ardite, hastening to her side. "Shall I carry you?" he asked eagerly.

"No indeed. I'm all right. I just --  -- "

"Keep back there, Paul! Keep back!" cried Mr. Pertell. "Don't get in range and spoil the picture. That's fine, Miss DeVere. It's very natural -- that limp!"

"It ought to be!" murmured Alice, biting her lips to keep back an exclamation of pain. "It's real enough, especially the pain."

Moving picture acting is not all as easy as it seems.



Chapter IX

The Rising Tide


"Well, that's very good, so far," said Mr. Pertell, when there came a lull in the taking of the preliminary scenes of the marine film. "A little more life wouldn't have hurt any, but the conditions aren't just the best. It was fairly well done."

"Huh! Fairly well done!" exclaimed Pepper Sneed. "I wonder what he wants, anyhow? I nearly broke my neck scrambling over those rocks, and the skin is all gone from the palms of my hands, and all he says is that it was 'fairly well done!' I wonder what he wants, anyhow?"

"Ha! He vants dot you shouldt altogedder preak your neck, ain't it?" put in Mr. Switzer. "Dot vould be a real funny picture, alretty yet!" he went on in his favorite character of a Dutch comedian. "Preak your neck, Mr. Sneed, und let Russ make der picture."

"Ha! I think I see myself!" exclaimed the "grouch," as he looked for a seaweed-cushioned rock whereon to sit. "There's been a lot of trouble today, but, mark my words, there'll be more before we have finished. That's all I've got to say," and by the sour look on his face anyone would have thought that he rejoiced in his prediction of trouble to come.

"What is the matter now?" asked Ruth, coming up in time to hear part of the discussion.

"Oh, Pepper is sure the world is going to come to an end before the public has a chance to see him in his great rescue act of 'Out on The Deep,' I guess," replied Paul Ardite. "Cheer up!" he added. "The worst is yet to come."

"You're right there," agreed Mr. Sneed, darkly. "There'll be an accident before this day is over, mark my words!"

"Oh, Alice, are you hurt?" asked Ruth quickly, as she saw her sister limping toward her, for the little scene in which Alice had slipped and hurt her ankle, had taken place when Ruth was busy in another part of the play, farther down the shore line.

"It isn't anything," the younger girl answered, bravely keeping back an exclamation of pain.

"Will you be able to go on?" Mr. Pertell asked. He had followed Alice, when the scene closed, and when he had stopped Paul in time to prevent the photographs from being spoiled.

"Oh, yes, I can go on, of course," Alice said, with an effort.

"Because you have some important parts yet to do," the manager continued. He was not as heartless as this sounds. Really he was most kind and considerate. Yet he knew the pictures must be made and the present was the best time. If there were a delay, there was no telling what might intervene.

He knew that Alice herself realized this. She would not give up unless positively unable to go on. The general public little realizes how often those who entertain them do so under positive pain and suffering. Of course moving picture scenes can be postponed more easily than can those in a real theatre. But the general rule holds good for the movies, as for the legitimate. "The show must go on!" That is the watchword of manager and player alike. "The show must go on!"

"I have a bottle of arnica with me," said Mrs. Maguire, the "old lady" of the company. "I heard we were to do some rock-scrambling today and I brought it along. I'll rub some of it on your ankle," she said to Alice.

"Yes, doctor her up a bit," advised Mr. Pertell. "She's too important to be left out of the film, for a while at least. I don't want to force you, Miss DeVere," he went on, "but really --  -- "

"Oh, I'll be able to go on," Alice bravely said. "It is only a little wrench, I think."

Behind a screen of rocks Mrs. Maguire removed Alice's shoe and stocking, and the motherly old lady and Ruth bathed the injured foot. It was not as bad as Alice had feared, and when it was bound up again she found she could use it by "favoring" it slightly. She would not have to take part in a scene for nearly an hour, and she took advantage of the rest afforded by the wait.

Meanwhile Mr. DeVere and some other members of the company were going through their parts. An old fisherman's hut had been found, a little way down the beach, and for a small sum of money the grizzled old salt had agreed to vacate for the morning, and allow the moving picture actors to use his home as the background for several scenes.

"It isn't just what the scenario calls for," said Mr. Pertell, "but we can switch things around at the studio later, to make it fit."

This is a secret of more than one film. The producer takes advantage of things as he finds them. Often, after a film has all been planned, and the pictures are being taken, a chance accident, or incident, will suggest an advantageous change, and it is made on the spot. Later the film is "cut" or added to, so that the change fits in.

Again, on going to the outdoor scene called for in the scenario, the manager may see a background that suits him better than one he intended using. On the spot he will stop and have the act take place there, altering, or adapting, the plot of the story to fit. And many an accident has been turned to good account in making a film. But these are secrets known only to the initiated, and the public that sees the finished picture in some theatre little realizes how much chance had to do with its making.

Scene after scene was "filmed," Russ and his camera associates grinding away at the machines. It was not easy work, for the wind and spray often interfered with the clearness of the picture. But of course that only added to the reality of it when the finished picture was shown.

"Now for that scene on the far rocks," called Mr. Pertell when he had brought to a satisfactory conclusion a difficult part of the drama. "Are you able to go out there, Miss DeVere?" and he looked anxiously at Alice.

"Oh, yes, I'm much better," she answered.

"All ready then!" called the manager. "Russ, I want one or two 'close-up' views in this, so prepare yourself accordingly."

"All right," answered the operator, who was talking to Ruth. He put in a fresh reel of film, and adjusted the camera.

A "close-up" view, I might explain, is one taken with the person, or subject, very close to the camera, so that it appears very large -- larger than usual. For instance, it might be necessary, in some play, to show a certain ring. The hand of the person, with the ring on the finger would be held close to the camera, so that the resultant picture on the screen would show every detail of the ring clearly. You have often seen such views in moving pictures, though you may not have known what they were technically called.

The "rock scene" that was to be filmed now was to take place out on a little rocky group some distance from shore. It was reached by a long, narrow rocky ledge that curved out into the bay. Alice, Ruth and Paul were to be in this picture, and Russ would plant his camera on the rocky ledge, between the actors and the shore.

"Can you walk out there, Alice?" asked Paul, as he stepped along beside her, Russ walking with Ruth.

"Oh, yes," was the answer. "My ankle is much better now. It was silly of me to slip that way."

"You couldn't very well help it," he said.

"That seaweed is very treacherous. I hope there is none on the rocks out there."

"Why?" she asked. "Is the water deep?"

"Rather, so that fisherman said."

"Well, I'm not going to slip," declared Alice.

It was not easy work getting out to the group of rocks on the narrow path of black stone, made slippery by the spray. But they managed it, and finally Ruth, Alice and Paul took their places.

"All ready," called Mr. Pertell, who, with a copy of the scenario in his hand stood back of Russ to direct matters. "You are all supposed to be talking together, and then Paul discovers a sail out on the bay. You register surprise, Paul."

"Very good," answered the young actor.

I might explain that the word "register" is used to indicate that an actor or actress is to depict, or go through, the "business" of showing certain emotions, either by facial expression, or gestures.

"And after Paul sights the vessel, you register hope, Miss Ruth," went on the manager. "All ready now -- begin."

So the filming of that scene went on.

"Very good," complimented the manager. "Just a little more force there, Paul. Wait a minute, Russ. Do that one bit over."

The scene was started over again, but it had proceeded only a minute or so before Russ gave an exclamation of annoyance.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"Spring broke," reported the operator. "I'll have to go get the other camera, and it will take me half an hour to get it in shape."

"Well, we'll have time enough," Mr. Pertell said, with a look at the sun, which is a sort of god to photographers. Without its beams little can be done. "I'll go back and help you," said the manager who used to be an expert operator himself before he rose in the ranks.

"You'll have to wait a bit," Russ called to Ruth, Alice and Paul. "Got to fix another camera."

"All right. We'll stay here," announced Alice. "I don't want to make that trip again with my lame ankle," and she sat down in a niche of the rocks. The others followed her example. The minutes passed quickly in pleasant talk, but presently Paul jumped to his feet. There was alarm in his action.

"What's the matter?" asked Ruth, startled.

"Look!" he said. He pointed toward the shore. The path of rocks was broken midway by a stretch of water. The tide had risen, cutting off the retreat to the beach.



Chapter X

Too Much Realism


"Oh dear!" exclaimed Ruth. It seemed a silly, futile thing to say, but, perhaps, very natural under the circumstances. Ruth arose, and put her arms about her sister, who tottered a little as she stood upright.

"The tide has risen?" asked Alice, and her tone was questioning.

"That's what has happened," went on Paul. "Pshaw! I ought to have kept watch of it. Russ was gone longer than I thought. But here we are now, fairly caught."

"Can't we -- can't we wade back to shore?" faltered Alice.

"I wouldn't like to have you try it," answered Paul, and he moved over closer to the girl.

"Why not?" she asked. "I'm not at all afraid of getting wet, and it can't be so very deep over those rocks -- not yet."

"It isn't that you would get wet," Paul answered. "But the rocks were slippery enough as they were. Covered with water, as they now are between us and the shore, I'm afraid you'd slip off, especially as your ankle will give you a twinge if you twist it."

"It certainly will," agreed Alice. "It hurts worse now. But oh! We must get back to shore!" she exclaimed. "We must!"

"We -- I -- I think I could lift her over the place where the water is," said Ruth.

"But you might both slip in," objected Paul. "And the water is quite deep on either side of this ledge of rocks. You see the ocean washes in against them, and scoops out the sand. So that there is a deep channel, ten feet or more, right alongside of the ledge of rocks. If you fell in there --  -- "

"Oh, don't speak of it!" begged Alice. "I wouldn't mind swimming if I were prepared for it but it isn't exactly Summer yet, and with a disabled foot --  -- "

"It isn't to be thought of," finished Ruth. "But we must get ashore somehow, Paul. The water is getting higher every minute."

"Yes, the tide has just begun to come in," said the young actor. "I should have noticed it before, but I didn't. Now I wonder -- "

He did not finish, but gazed back toward the beach, nearly a quarter of a mile away. To his surprise, and also alarm, not one of the members of the moving picture company was in sight.

"That's strange," thought Paul, but he did not speak his thought aloud.

"Oh!" screamed Alice, so suddenly as to startle them all.

"What is the matter?" demanded Ruth.

"A wave splashed right up behind me! Look!"

The rising wind was sending little waves over the outer edge of the small island of rocks on which the three were marooned. It was another evidence that the tide was getting higher and higher.

"What shall we do?" asked Ruth.

"We must get help -- somehow!" Alice said. Then she looked shoreward, in the direction Paul was gazing, and she uttered the single expression:

"Oh!"

But it was fraught with meaning.

"Why -- they've gone!" gasped Ruth. "What -- what --  -- "

"They'll be back!" Paul interrupted. "Probably Mr. Pertell just thought of some scene he could get, and he took them off down the beach to put them all in it. They'll be back in a little while, and then we can signal to them."

"If -- if it isn't too -- too late!" faltered Alice.

"Too late? What do you mean?" demanded her sister.

"I mean these rocks will soon be covered, and covered deep, too," Alice said. "The high water mark is away above them."

"Is it, Paul?" demanded the older girl. She wanted the statement of Alice disproved.

"I'm afraid it is," the young actor made answer. "And the tide, I am sorry to say, is likely to be unusually high today. The moon has something to do with it. But we will be taken off before then."

"Suppose we aren't?" asked Alice. "The wind and the sea are rising, and if we are swept off the rocks --  -- "

"Don't be so tragic about it!" broke in Ruth. "If we are to go to sea, and be in a shipwreck, even if it is only pictured, we must learn to face perils. And here we are only a little way from shore."

"That's right!" cried Paul. "That's the way to look at it, Alice. There's no danger!"

"That's easy enough for you to say -- you two who haven't a lame ankle," the younger girl said, seriously enough. "But I don't believe I can even swim!"

"There will be no need of that," Paul said. "They are sure to come back and see our plight soon. I can't see what's keeping Russ. He promised to come back as soon as he fixed up another camera. It's very strange."

Later they learned that when Russ and Mr. Pertell got back to the beach, leaving, as they supposed Ruth, her sister and Paul safe on the rocks, Pop Snooks, the veteran property man, discovered a certain nook that would answer for an important scene in the play. Wishing to take advantage of it at once, while the light was good, Mr. Pertell ordered the entire company over there to go through the prescribed "business." He took Russ and the two other camera operators with him, to make sure of getting at least one film.

That is why the beach opposite the rocks where the three were marooned by the rising tide, was deserted just then. For the time both Mr. Pertell and Russ forgot their three friends, or, if they thought of them at all, it was to think that they were perfectly safe, and would come to no harm by waiting a bit.

The tide rose higher and higher. In a few minutes it would lap the feet of the three marooned ones. A desperate resolve came into Paul's mind.

"I'll swim, or wade, to shore," he said, "and get a boat."

"And leave us here?" demanded Alice.

"Yes. There is nothing else to be done," he answered, desperately.

"No, please don't go!" begged Alice, putting a detaining hand on his arm. "I can't bear to be left here."

"But it will be only for a few minutes," Paul said, "and the tide isn't rising so fast that it will sweep you away in that time."

"I know -- but -- don't go!" begged Alice, her voice trembling.

Paul looked at Ruth.

"Perhaps you had better stay," suggested the older girl. "They are sure to come back soon, and -- well, we don't want to be left here."

"All right," agreed Paul. "But I think I could get back with a boat in time."

However, there was no need for him to go. A moment later the moving picture company, headed by Russ and the two other camera men, came around the turn of some sand dunes.

"There they are!" cried Ruth.

"Oh, come and get us!" fairly screamed Alice.

Paul put his fingers to his mouth and sent out a shrill whistle.

It needed only a glance on the part of Mr. Pertell and the others to show the plight of the three marooned ones.

"I forgot all about them!" the manager exclaimed. "Russ -- Mr. Bunn -- Switzer -- a boat -- where's that fisherman -- where's the life-saving station? This is --  -- "

"Avast there! Belay!" came the deep tones of Jack Jepson, who had come out to do certain parts in the shore scenes. "I'll take that boat out and get 'em. Don't worry!"

"Oh, but my daughters!" exclaimed Mr. DeVere, hoarsely.

"And Alice with a sprained ankle!" gasped Mrs. Maguire.

"Don't worry! I'll get 'em!" declared the old salt. "Come on," he called to Mr. Bunn. "You look like you could handle an oar," and he started toward a dory that was drawn up on the beach.

"I -- I can't row!" exclaimed the old actor. "Besides, I might --  -- "

"Yes, he might spoil his dignity," said Russ fiercely in an undertone. "I'll go with you," he said to the sailor. "I can manage a boat!"

"Good! That's the way to talk. Come on!"

A few minutes later Russ and Jack had shoved out the fisherman's craft, and were quickly rowing toward the rocks. The tide was now so high that Paul and the two girls stood ankle-deep in the water that completely covered the rocks.

"Ahoy there! Ahoy!" sang out Jack, as he and Russ sent the boat over the waves to the rescue. "Ahoy! We'll have you safe in a minute!"

"Quick! Get that picture! Film it!" cried Mr. Pertell to one of the other camera men. "I can work that scene in -- somehow."

There was very little that was not "grist" which came to the "mill" of Mr. Pertell's cameras. The film began to unreel and before they knew it Paul, Ruth and Alice were being depicted in the rescue scene, which, when it was projected on the screen, made a series of effective pictures.

There was little real harm done save for wet feet and startled nerves. Sufficient harm, one might think, but Ruth and Alice were beginning to forget they had nerves, so many were the strange acts they were called upon to perform in their moving picture work.

Jack and Russ helped the three into the boat, and rowed to shore with them, where mutual explanations were made, and Mr. Pertell was sorrowfully apologetic for his forgetful share in it.

"And the next time I forget about the tide, when I'm at the shore, I'll fine myself a box of candy to be forfeit to you girls," Paul said.

"Be sure you don't forget to pay the fine," Alice warned him.

As the company had brought along several changes of costume, there were dry shoes for the three marooned ones, and then, as it was too late to finish the scene on the rocks, they went back to New York. Some other day would have to be devoted, at least in part, to completing that film.

In the days that followed, work on the Mary Ellen went on apace. She was almost ready for her voyage to sea. The big motorboat, Ajax, was also being put in readiness. While Jack Jepson and the others were busy at the schooner there were also busy scenes at the studio, where Mr. DeVere and his daughters took part in many film plays. Nearly all the studio scenes for "Out on The Deep," had been completed.

"But we must get that river attack before we start on the voyage," said Mr. Pertell one day. This "river attack" showed one phase of the big marine drama. Ruth and Alice, in company with Mr. Bunn, as an old 'longshoreman, were supposed to be rowed across a river to escape harbor thieves. To get good local color the location of the scene was fixed on the Jersey side of the Hudson river, above the Palisades. Thither those of the company required in the scene journeyed one day.

All went well until the time when Mr. Bunn, rather against his will, was rowing Ruth and Alice toward shore. They were being pursued by some rough men in a second boat. It is needless to say that the "rough men," were also moving picture actors.

"Go on there, Mr. Bunn! Row! Row!" called Mr. Pertell, while Russ, who was with him in a third boat, was making the reel hum in the camera.

"I -- I can't row any faster," said the old "Ham" actor.

"But you must!" the manager cried. "That's better," he added as Mr. Bunn showed a burst of speed.

"Oh dear! If ever I get through this series of pictures I'll quit the game!" groaned the former legitimate actor.

Ruth and Alice "registered" the proper business as the men in the pursuing boat came nearer and nearer. The flight was to continue along the Jersey shore.

"Jump out! Jump out!" commanded Mr. Pertell, giving directions from behind a screen of bushes, where he and Russ, having landed, were now hidden to take the land scenes.

The girls and Mr. Bunn leaped ashore. The "villains" followed, firing blank cartridges.

"Fine! That's fine!" cried the enthusiastic manager, when suddenly, from a road that ran along the shore, there sprang a number of country officers. They had their clubs in one hand and had drawn their revolvers.

"Surrender! Surrender!" cried the leading officer to the "villains," who were pursuing Mr. Bunn and the girls. "Surrender! We've got you covered! We seen you chasin' these parties! Surrender!" and the police rushed toward the actors.

"Keep back! Keep back!" implored Mr. Pertell, leaping out of concealment and waving his hands. But he was too late.



Chapter XI

A Revised Film


Just what idea the local police had in mind when they rushed forward would be hard to say. Evidently, however, they believed they were intent on rescuing the girls from some imminent peril, for the leader of the officers, showing not a little fear, even in the heroic role he was playing, fired a shot into the air, and cried:

"No you don't! No you don't! Nothin' like that there can be done while Captain Wealson is around. Up an' at 'em, men!"

He and his men rushed toward the pursuing "villains," got right in the way of the camera, and proceeded to attack those whom they thought were guilty of some crime.

"There it goes!" cried Mr. Pertell. "The picture is spoiled! It will have to be all done over again."

In obedience to a gesture of despair from the manager, Russ ceased grinding at the crank of the camera.

"That's enough! Stop!" called Mr. Pertell, and Ruth, Alice and the others who were making strenuous efforts (seemingly) to escape, came to a halt. Many times before they had heard that command which meant that something was going wrong, and that they might as well stop at once without wasting effort.

"Why, I wonder what's wrong," said Alice, who had not quite grasped the interruption. "Everything seemed to be going beautifully."

"Perhaps the film broke," suggested Ruth.

"It's the police," Paul said, waving his hand at the officers, each of whom had clutched a "prisoner," and was holding him.

"The police?" echoed Alice.

"Yes, they came in when they weren't wanted," Paul went on.

"Oh, I thought they were part of the picture!" exclaimed Ruth. And so she had. Often, to make a moving picture seem more realistic, a manager will not tell the actors all he has prepared. Thus he gets the element of surprise. Both Ruth and Alice, in this case, thought the local police had been brought into the scene at the last moment to add a touch of reality to the play. But, as it turned out, it was almost too much reality.

"Say, what do you fellows mean, anyhow?" demanded the manager, of the police leader. "What do you mean, I say," and Mr. Pertell strode up with an angry look on his face.

"What do we mean? Ha! That's a good one! Listen to him, boys! What do we mean? Why we mean to arrest these scoundrels, and we've done it, too!" he added proudly, with a wave of his hand toward the persons his men had made prisoners.

"Well, you've made a big mistake," Mr. Pertell went on.

"Mistake! Ha! I guess not!" cried the officer. "We don't make mistakes up here! One of my men seen something queer goin' on out in the river, and come and told me. Then I seen your boats puttin' off, and I knew something was wrong. So I got my forces together, and we waited for these fellows. We've got 'em, too! Every one of 'em!" he added proudly. "Lock 'em up, men!" he ordered. "We'll show these fellows what Jersey justice is like. Take 'em away."

"Hold on!" cried Mr. Pertell, and this time he allowed a smile to show on his hitherto glum face. "You don't seem to understand."

"Oh, I think I do," said the police officer calmly. "I understand a great deal more than you think I do. Come on."

"Wait! I'll explain!" cried the manager. "It's for the moving pictures!" he added. "This is only a pretended attack and pursuit. Ask the young ladies themselves," he said, motioning to Ruth and Alice who were now smiling. Certainly they did not seem to be in any great alarm or distress over their recent adventure. Their appearance must have caused the officer to doubt the wisdom of his course.

"Weren't these fellers chasing you?" he demanded, motioning to the prisoners. "Now don't say they wasn't, for I saw 'em."

"Oh, yes, they were pursuing us," admitted Ruth, "but it was all in the picture."

"The picture?" questioned the officer.

"Yes. We are moving picture actresses and actors," she went on, and her father, coming up then, though he had had no active part in the chase, confirmed what she said.

For a moment the police captain maintained a silence, and then, as he could no longer doubt what was said, since Mr. Pertell exhibited certain credentials, the representative of Jersey justice said:

"Well, this certainly is one on me! We'd better go back, boys," he added to his men, "and we'd better keep quiet about this thing. But I sure thought this was a kidnapping case."

"And you spoiled my picture," groaned Mr. Pertell. "Now we've got to go back to the middle of the river, and do it over from there."

"Hold on a minute!" exclaimed Pop Snooks, who, as property man, was also a sort of assistant manager. "Maybe this will turn out all right after all."

"How do you mean?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"Why, the police. We could have them try to stop the pursuers but get worsted in the encounter, and the roughs could keep right on after the girls. In that way we won't have to waste much film. Just go on with the picture from the point where these policemen came in."

Mr. Pertell thought for a minute.

"That's the idea!" he suddenly cried. "It will make a better picture that way. Say!" he went on to the police officers: "You're in on this!"

"In on what?" asked the captain.

"On this scene. I can use you and your men. You won't mind a little rough and tumble work, will you?"

"What do you mean?"

Thereupon the manager explained that he would turn the police to good advantage, and have them interfere in the attack, only to be outdone by the "villains."

"It's only fair for you to do this, as you came in where you weren't needed and nearly spoiled the picture," the manager said.

Whether it was this appeal to justice and fair play, or because he and his men were anxious to get into a moving picture, was not made clear; but the captain and the policemen consented to do their parts.

There was a little coaching, something of a rehearsal and then that scene went on again, with Ruth and Alice "fleeing" from the pursuers, and the police charging downhill after the men.

Then followed the improvised scene, of an attack by the police, and a repulse by the "villains."

"Good! That's great!" cried Mr. Pertell. "It will be better than I thought it would. This is fine!"

"Ha! Yes, maybe for you, but look at my eye!" cried Mr. Pepper Sneed. "Look at it!"

"Well, what's the matter with it?" asked Mr. Pertell. "It's a little red, that's all I can see." The taking of pictures had stopped for the time being.

"A little red! A little!" fairly howled the grouch. "Say it will be black and blue tomorrow. One of those policeman hit me in the eye with his elbow. It was an awful blow. I shouldn't wonder but that I went blind. Never again will I take part in anything as tough as this. I know I'll be laid up for a week," and with this gloomy thought he limped off, for he had been rather roughly handled in the mêlée.

"I wonder if that's all for us today?" asked Alice, as she saw Russ taking the legs off his camera.

"Why, are you tired?" asked Ruth, solicitously.

"A little, yes. I shall be glad when we get out to sea."

"Perhaps we may have even harder work than this," suggested Ruth, for the race along shore had not been easy. "A shipwreck isn't going to be any society drama, Alice."

"I know," agreed the younger girl. "But I think we shall like it."

Neither of them realized what was in store for them.



Chapter XII

Overheard


"Well, I think this will do," Mr. Pertell announced, as the members of his company gathered on the shore of the Hudson, ready to go back to the larger boat, whence they had come in the two small ones, to depict the pursuit. "It came out better than I expected when I saw that crowd of policemen charging down on us."

"I thought sure we were in for a spell in the lock-up," remarked one of the extra men engaged as a member of the "pursuing villains."

"You had a little extra work, doing part of the scene over again, so we'll give you all a little bonus," said the manager. "We'll get back to the studio now. There are a few scenes I want to make before we start off on our trip to sea."

"How soon do we go?" asked Alice.

"As soon as we can get stocked up. Captain Brisco has a few little repairs to make to the schooner, I believe."

"Do you think the Mary Ellen will prove to be a safe boat in which to go to sea?" asked Mr. DeVere, when he, with his daughters, and the others, were on their way back to New York.

"Why not?" asked the manager.

"Well, I heard Jack Jepson say the schooner was a pretty old one," replied the veteran actor.

"So she is," said Mr. Pertell, "if she hadn't been, our company never could have afforded to buy her just to make a shipwreck of her. But she is perfectly safe for what traveling we shall do. Brisco has assured me of that, and has seen to it. What sort of a yarn was Jepson giving you?" and Mr. Pertell seemed a bit annoyed.

"Well, he merely said that the schooner was a pretty old one," went on Mr. DeVere, "and that she had seen her best days."

"He didn't say that she was unsafe, did he?"

"No, oh, no! Nothing like that!" exclaimed the actor quickly. "I was just wondering about her. I shouldn't like to take any chances you know," and he glanced over toward his daughters who had no part in this conversation.

"Oh, the Mary Ellen will be as safe as is necessary," the manager continued. "Besides we will be in Southern waters after we leave here, and there will be little danger from storms."

"I am glad of that," Mr. DeVere said. "A warm Southern clime will be beneficial to my throat. It does not take kindly to our Northern weather, even at the best."

In the days that followed there was plenty of work for the moving picture girls in the film studio. They had to take part in several little dramas that had to be completed before the sea scenes in the ocean play were undertaken.

"Anything much to do this afternoon?" asked Russ of Ruth as he passed her near her dressing room one day about a week after the episode of the mistaken policemen.

"No, I am free," she announced. "They have postponed that 'In the Slums' and I'm glad of it. I don't care for such characters as I have to assume in a play like that."

"Nor I. I'm off for the afternoon, too. What do you say we take Alice, and go for a little trip to the Erie Basin?"

"To see the Mary Ellen again? There can't be much change since we saw her last."

"No, not exactly to see her, though we could pay a visit if we liked. But you know we are to have a big motorboat follow us in the ocean scenes -- I'm to take pictures from it, in fact -- and that motorboat -- the Ajax -- is over in the Basin, near the old schooner. I thought maybe you'd like to take a look at her."

"I would!" exclaimed Ruth with enthusiasm. "I'll tell Alice. She is disengaged, I know, for I heard Mr. Pertell tell her so."

"I'm sorry we can't go for a trip in her," went on Russ, "but she isn't in shape yet. I have to go over to give some directions about building a platform for setting the camera on, and I thought we might combine business and pleasure."

"It will be a pleasure to go," said Ruth, as she went off to find her sister.

"Tell Paul, too, if you see him," Russ called after her. "We'll make a party of it."

"All right," Ruth answered.

She found Paul and Alice together -- just as she half expected -- and mentioned Russ's plan.

Paul was cast for a role in a little play that afternoon, but he spoke to Mr. Pertell about it, and the manager kindly postponed it, as it was not very important.

So, after lunch the four young people started for the place where the Ajax was being overhauled, not far from the dock of the Mary Ellen. On the way they talked of their plans when they should be at sea. It had been given out at the studio that they would all go aboard the Mary Ellen, which would be headed for the Florida coast. Somewhere off that peninsula, just where had not been decided, the moving pictures would be made, and the shipwreck would take place. The details had not yet been perfected.

"Are you going to travel alone in the motorboat?" asked Alice of Russ.

"No indeed. She is to be carried in a cradle on the deck of the Mary Ellen, and --  -- "

"A cradle!" interrupted Alice. "Whoever heard of a boat being put in a cradle, as if it were a baby!"

"Well, the Ajax is going to be rocked in the cradle of the deep, isn't she?" asked Paul.

"Oh, what a heartless joke!" mocked Ruth.

"Just for that you'll be fined four ice cream sodas!" laughed Alice.

"No, but speaking seriously," went on Russ, "the Ajax will be cradled on the deck of the schooner; that is, the motorboat will be set in two V shaped affairs, called cradles. That's to prevent her rolling off into the high seas."

"Do you think it will be rough?" asked Ruth, with an apprehensive look over her shoulder, as though she already saw a "hurricane in the offing," as her sister laughingly put it.

"Well, you know we have to wait for a storm, to get some of the scenes," Russ said. "Of course the weather often gets pretty bad in these Southern waters, in spite of their peaceful name," he continued, "but I don't suppose Mr. Pertell will venture out far from the harbor in a bad blow. Even a little wind will kick up enough sea to make it look pretty rough in a picture."

"Oh, I don't mind a storm!" exclaimed Alice. "I just love it."

"Oh -- Alice!" cried her sister. "You know you'll be as frightened as I'll be."

"We'll see," challenged the younger girl with sparkling eyes and a flush on her cheeks.

They found the Ajax, after some little difficulty, among a score of other boats, in process of repair.

"Oh, what a big one!" exclaimed Alice as she caught sight of the craft. "I do hope you'll give us a ride in her, Russ."

"Of course I shall, between times of taking pictures," he promised. "What do you think of her, Paul?"

"Pretty fine," agreed the young actor. "Has she any speed?"

"Not much, I guess. It's an old sort of tub, but pretty steady in the water, Mr. Pertell said. That's what I want for taking pictures. It won't do to have her rolling and pitching. Well, let's go aboard, and see how they're coming on."

Russ had a permit to view the craft, and as he was expected to give some instructions regarding the building of the platform, the man in charge of the overhauling work welcomed the four young people.

The Ajax was, as Russ had said, rather a tub, but it was a large, comfortable boat, and was capable of going on quite a cruise. There was a partially enclosed cabin, and many comforts and conveniences. But just for the present purpose, everything was being subordinated to the taking of moving pictures.

"I'm readjusting the motor," the head of the repair gang told Russ, "so she'll start and stop, as well as reverse easily and quickly. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"That's it, yes. You see I can't tell when I'll have to shift, to make allowances for what the actors and actresses will do. There's no telling about these moving picture people," and Russ gave Ruth and Alice, as well as Paul, a laughing look as though to indicate that they were very temperamental, and hard to get along with.

"Are these some of the actor folks?" asked the mechanic who was laboring over the motor.

"That's what they are, and good ones, too!" cried Russ.

"Gee! They don't look it!" was the frank remark, and the two girls broke into peals of laughter.

Paul and Russ showed Ruth and Alice over the big motorboat, and then leaving the three to their own devices for a while, the young camera operator went into details of the work with the head mechanic. Russ was told that the Ajax would be ready in plenty of time for him. He expressed himself as satisfied with the progress made, though he made one or two slight changes in the platform, built on the forward deck of the craft, where he was to stand when he took the pictures of the shipwreck.

"Well, how about those sodas now?" asked Russ of his companions when he had finished. "There's a nice place a few blocks up, and it's about warm enough for ice cream."

"Couldn't we take just a look at the Mary Ellen while we are here?" asked Alice. "Isn't that she, over there?" and she pointed across the basin.

"You speak of that ship as if she were a person," objected Ruth.

"And so she is!" Alice exclaimed. "A ship is always a lady, isn't she, Paul?"

"She ought to try to be, at least," he laughed. "How about it, Russ? Shall we take the girls over to the schooner?"

"Might as well, I guess. It won't take long, and it isn't far."

A short time later the four of them stood at the gangplank of the Mary Ellen. They saw no signs of any men on deck, but they were doubtless below, making the repairs, which must be nearly finished.

"Come on," said Russ, leading the way. "We'll go aboard."

As they stood on deck, looking about them, they saw no one, but the companionway was in plain sight, and they started toward it, intending to go down into the main cabin.

The place was rather dimly lighted, but when their eyes had become used to the gloom, they caught sight of a solitary figure in the forward end of the main compartment.

"It's Jack Jepson," whispered Alice to her companions. "We'll give him a surprise. Keep quiet now. His back is toward me and I'll tiptoe up behind him and put my hands over his eyes. I'll make him guess who it is. He'll think some British suffragette has taken him on that silly charge of mutiny," she went on.

"Be careful," admonished Ruth. "No pranks, Alice."

"This isn't a prank. Keep quiet now."

The old sailor was evidently not aware that visitors were in the cabin, for they had made little noise in descending the companion stairs, and what little they had caused was drowned by the distant noise of carpenters' hammers.

As Alice advanced, the others remaining back in the semi-darkness, they all heard Jack Jepson break into a sort of monologue. He was talking to himself, in fashion something like this.

"It ought to be hereabouts, if it's anywhere, and I'm sure it is. I can't be mistaken. They have cut her down, and made a lot of changes, but they can't fool me. I was suspicious when I first came aboard, and I'm more so every minute. I'm going to find out for sure, while I have the chance. Let me think now."

He leaned up against a bulkhead, while Alice glanced back at her friends in some surprise. What meant the words they had overheard? The old sailor seemed strangely excited, and he was passing his hand over the paneling of the cabin as though in search of something long forgotten, or dimly remembered.

A moment later another step was heard in the apartment, and Captain Brisco entered. He started at the sight of Jepson, though the commander had not yet seen the four young people.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a hoarse voice. The old salt started back as though caught in some guilty act.



Chapter XIII

"All Aboard!"


Ruth, Alice, Paul and Russ remained silent and unseen witnesses of the little scene being enacted before them. It was like some section taken from a moving picture drama, though they could not guess what the plot was, nor what the outcome would be.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Jepson?" asked Captain Brisco, and there was sarcasm in the title he bestowed on his mate, for since he was third in command, having been given the post of second mate, the old salt was entitled to be called Mister.

"I was jest -- jest lookin' -- lookin' -- " Jepson faltered.

"Well, you'd better look forward then," came, the harsh command. "There's plenty to do there, if we're ever to start on this voyage, and of all the --  -- "

At that moment Alice sneezed. She could not help it, and in trying to hold it back, she made more of a commotion than if she had let the sneeze come naturally.

At the sound Captain Brisco and Jack Jepson turned and stared toward the dimness that marked the companionway.

"Who's there?" called Captain Brisco, sharply.

"We just came aboard to see how matters were coming on," said Russ stepping forward and under a skylight.

"But we didn't expect to be welcomed with snuff," said Alice, as she sneezed again. This time Ruth joined her. There was an irritating odor noticeable in the cabin.

"I beg your pardon," Captain Brisco said, as the others stepped closer to Russ, so they could be discerned. "I didn't know who it was. I am glad to see you. That's a paint-remover you smell. It is irritating. I am very glad to see you."

But he did not say it at all as though he meant it. Alice said afterward she thought her sneeze had broken in on the captain's denunciation of the proposed sea voyage.

"It was just as though he were going to say it was the most foolish and nonsensical thing of which he had ever heard," Alice explained. "Oh, why did I have to go and sneeze just then?"

"Did you want to hear what he would have said?" asked her sister.

"Yes, I did. I don't like Captain Brisco."

"You mustn't say such things," Ruth cautioned her. But this was some time later.

Just at present the commander of the Mary Ellen was trying to make his unexpected guests feel a welcome he rather grudgingly extended.

"We have been over looking at the Ajax," explained Russ, "and we thought we'd stop in and pay you a call."

"Oh, yes, I'm to carry the Ajax on deck, I believe," the commander said. "Well, you'll find us all pretty busy here," he went on. "Mr. Jepson, will you kindly go forward and see how the men are coming on with that caulking?"

It was a very different voice from the one he had used when Ruth, Alice and the others had been unseen listeners.

"What about the mainmast?" asked Sailor Jack. "It's sprung, as I told you it was, and unless those stays --  -- "

"I'll look after that!" interrupted the captain. "You do as I tell you, and leave that mast to me."

"But you said that it didn't need -- " persisted the second mate.

"Never you mind what I said!" and the commander's voice was harsh. "I'll look after that. Now you go forward!"

It was more in the nature of a command than is usual between captain and mate. The girls felt this, as well as did the boys. But they said nothing.

"Come along and see how we are progressing," continued Captain Brisco in more genial tones, as Jack Jepson left the cabin.

"Then you are going to be ready in time?" asked Paul.

"Ahead of time," said the commander, boastfully.

"That's good!" exclaimed Russ. "Mr. Pertell is anxious not to be delayed."

"He won't be on my account," Captain Brisco assured the young operator. "A few more details, and we'll be ready for sea. About time, too, for this good weather won't hold any too long down among those West Indian islands."

"Oh, are we going there?" asked Alice. "That will be delightful!"

"I thought we were to go only to Florida," Ruth remarked.

"There has been a slight change in the plans," the captain said. "Mr. Pertell and I decided on it. I believe it is not generally known yet, but there is no secret about it. I told him he could get better results by going a little farther south than merely along the Florida coast, down toward some of the West Indies, and he agreed with me."

"The West Indies," mused Alice as she followed the others about the refinished schooner. "I wonder if we will get near the 'Hole in the Wall' that Jack told about? I'd like to see it, but I suppose a hole in the water is a pretty hard thing to find."

Alice wondered whether she would see the old sailor before they went ashore again. She had taken quite a fancy to him, as had Ruth, and the old salt, on his part, seemed to like the moving picture girls more than any other members of the Comet Film Company.

"I wonder what he was doing all alone there in the cabin?" mused Alice as she hung back a little while the others were examining some changes that had been made in the dining-cabin. "It seemed as though he were trying to discover some secret panel, a passage or hiding place, or something like that. And Captain Brisco certainly was rather brusque about it. I do hope there won't be any quarreling or mutiny aboard the Mary Ellen when we put out to sea."

For a time Alice was a little alarmed, but she soon recovered her composure, and was able to take her part in the conversation.

The Mary Ellen was indeed assuming a "ship-shape" appearance. The litter that had obstructed her decks on the first visit had given place to a semblance of neatness. The craft had been newly painted and she glistened in the sun, her brass work having been highly polished.

"A few more days and we'll pull out of here," announced Captain Brisco, as they went up on deck. "Then I suppose you folks will begin to cut up all sorts of capers," and he smiled indulgently. He seemed to have recovered his good nature, or, rather, perhaps, to have summoned some of it to be used on this occasion.

"Well, we'll leave the 'cutting-up' to Mr. Switzer," said Paul with a laugh. "He's the comedian of the company."

One of the workmen approached and asked the captain some question. It seemed to be about pumps, though the girls did not understand it very clearly.

"You needn't bother to mend those valves," the commander said. "We shan't need the pumps anyhow, and there's no use putting too much time and work on the old hulk. Pertell told me to get her ready for sea so she'd last a reasonable length of time. They're going to wreck her anyhow, you know."

"Yes, I know. But those pumps --  -- "

"Let 'em go!" the commander ordered. "Now about those stays," and he and the sailor plunged into a mass of technical details in which the moving picture girls were not interested, nor, I am sure, would you be, my readers.

In spite of all the work that had been done on the Mary Ellen, she was still far from being a fine ship. Many things were left undone, as they would not show in a picture. As the captain had said, Mr. Pertell was not desirous of putting too much time or expense on her, just to send her to the bottom after a few days' use. Still the craft had to be rendered seaworthy, as some views were to be taken showing her progress down the coast to the Florida Straits.

A little later Captain Brisco was called below, and he took leave of his visitors, saying he would be busy for some hours.

"Well, it's time for us to go," Ruth said. "We promised to meet daddy at dinner," she added to her sister.

Alice assented and looked around, as though in search of someone.

"What is it?" Ruth asked.

"I was looking for Jack, to say good-bye. There he is over there," and she pointed to the old man polishing the brass work of the binnacle in front of the steering wheel. "I'm going over and speak to him," she added.

Jack Jepson had his back toward Alice, and was not aware of her approach. She heard him murmuring to himself, and the words sounded strange to her -- as strange as the first ones she had overheard from him that day.

"It'll never do! It'll never do!" Jack Jepson was saying. "It's criminal wrong, that's what it is. But I'll jest keep a sharp watch, an' at the first sign of danger, I'll -- "

Then he heard the footfall of Alice on the deck, and turned quickly. He smiled at her, and the smile was in strange contrast to his rather ominous words. As Alice knew very little about the sea or boats, she paid no attention.

"I came to bid you good-bye," she said. "We are going back to New York now, but we'll soon be aboard here for a long stay, I hope. My, how nice everything looks!"

"Yes, but it -- it's too nice!" exclaimed Jack.

"Too nice? What do you mean?" she asked wonderingly.

"Oh, well, nothing, Miss Alice. You wouldn't understand. I'm glad to see you. This isn't a mate's work, properly speakin'," he said, as he indicated the box of polish, "but then we haven't started discipline yet. We'll do that at sea."

"And I'll hope we'll soon be out on the deep," voiced Alice.

A week later the entire moving picture company that was to take part in the marine drama assembled at the dock where the Mary Ellen had been refitted for her last voyage. Stores and provisions had been put aboard, the Ajax lay stowed in the cradle on deck, and the members of the company, the moving picture operators and the manager and his assistants, had sent their baggage aboard. There was plenty of extra film.

"All aboard!" called Captain Brisco, and the gangplank was about to be hauled in. "All aboard! We won't wait for him!" he went on, speaking to the first mate and to Mr. Pertell who stood near him.

"Won't wait for whom?" Alice heard Mr. Pertell ask.

"A new hand I hired at the last minute. He's a good navigator, better than Jepson, and that's why I took him on. But he isn't here, and so we'll go without him."

"Not short-handed, are you?" asked the manager, rather anxiously.

"No, not for this voyage. I think --  -- "

But the captain was interrupted by a shout up the wharf. A man, seemingly a sailor, came running toward the schooner.

"There he is now!" the captain exclaimed. "All aboard. Hurry up, my man, or you'll be left."

The man flung himself on the gangplank which was separated from the dock by some little distance. He scrambled aboard, and just then, Alice, standing near Jack Jepson, heard the old sailor utter an exclamation of surprise, and murmur:

"Can that be him? Can that be him -- after these years? No, it can't be!"

"All aboard!" cried Captain Brisco. And the Mary Ellen, in charge of a fussy little tug, began moving away from the dock.



Chapter XIV

Overboard


Alice was so impressed with what she had heard sailor Jack say, that, in spite of the desire to give all her attention to the start of the voyage, destined to be so momentous, she looked first at Jepson and then at the new arrival. The latter appeared to be an ordinary sailor, but there was a commanding air about him, as though he were used to having his own way. But he was sufficiently subservient to Captain Brisco, saluting the commander in formal fashion.

"You're late!" growled Captain Brisco.

"Yes -- couldn't help it," was the almost cheerful answer. "You knew I wouldn't be left though, didn't you?"

"Well, I wasn't sure of it," Alice heard the captain answer. "Get below, and then we'll talk later."

Alice turned to see how Jack Jepson was taking this. The old salt seemed to be listening intently, but he had his back turned.

"He knows that man who just came aboard," decided Alice, "and there is something queer about it all. In fact there is something queer about this vessel and Captain Brisco. I feel as though I were in the midst of a mystery. I'm going to see if I can't solve it."

That was Alice's way. She always did like to solve puzzles, from the time when she was a small child, and she went at this one in much the same way as had been her habit in the case of the simple ones in the juvenile papers she took when a little girl.

"There's something between Captain Brisco, Jack Jepson and this new man," Alice decided. "Jack is afraid of being recognized, and yet he wants to make sure who this new man is. Can it have anything to do with the mutiny, I wonder?"

It was a question she could not answer just then. She resolved to be on the watch, to look and listen, without saying much, until she had in her mental grasp some of the loose ends of the puzzle.

Ruth was some distance off, talking to her father. Mr. DeVere, in spite of the warmth of the day, had a light silk scarf about his throat, which had pained him during the night. The other members of the company were scattered about the schooner which was being towed out to sea. Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon were waving to some young men who had come to see them off. Mr. Wellington Bunn's face wore a glum look. Perhaps he saw no chance of doing anything with his favorite role of Hamlet in this marine story that was soon to be enacted.

Alice heard Jack muttering to himself. She could not catch all the words, but she heard him say:

"Yes, it must be the same one! He hasn't changed much -- not as much as I have. He won't know me. But what am I to do?"

The old salt's musings, however, were cut short, for Captain Brisco called to him.

"I say there, Mr. Jepson," ordered the commander, "will you go forward, and see how the bitts are standing up under the strain of that hawser? I don't want them to pull out, and they're none too strong. Lively now!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" dutifully answered the second mate, and he shuffled off along the deck, while Captain Brisco and the new arrival went below, being, apparently, on very friendly terms.

"And that is another queer part of it," mused Alice. "That new man is supposed to be a common sailor -- he must be, as all the offices, from captain down, are filled. And yet Captain Brisco treats him as an equal. I can't understand it."

None of the others of the moving picture company appeared to find anything odd in the reception of the man who had almost been left. In fact, save for Alice and Jack Jepson, no one paid any attention to him. As the captain and the new man whom he had addressed as "Hen Lacomb" went below, the attention of Alice was taken by Ruth.

"Don't you think, dear," her sister said, "that we had better get our possessions in order. I understand that some pictures are to be taken aboard the schooner here, and we will want to get our costumes out where we can easily reach them."

"I suppose so," murmured Alice. "But I wonder who he is?" she added, half unconsciously.

"What in the world are you talking about?" asked Ruth in some surprise. "Do you mean that young man who was waving to Miss Dixon?" for a certain youth seemed very loath to bid farewell to the former variety actress.

"Yes. Who is he?" asked Alice, accepting this chance to get out of answering, though what she had meant was the identity of the mysterious Hen Lacomb, and not the youth on the dock.

"I've seen him before," Ruth said.

"Who?" asked Alice quickly, her mind still intent on the mystery.

"Why, Alice, how odd you are! That young man of whom we are speaking, to be sure. I mean I've seen him around the studio. He seems to be quite impressed by Miss Dixon."

"Yes," said Alice, vaguely. "Well, let's go below," she suggested. "You notice how nautical I'm getting," she went on.

"Forgetful you mean," supplemented Ruth. "Well, anyhow, we have fine weather for the start."

The schooner was well out from the dock now, and the pilot was in charge, so there was nothing for Captain Brisco to do for the present. He had gone to his cabin, and the stranger, or, rather, Hen Lacomb, to give him the name bestowed on him, was with the commander.

"I wish I knew what they were talking about," said Alice, and, without intending to do so, she spoke aloud.

"Who?" asked Ruth. "Really, you are saying the strangest things this morning, Sister mine!"

"Oh, I was thinking -- thinking --  -- "

Alice was rather at a loss for words to explain.

"You must have some of your new roles on the brain," went on Ruth. "I know I've been doing a lot of thinking over mine. They are nearly all nice ones, I'm glad to say, but I don't like the parts we have to take in the shipwreck. Fancy having actually to jump into the water."

That was one of the things required, according to the scenario.

"There's no danger," Alice said, as she and her sister reached the stateroom they were to share.

"Oh, but think of sharks in those Southern waters!"

"I'm not going to think of them," declared Alice. "Besides, we shall be in the water only a short time, and the motorboat will pick us up. It will be nice and warm."

The plan of the shipwreck included the jumping overboard of some of the company, and their rescue in small boats, or by the motorboat Ajax, that would follow, with Russ in it taking the moving pictures of the "thrilling scenes."

"Well, that doesn't come until toward the end," Ruth remarked, "so I'm not going to think about it until then. Now let's unpack."

Ruth and Alice had comfortable, if rather restricted, quarters in a small cabin containing two bunks. Their father was near them, and the other members of the company had rooms scattered about. The ship's crew, of course, berthed forward, and the two mates, of whom Jack Jepson was one, were quartered with the captain. Alice wondered what would be the standing of Hen Lacomb.

She learned a little later when she saw him taking his bag "aft." That meant he was to be treated as an officer. There is all the difference in the world on a sailing ship, whether a man bunks "forward" or "aft." In the latter case he is either an officer or a passenger, and in the former case he is classed as a member of the crew, a "foremast hand," and, as such, has no authority.

"Hen Lacomb is evidently someone in power," decided Alice, though she said nothing to her sister or father, or even Jack. She managed to learn, by judicious questions, that Hen, as she began to think of him, was a friend of Captain Brisco, and a sort of passenger-helper on the Mary Ellen.

And now that the voyage was really started, those who were to take part in the play began to consider their roles.

In brief the plan was this. The schooner, under her own sail, would proceed to the warm West Indian waters and clime, and there, when suitable surroundings were found, the taking of the main scenes in the big drama would begin.

I shall not weary you with an account of the trip down. In spite of her age, the schooner proved a good sailor, for she had been well refitted, even if she was to be wrecked. Day after day passed and the sun shone warmer as they came farther and farther south.

Some few scenes were filmed aboard the craft, but there was not much work for anyone, and the time was most enjoyable. Even Mr. Sneed, the "human grouch," consented to smile, now and then.

They passed Key West, but did not dock, and kept on. Alice wondered if they would come near the "Hole in the Wall," but she did not like to ask, for fear of making trouble for Jack. She did not know how much of his story he wanted known to those aboard the ship.

It was a warm, sunny day, and Mr. Pertell had announced that he would begin some of the more important scenes of the drama in a short time. The Mary Ellen was plowing through the blue waters, bending over under a good wind. Nearly all the members of the company were out on deck, under awnings. Alice saw Jack Jepson at some work on the port rail, and noticed Hen Lacomb and the captain stroll toward him. The two latter seemed to converse for a few minutes, when suddenly there was a heavy lurch and roll to the craft.

"Mind your helm there!" sang out Captain Brisco angrily to the steersman. At the same time there rang out a cry from Hen Lacomb.

"Man overboard! Man overboard!"

Alice, startled, leaped to her feet. Jack Jepson had disappeared!



Chapter XV

"Sail Ho!"


Alice DeVere was not an ordinary sort of girl. She may have been, once, but that was before her advent in moving pictures. There had been times when a sudden emergency would cause her to feel faint, if not actually to succumb to that interesting ailment, which is so useful, especially in stories and books.

But Alice, who was the nearest to the scene of what had just happened, neither fainted, nor became unduly excited. She had seen too many emergencies in the work of taking moving pictures to become "rattled," which is not used in a slangy sense at all, but merely to indicate that one's nerves vibrate too rapidly. Consequently, after her first scream, Alice was almost as calm and collected as could be expected of a veteran sailor.

"Man overboard!" Alice cried, echoing the shout of Hen Lacomb, who, she noticed, after his first hesitation, began lowering a boat, or trying to, for it needed two at that task.

"I'll help!" cried Alice rushing to the aid of the strange man who seemed so friendly with Captain Brisco.

"Oh -- you --  -- !" he exclaimed, with a swift look at her. Then he resumed the work of loosing the ropes so they would run freely in the pulley blocks of the davits.

Meanwhile Captain Brisco had bawled out an order to the helmsman to bring the ship up in the wind. A sailor had tossed overboard a life-ring, and then came to help Lacomb lower the boat, for Alice found it beyond her strength, eager as she was.

"There he is!" cried Russ, as he rushed to the rail beside Alice. He pointed to the water. Fortunately the sea was smooth, and rising and falling on the waves could be seen the head of the old sailor.

"Oh! Oh!" gasped Ruth, who glided over to the side of Alice. "If -- if a shark should come now."

"There aren't any around here!" declared Russ. He did not know whether there were or not, but he said that to make the girls feel more comfortable. After all, if there were sharks, whatever he said would be of no effect, and it was better to take the best view of it, he thought.

"Lower away!" cried Hen Lacomb, and the boat went down to the water. Two sailors, beside himself, slid down the ropes into it, and took the oars. They cast off the davit blocks, and began rowing toward the bobbing head. Old Jack could swim well, it seemed, in spite of his age. The water was warm, and it was broad daylight, so he was in comparatively little danger -- except from sharks and from the fact that he had on his clothes, which would soon become soaked and hamper him.

But no sharks appeared; that menacing triangular fin which marks them was not seen cutting the water, and no big twelve-foot man-eater was observed to turn on his back in order to bring his curious, under-shot mouth with its rows of keen teeth to bear on poor Jack Jepson.

If a shark had appeared, it would probably have put an end to the plans of Mr. Pertell to have his company give an idea of shipwreck by leaping into the water. No one would have jumped into those waters had they been shark-infested. But, as I have said, none of the tigers of the deep showed, and, a little later, Jack was being lifted into the small boat. They had reached him just when his strength was about exhausted.

"Oh, have they saved him?" asked Miss Pennington, coming on deck very pale. Alice said afterward she had not had time to put on her "war paint."

"I -- I can't bear to look!" faltered Miss Dixon, following her friend. "Tell me dear -- is he -- is he dead?" she asked of Alice.

"Dead! No, of course not!" said Alice, none too politely. "Don't be silly! He just fell overboard, and they got him back again; that's all."

Miss Dixon looked angry and flounced back to her cabin with her chum. Jack and his rescuers were hoisted up in the boat, the other sailors hauling on the ropes, the blocks of which were hooked fast to rings in the bow and stern posts of the rowing craft.

"Well, you tried to leave us rather suddenly," said Mr. Pertell. "Don't go trying that again, Jack -- at least until we finish making the pictures," he went on with a whimsical smile. "You're in too many important scenes to be lost that way."

"I haven't any fancy that way myself," said Jack, who seemed little the worse for his unexpected bath.

"How did it happen?" asked Captain Brisco of his mate, though it seemed as though he had been near enough to have seen for himself.

"Why, I was standing near the rail," Jack explained, "talkin' to Mr. Lacomb, here," and he indicated the strange man, "when, all at once the ship gives a lurch, and -- well, I went over, that's all I guess," and he looked at Lacomb, as though to get him to confirm the account.

"Yes that's right," said the other. "I -- I tried to grab him, but I was too late. I nearly went over myself," he added, grimly.

"Yes," assented the old salt, "you did," and he shot a look at the other.

Did Alice fancy it, or did Lacomb wince, and shrink back? And did a look pass between him and Captain Brisco -- a look full of meaning?

Alice was puzzling over these questions in her own mind, when the helmsman spoke.

"It wasn't my fault," he said. "I was steering all right, but Captain Brisco came and spoke to me and handed me a paper. I took one hand off the wheel, and the --  -- "

"No one has said it was your fault," broke in the commander quickly. "I was giving you a copy of the sailing orders for the day. I wouldn't have bothered you if I had known a puff of wind and a big wave were coming along together, to snatch the wheel out of your grip. But it wasn't your fault. However, no harm is done. You had better get below, Mr. Jepson, and put on some dry clothes. Mr. Lacomb will stand watch until you feel all right again."

"Oh, I'll be all right in a little while," Jack said. "I don't need no one to stand my trick on deck. I'll be back shortly."

He went below, the water dripping from him. The ship was put back on her course. The excitement had not lasted long.

"Too bad you didn't have a camera ready, Russ," said Paul to the operator, when matters were normal aboard the Mary Ellen once more. "You might have filmed a good rescue scene."

"I was too much excited to think about that," Russ admitted. "Besides, we are going to have plenty of rescue stuff in a few days, and this wasn't a particularly thrilling one. Poor old Jack! I wonder how it feels to fall overboard?"

"Not very pleasant," Paul said. He had done it more than once in the interests of the pictures.

Alice, going below for something a little later, met the old salt on his way to the deck again, he having changed to dry garments.

"Oh, are you all right?" she asked anxiously, for she and her sister, as well as Mr. DeVere, had taken a liking to Jepson. "Are you all right?"

"All right, Miss Alice," he replied. "No harm done at all."

"I thought sailors never fell overboard," she said, half jokingly. "I supposed they were so sure-footed that accidents like that never happened to them."

"They don't -- not usual like, Miss," said Jack with that earnest, honest air that characterized him.

"Then how did you come to do it?"

"I -- I didn't do it, Miss," Jack answered. "I didn't fall overboard."

"You didn't?" cried Alice, not noticing the accent Jepson put on one word.

"No, Miss. Not exactly."

He looked around as though to make sure no one was listening, and then, in a hoarse whisper, he said:

"I didn't fall overboard. I was tossed!"

Then, before she could ask him what he meant, he gave her a warning glance, and passed on. Just as he did so, Captain Brisco came along the passage way.

"I was just coming down to see how you were," he said, with a quick look at Alice. "I didn't know you were here, Miss DeVere," he continued, rather awkwardly. "Hope the accident didn't upset you."

"Oh no," she said, glad that it was rather dark, and that the commander could not notice how pale she had become at hearing the ominous words of the old sailor.

"Accidents will happen, but they don't always end so luckily," the captain went on. Jack Jepson had passed up on deck, and Alice, not feeling in the mood for talking, passed to her cabin. Captain Brisco, after a moment of hesitation, went up on deck again, and, had anyone observed him, they would have seen him in close conversation with Hen Lacomb. The two men spoke in low tones.

Jack Jepson was soon himself again, and on duty as though nothing had happened. But he had created a very queer state of mind in Alice DeVere. Her suspicious were increased, and she asked herself a multitude of questions she could not answer. Nor dared she repeat them, even to her sister.

"If he were tossed overboard, who did it?" she asked herself. "And why? The only one near him was Lacomb, and what object could he have in wanting to drown Jack? Oh, I can't understand it! I must ask Jack what he meant."

This was not so easy to do as Alice had expected. She wanted to speak to the old sailor privately, but there was no chance.

That afternoon there began the taking of some of the more important scenes of the marine drama. These scenes were those that had to be filmed on the ship itself, and they kept everyone busy. Besides, Alice did not want to make too obvious an effort to talk to the old salt, as she feared Captain Brisco would become suspicious. There was a nameless mystery in the air that had its effect on Alice. Ruth noticed a difference in her sister, and questioned her about it, but Alice was able to say it was due to the difficult and exacting work of the new drama, and, in part, it was.

Several days passed, and she had had no chance to speak to Jack. Each day was filled with work, or rehearsals, and some of the films had to be taken several times, due to the uncertain footing on the deck of the ship, which produced awkward motions on the part of the actors.

It was on a warm afternoon, with a hint of a storm in the atmosphere, when Mr. Pertell said:

"Well, I guess that will do for a while. This will pretty nearly bring us up to the shipwreck scene. We shall have to make a landing on one of the islands here, to get the proper background."

They were then well down among the West Indies.

"Where do we land?" asked Alice, who was on deck with her sister, standing near Jack Jepson, who was acting as lookout, with a telescope in his hand.

"Well, I'm not particular," Mr. Pertell said. "Perhaps Jack can suggest a good place."

"Well, I know something about the locality here," the old sailor answered, and he looked at Alice with a friendly wink. "I shouldn't want to go ashore at the place where I escaped from after that mutiny," he went on. "They might not want to let me go again."

"No, that's so," agreed Mr. Pertell. "It might not be just the thing, though you could prove your innocence."

"No, I can't! That's the trouble!" cried Jack, who had told his story to the manager. "I don't want to be caught, and put in jail. I'm going to keep away from that island where I was locked up."

"Which one was it?" asked Ruth.

"I don't know the name," Jack said, "but I can tell it the minute I set eyes on it. I don't want to go there. I had enough --  -- "

Jack paused suddenly. The glass went to his eye, and he called out:

"Sail ho!"

"Where away?" demanded the helmsman.

"Two points off on the lee bow. She's a small steamer, and she -- she's flying the British flag!" added the old man.

A strange look of fear came over his face.



Chapter XVI

The Accusation


"What's this?" demanded Captain Brisco, coming on deck just then. "What's up?"

"Sail ho!" repeated Jack Jepson. "Over there, Captain!" and he pointed, and extended the telescope. Alice noticed that the hand of the old salt trembled, though usually he was as steady as the proverbial surgeon.

"Hum! Yes. One of the English revenue ships," remarked Captain Brisco. "It's the first one we've met down here."

"It is a British vessel, isn't it?" asked Jack Jepson, and there was a queer strain in his voice.

"Yes," replied his superior. "What of it?"

"Oh, nothin' sir! Nothin'."

But Alice thought it was something.

"Well, we haven't any need to speak to her," went on Captain Brisco. "We're going to anchor soon."

"Anchor?" asked Jepson.

"Yes, they want to take some of their pictures!" It was evident to Alice, from the tone of voice in which Captain Brisco spoke, that he had little sympathy with the work of the film actors. But he had been hired to do his part with the ship, and must carry out his agreement with Mr. Pertell.

The captain handed back the glass, and went to consult with the manager about making a landing. They were near several small islands, any one of which would probably do as a background for some of the picture-play scenes.

Left to himself Jack Jepson took another long look at the oncoming steamer.

Alice watched him curiously.

"Yes, she's a lime-juicer," he remarked, and something like a sigh escaped him.

"A -- a lime-juicer?" repeated Alice in some surprise. "I thought you said she was a steamer."

"So she is. But we old sailors used to call all British ships 'lime-juicers,' because they used to be the only ones that was compelled by law to carry lime juice."

"Why lime juice?" Alice wanted to know.

"To prevent scurvy, Miss. Lime juice, potatoes or anything like that will keep sailors from the scurvy disease, Miss. They found it out, the Britishers did, and made their ships carry such stuff. Lime juice is easier to stow away than potatoes, and every sailor had to have his share.

"Scurvy is a bad disease, Miss. It's terrible, and though lots of fun was made of the lime juice British ships, they done their duty, Miss. It got so other nations had to fall into line. And, though lime juice isn't as needful as it was, 'cause they have other things that do as well, perhaps, I always think of a Britisher as a lime-juicer."

"I see," murmured Alice. "Yes, I can see the English flag," she went on, as she looked through the glass Jack passed to her. "She is headed right for us, too."

"That's what I make out, Miss. And I wish it was my watch below; I sure do, Miss!"

"Why, you aren't thinking that they may be after you, are you, Jack? After you on that old mutiny charge?"

"They might be, Miss," he said in a whisper, looking cautiously around. "You see that charge isn't dead, and then there's the one of escapin' from an English prison. They might overlook the mutiny, especially as they may not have all their witnesses now -- some of 'em may be dead. But an English prison officer never forgets, nor forgives, an escape, and the law doesn't either. If they was to see me, I'd be taken back to stand the charges ag'in me."

"But how would they know you?" asked Alice. "Besides, it isn't at all likely that anyone on that vessel had anything to do with your being taken into custody on the mutiny charge. That was years ago."

"I know Miss, but they might remember me, even if I have changed a lot. And this is mostly English waters around here. English islands, too. It was somewhere about here I was imprisoned. Before I set foot on land, I'm going to find out if it's English, and if it is, I'm goin' to stay on board. I'm not goin' to take any chances."

"But can't they arrest you at sea, if there should be such a possibility that they recognized you?"

"Not if I'm three miles from land, I think. Still, I may be wrong about that. I wish I hadn't come on this voyage, that's a fact. I don't like the sight of that English flag."

"Don't worry," advised Alice. "There isn't one chance in a thousand that you would be recognized after these years. In the first place, you have changed a lot. And, in the second place, probably the English officers who arrested you, and the others, are in some other part of the world now. Why do you think they may be on that steamer?"

"Well, things don't change down here as much as you might think," replied Jack, as he and Alice watched the steamer coming nearer. "And an Englishman is less likely to change than anybody else, Miss. He'll often stay in the same berth until he dies. So it's likely some of the same officers who were around here when I was arrested are here yet. And they may be on that vessel."

"But how can they recognize you?" Alice persisted.

"Well, if they didn't know me, they might know this ship."

"This ship! Why, this is only a small vessel, and yours was a big five-master."

"I know, Miss, I know," said Jack, with a nervous look over his shoulder. "But here's a secret I haven't told to anyone yet. This may be the Mary Ellen, but she used to be the Halcyon!"

Alice started back in surprise.

"The Halcyon!" she gasped. "How could it be?"

"This way, Miss. They built her over, cut down her length, and changed her so hardly anybody would recognize her. But I knew the Mary Ellen for the Halcyon almost as soon as I came aboard."

"And is that why you acted so -- so queer?"

"Partly -- yes. You see she was first the Mary Ellen and the mutineers named her the Halcyon. Then, when she was rebuilt she became Mary Ellen again."

"But I never knew they could make vessels over," Alice protested.

 -- "Oh, yes, it's often done," the sailor assured her. "This certainly was the old Halcyon, as she was called when the mutineers had her, and anyone who had sailed in her would know it. A sailor's eye can't be deceived. There's others on board as know it, too."

"Others here? Of the mutinous crew?"

"Hush, Miss, if you please! Not so loud! Yes, others who were in the mutiny, but who got off scott free, while I was the one to suffer. But they're tryin' to keep under cover. There's a game afoot, but I'll spoil it if I can -- that is, if this British steamer don't make trouble for me."

Alice's head seemed to swim. She was getting into the depths of the mystery now with a vengeance. What did it all mean? To what did Jack have reference? Could it be that Captain Brisco, and the man with whom he was so friendly, were in a plot?

Alice felt as if she must tell someone. It was too big a secret for her to keep to herself.

One thing seemed necessary. She must rid Jack of some of his fear of being arrested again.

"But if the ship is changed so, how could any of the British officers, provided any are on that steamer, recognize her?" Alice asked.

"I don't know how, but I'm sure they could," said Jack, rather unreasonably. "And you mark my words. They'll see us and in spite of our change of rig, they will want to speak us. A sailor never forgets a ship. Of course there may be no officers on that steamer who would know the old Halcyon, but ag'in, there may be. I'm afeered, Miss."

"Oh, but you needn't be. Mr. Pertell will make it all right even if --  -- "

"He isn't bigger than Johnnie Bull," said Jack ominously, "though Mr. Pertell is a good friend of mine. Ha! Didn't I tell you? There they come right for us, and they're signallin' us to lay to."

It was evident that something had taken place aboard the steamer. A signal flag broke out at her mast, and Captain Brisco, seeing it, exclaimed impatiently:

"What can they want with us?"

"They want to talk, that's evident," said Hen Lacomb, who stood near the commander.

"But what about?"

"We'll soon know."

As the Mary Ellen lay almost motionless on the sea, for she had been brought up sharply, the steamer approached. It was so calm that she could come quite close without danger of a collision. A man, evidently an officer, hailed through a megaphone. Jack dared not desert his place as lookout.

"What vessel is that?" demanded the officer of the British steamer.

"The Mary Ellen, from New York," answered Captain Brisco. "Out on a moving picture cruise. We're in a hurry."

"Better not be," was the exasperating comment. "There's someone here who wants to ask you a few questions."

Another figure joined the speaker, and at the sight of this second officer, old Jack Jepson groaned.

"I knew it! I knew it," he whispered to Alice. "That's the man in charge of the revenue cutter who arrested me years ago. See! He recognizes me! I thought this would happen."

It was evident that something out of the ordinary was taking place.

"Mary Ellen ahoy!" called the second officer. "If you didn't used to be the Halcyon, I miss my guess. And there's a man aboard you I want! There he stands!" and he pointed an accusing finger at Jack Jepson.



Chapter XVII

The Storm


The old sailor seemed to shrink down in his clothes and become smaller. He cast an appealing glance at Alice who stood near him.

"See!" he murmured. "What did I tell you?"

"It may be all right yet," she answered. "Surely after these years they can do nothing to you, especially when you were not guilty."

"Ah, but it's the escape from the prison that hangs over me," he said. "They want me more for that than on the mutiny charge. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Stay here and 'face the music,' as Russ or Paul would say," suggested Alice. "I'll speak to my father, and to Mr. Pertell. You are an American citizen, and --  -- "

But she had no time for further advice. Again came the hail from the steamer.

"Stand by there, Mary Ellen, or Halcyon, as your name used to be," was the sharp order. "I'm going to send a boat aboard you. We want that man!" and once more he pointed accusingly at Jack.

"I don't know what you're talking about," blustered Captain Brisco. "That man is my second mate, and you can't take him from me that way. This isn't war time," and he seemed disposed to protect Jack.

"Don't let them take me, Captain!" the old sailor pleaded. "You know what it means. Don't let them take me away!"

"I won't!" declared Captain Brisco, and for the moment the heart of Alice warmed to him. She fancied she had misjudged him. But as she looked at him, she saw a look on his face that made her doubt. It was a look that made his words seem insincere. And when the moving picture girl saw the captain speaking in an aside to Hen Lacomb, her doubts were redoubled.

"Stand by!" someone on the steamer ordered. "We're sending a boat to take the prisoner."

"This is a pretty how-d'-do!" blustered Captain Brisco. "They're going to leave me short-handed, and just at a time when I'm likely to need every man I can get, too," and he cast an anxious look around the horizon. It had suddenly become quite dark. A bank of clouds, slate colored, and fringed with an ominous yellow, had gathered in the west, and there was a moaning in the air as though a far-off wind were sending a message to those in peril to beware of its breath.

The sea, too, had a glassy look. The big waves rose sullenly, and sank back into troughs, with an oily smooth motion as though they resented being thus confined. It was like the action of some raging beast in leash. There was a curious oppressiveness in the air, too, and more than one found difficulty in breathing.

"What is it? Oh, what is it?" asked Ruth, as she came toward her sister. "I feel as though something terrible were going to happen."

"Something has happened!" Alice exclaimed. "They've got poor old Jack! Isn't it a shame, when everything was going so nicely?"

"Got him!" questioned Ruth. "What do you mean?"

"It's those Britishers! They recognized this ship as the one on which the mutiny occurred. She's been built over -- the ship I mean -- but the steamer knew her -- I mean some officer did. And they're going to take Jack away. You know he told us how he broke out of jail, after he was locked up on an unjust charge. Well, they want him for that, but he doesn't want him to go -- at least he pretends he doesn't."

Alice paused for breath -- she needed it.

"Well!" exclaimed Ruth. "You may understand what you mean, but I don't, my dear. Who wants whom, and who doesn't want whom -- and what?"

Thereupon Alice explained how Captain Brisco had declared Jack should not be taken, and yet how Alice, herself, believed he would give him up.

"But what does it all mean -- that enmity you say Captain Brisco has against Jack?" Ruth asked Alice, for Alice spoke about the time Jack had fallen overboard, and mentioned how the sailor had said he was tossed over the rail.

"I don't know what it means," the younger girl replied. "It is all queer and mysterious, and it's getting worse. But I think there is some secret between Captain Brisco and that Hen Lacomb that Jack has found out, and they're afraid he'll tell. That's why I think they would be glad to see him taken away -- no matter what happened to him. It's all very well for Captain Brisco to say he doesn't want Jack to go, but I believe he's glad this happened."

"Oh, Alice! What a thing to say!"

"I don't care! I believe it!"

All this while preparations had been under way aboard the steamer to lower a small boat, but there seemed to be some delay.

Meanwhile Jack Jepson remained as lookout on the Mary Ellen, though there was no need of him there, for the schooner was now merely drifting, with sails aback, and the steamer, too, was at the call of the wind and currents.

"Come on, mate!" hoarsely whispered a sailor to Jack. "Slip below, mate, and we'll hide you. If they try to take you, we'll stand 'em off. I don't like the Britishers anyhow. I was shanghaied into one of their lime-juicers once, an' I never forgot it! Slip below!"

"No, I'll take my medicine!" said Jack grimly. "Might as well get it done with. This thing has been hangin' over my head a number of years now, and I'll be glad to hear the last of it. It's a terrible thing for an innocent man."

"Perhaps some way may be found for clearing you," suggested Alice. "I'll speak to my father. He knows some prominent lawyers in New York, and they will induce the government to take up your case. Go quietly, Jack, and we'll do all we can for you."

"Oh, I shan't raise a row, Miss, never fear. No good'd come of that, and it would only make trouble. I'll go quietly enough."

"Ha! What is going on?" asked Mr. DeVere, who had been down below. "Has anything happened?"

Alice and Ruth tried to tell him at once, the former eager to enlist his sympathies in Jack's cause. Mr. DeVere promised readily enough.

"Though I can't hold out any hope for you," he said. "I know nothing of law, but international affairs are always slow."

"But I ought to get justice in the end, ought I not?" asked Jack, respectfully.

"You ought, my man, and I'll do all I can for you," said Mr. DeVere.

"Oh, what a pretty sight!" exclaimed the voice of Miss Dixon, as she emerged from a companionway with her chum, Miss Pennington. "Isn't it romantic -- stopping to speak to a steamer at sea?"

"Delightful," agreed Miss Pennington. "I wonder if the captain of the steamer will ask us to tea? It's a British vessel, and Englishmen are so fond of tea."

"Yes, and they are so romantic and good-looking," agreed Miss Dixon. "But perhaps this is only for moving pictures."

"Oh, pshaw! Perhaps it is!" sighed her companion, and the two of them, who had been taking surreptitious glances in mirrors, enclosed in the flaps of their bags, ceased "primping," until they could be sure whether or not there was any object in it.

"What's it all about?" asked Miss Dixon again.

"Oh, they're going to take one of our men, I believe," said Pop Snooks, the property "angel," as the ladies often called him.

"Oh dear! What are they? Pirates?" gasped Miss Pennington.

"No, it's Jack Jepson they're after. Some old charge, I believe."

"Ha! I knew something would happen on this voyage!" exclaimed Mr. Pepper Sneed. "I felt it in my bones all along."

"Good thing you're not disappointed," murmured Alice.

"Oh dear!" sighed her sister. "It's too bad. And I liked Jack so."

"So did I," returned Alice. "But they're a long while sending that boat."

It did seem so, for there were no signs yet, of one being lowered over the side, though Captain Brisco, after the command to lay to, had ordered his accommodation ladder lowered to receive the visitors.

Then came another hail from the steamer.

"Mary Ellen ahoy!"

"Aye, aye!"

"We won't send a boat right away. A hurricane is sweeping up fast, and this is a bad locality in which to be caught," called one of the steamer's officers through a megaphone. "We'll have to get out of here, and so had you better. There's no sea-room here. We'll pick you up later, and don't forget you are in English waters, and subject to our orders. We're going to have that man!"

"Well, if you put it that way, of course I'll have to give in," said Captain Brisco. "I'll wait for you after the blow."

"Well, that's a respite, anyhow, but not a very pleasant one," said Alice.

"No," agreed Jack Jepson, who breathed easier now. "We're in for a bad storm, I reckon. We'll have to make everything snug."

"Attention!" once more came the hail from the steamer, and when Captain Brisco answered, he was ordered to follow a certain course by compass, as being safest.

"Then I can pick you up!" the steamer captain cried as the propellers began to churn the water. The British vessel swept away, leaving Jack Jepson still on the schooner, but under threat of arrest.

Then the forerunner of the storm came, filling the sails of the Mary Ellen, and heeling her over until the lee scuppers were awash.

"Make everything snug!" cried Captain Brisco. "It's coming on to blow great guns!"



Chapter XVIII

Grinding Away


Events aboard the Mary Ellen did not transpire at all slowly. In a comparatively short space of time she had been converted from an old hulk into a good sailing vessel, she had put to sea with a party of moving picture workers, including a sailor accused of mutiny, who had broken jail. She had been stopped by the English ship, and now the old schooner was starting to scud before the blast of a hurricane. For the time being the accusation against Jack Jepson was forgotten.

"Lively now, everyone!" cried Captain Brisco. "When a storm breaks down here, it isn't any child's play. Double reefs in all sails, and two men at the wheel. Lash everything fast, pass life-lines, and passengers keep below."

"Oh, but I want to see the storm!" exclaimed Alice.

"Oh, how can you!" remonstrated Ruth. "It is going to be -- awful!"

And indeed, if the evidence of sky and sea, and the moaning of the wind, were any indication, a great storm was in prospect.

The billows that had been rolling with oily smoothness now began to show little feathery crests of foam, and they were following one another with greater quickness, as if impatient to be at their shattering work.

The wind seemed most ominous of all. It was as though it came from afar off, down behind the horizon line that showed black, with a fringe of angry yellow in the west. A low, mumbling, roaring, moaning wind it was, that whistled mournfully through the rigging of the schooner, and howled down the companionways.

"Oh dear!" sighed Ruth, as she slipped her arm into that of her sister, and started for their cabin. "Come on, Alice. I'm afraid!"

"Nonsense! What of? Nothing has happened -- yet."

"No, but there is going to be a terrible storm!"

"And I just love a blow. I've never seen one at sea, and, as this may be the only chance I'll get, I'm not going to miss it. Stay up with me, Ruth. Don't be like those sillies, and go below," and she motioned to Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon who were scurrying for cover, as the wind and the sea increased.

"Well, I'll stay up a little while," agreed Ruth. "But I -- I'm afraid all the same."

"Nonsense!" cried Alice gaily. "We have a good ship under us. It went through a mutiny, and I guess it can weather a storm."

"That's just the point -- can it?" asked Ruth in a low voice.

"What do you mean?" Alice asked in a curiously strained voice.

"I mean that this is an old vessel, 'made over,' as we would say of a dress, Alice, it can't be as good and strong as a new one would be, and in a storm --  -- "

"Oh, don't be nervous!" broke in Alice. "Here, I'll ask Mr. Blake," and she stopped the first mate who was hurrying to and fro directing the men at their work of making everything snug below and aloft.

"Isn't she safe, Mr. Blake?" Alice appealed.

"Who?" the first mate wanted to know.

"This ship."

"I -- I think so," he said. "Yes, surely," he added quickly. "We will ride out the storm, never fear. It hasn't gotten here yet, and we may only get the outer edge of it. But you must excuse me now," and he hastened along the deck.

"There!" cried Alice. "What did I tell you?" she asked triumphantly.

"Well, I'll stay here with you a little while," Ruth agreed. "Then I'm going below and --  -- "

"Bundle up all your possessions and sit on a life preserver," broke in Alice with a laugh. "Oh, Ruth, you are -- hopeless!"

"Yes, but look at that!" and the older sister pointed to the west. There had been a rapid change. There was more yellow in the clouds now and less blackness, though there was enough of that ominous color too. "Doesn't it scare you, Alice?"

"Not so much, no. Of course I've never been in a bad storm down here, and I don't know what they do to one. But I think we'll weather it, as the sailors say. But I wonder what Mr. Pertell is doing?"

She motioned to the manager who was seen amidships, talking to Russ, the chief camera operator. They were near the big motorboat Ajax, which still rested in the cradle on deck.

Mr. DeVere was also in conversation with the manager and his chief helper.

"Let's go over and see what it is," suggested Alice. "Maybe they are frightened too."

"I wouldn't blame them," murmured Ruth, with a nervous glance over her shoulder at the oncoming storm.

The two girls joined their father and the others. Pop Snooks, the property man, who could make almost anything from a brick wall to a king's palace, on short notice, was called into the consultation.

"I'm sure they're going to do something!" Alice exclaimed, as she noticed Mr. Pertell beckon Captain Brisco to him. And when the girls reached the group they learned what was afoot.

"Why yes, you'd have time for some pictures before the storm gets here," Captain Brisco was saying. "It's evidently going to be slow in breaking."

"And it wouldn't be too rough for the motorboat?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"Oh, no. She's built dory fashion, and bigger waves than these wouldn't swamp her. It's a question though, if your man is game."

"Oh, don't worry about me!" exclaimed Russ Dalwood. "I'll make pictures as long as the light will hold good. How is the boat? Is she all ready to start?"

"All ready to put into the water," the captain assured him. "She has been that way since we reached this locality. What do you say?" he asked the manager. "Shall we lower away?"

"I think so," was the answer from Mr. Pertell. "I want to get some views of the schooner sailing off before the storm. It will be a sort of introduction to the shipwreck that is to come later."

"All right!" exclaimed Russ. "That suits me. I'll get the camera and films ready. I'll need a helper."

"Oh, of course," agreed the manager. "You can't manage the boat and the engine and work the camera too. Grinding away at the film will keep you busy, especially as the water's a bit rough."

"A bit rough!" exclaimed Russ with a smile. "I like the way you say it. But the rougher it is the better effect we'll get on the film. I'll be ready when you are, Captain Brisco."

"All right, I'll have the boat over at once," and the commander gave the necessary orders for lowering the Ajax over the side. This had been provided for when she was cradled, so there was little delay at this task.

"Are we to do any 'stunts,' while Russ is taking pictures?" asked Alice of the manager.

"No, you are just to stand around on deck, and look a bit anxious. You are supposed to be an old-time passenger packet you know, on a long voyage, and you are running away from the storm. We don't want many feet of this film -- just enough to indicate what is to come. The real shipwreck -- that is the imitation of it -- will come later, when this storm blows over. Get on the side where the motorboat will be," the manager directed, "and line up along the rail."

While Russ was "loading" his camera, Ruth and Alice watched the sailors getting the Ajax ready. The engine had been tested, and seemed to work well. Jack Jepson came along with a small keg of water, and a bundle done up in a piece of sail cloth.

"What's that for?" asked Alice.

"Provisions and water," answered the old sailor.

"But they're only going to be away a few minutes," the girl objected. "They won't want anything to eat or drink."

"It's a rule of th' sea," said old Jack, "never to put a boat over the side without provisioning and watering her. You never can tell what will happen on th' ocean. I've seen boats put out just for a little row around, and a fog would come up, and they'd be away nearly a week. And when they didn't have any water or food aboard -- well, Miss, them's not nice things to talk about to ladies," he said simply. And Alice understood.

The storm seemed to be holding off, at least for a time. Far away the dark mass of the British steamer could be seen. The Ajax was soon ready, and lowered to the heaving water.

"Mr. Sneed, you get in and help Russ," ordered Mr. Pertell. "You know something about motor-boats, don't you?"

"A little, yes. But I -- er -- I don't like to get in one when a storm is coming up."

"Nonsense!" the manager ejaculated. "There's no danger! You are going only a short distance away from the schooner, to get some views of her as she rides the waves. It will make a good film, the coming storm, and the waters rising and falling. Get aboard, Mr. Sneed, and do whatever Russ wants you to. He'll be busy with the camera so you will have to steer, and run the engine. The last won't bother you though, for it has a self-starter on and a gear clutch. You'll be in no danger."

Mr. Sneed did not seem anxious to go. However, orders were orders, and members of the company, even Mr. Wellington Bunn, thought twice before refusing Mr. Pertell. So, when Russ came up with his cameras, bringing two in case of emergency, Mr. Sneed was already in the boat, which was rising and falling at the foot of the accommodation ladder over the side of the schooner.

"All aboard!" sang out Russ gaily, as he prepared to descend, his cameras having been lowered to Mr. Sneed by a rope. "Look pleasant, girls, you're going to have your pictures took," and he laughed.

There was an ominous hush in the air now. The moaning of the wind seemed to have died down, at least for the time being, but the waves were higher, the swells were long, and did not break much.

It was lighter, also, though the light was of a sickly yellowish cast. However, it would serve for a few pictures.

"Let her go, Pepper!" called Russ to his actor-helper and the motor whirred, as the Ajax started away from the side of the schooner. Russ, setting his camera up on the platform made for it in the bow, began grinding at the crank, taking many views of the pitching, tossing schooner as it rose and fell on the bosom of the heaving ocean.

"I don't like this!" exclaimed Mr. Sneed, when a dash of spray wet him, as he sat at the wheel. "I wish I hadn't come. I'm sure something will happen!"

"Something sure will, if you don't keep her headed up into the seas," declared Russ. "We'll be swamped, that's what will happen. Steady now. I'm getting some good ones," and he worked away at the camera, while the schooner sailed farther and farther away. Russ wanted to give the idea of distance on the film.



Chapter XIX

Disabled


"How much longer you going to be?" asked Mr. Pepper Sneed, as he saw Russ change slightly the position of the camera.

"Oh, not much longer now," was the answer. "I have about all they'll want, I guess. This is only a sort of 'cut-in' effect, anyhow -- a preliminary to the grand performance that is to come later. Poor old Mary Ellen, we'll soon see the last of her, I expect."

"Burr-r-r!" exclaimed Mr. Sneed as he shifted his helm. "Don't talk that way. It sounds rather prophetic, you know, seeing the last of the ship, and all that, you know."

"Well, I meant that they're going to sink her. You knew that, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, worse luck! I'm to be one of the last to jump over the side, I believe. I don't like it."

"Well, it won't be for long," Russ said. "It will be all over in a few minutes -- I mean the shipwreck proper, though there'll be a lot of rescue scenes, and then the castaways on an island, and all that sort of thing. Put me over a little more to the left, Pepper. I can get a fine view that way, with the light shining on the passengers at the rail."

He clicked away at the camera crank, and then exclaimed:

"No, no! I said to the left. You're putting me to the right."

"Oh, so I am. I was watching that storm. I don't like the looks of things, Russ. I believe we're going to be in for it sooner than they thought."

"It does look as though it were going to burst," Russ agreed, as he looked up from the "finder" of his machine long enough to take a glimpse at the weather. "Mr. Pertell said he'd signal us with a flag when he thought we had enough, but I don't see anything of a signal, do you?"

"No," answered the gloomy actor, who had not been needed in the present scenes. "And I wish I could see it. It's getting too rough out here for me, even if we have a good boat," and he adjusted the gasoline feed to give a little more power to the engine.

"Well, it's getting almost too dark to get any more pictures, anyhow," Russ declared. "We sure are in for a blow. It's coming up fast too. We'd better get back to the ship without waiting for a signal. They may have hoisted one, that we didn't see."

"That's it, I think!" cried the other. "Say, where is the schooner, anyhow?"

Russ, who was taking the tripod from his camera looked up quickly.

"Why, can't you see her?" asked the young operator.

"No, and I don't believe you can, either, nor can your camera find her. She's disappeared!"

"Disappeared? Nonsense!" Russ cried. "It's just that the sea mist has come up and hidden her. It will blow away in a moment. Say, but it is getting rough!"

Well might he say that, for he could hardly keep his footing on the platform where he had stood to make the views. He came down into the half-covered cabin which formed the forward part of the Ajax.

"Well, where is the schooner, if you can see her?" growled Pepper Sneed. "Steer for her if you can sight her -- I can't!"

He seemed morose and angry. Perhaps it was just fear. Russ did not stop to determine that point. The operator took the steering wheel, first standing up to get an idea of his course.

"Say, it is getting dark!" he cried. "Well, we'll have to go it blind. We'll pick up the schooner in a minute or two, I expect. She ought to be right over there," and he pointed.

"Where?" asked Mr. Sneed.

"There," said Russ again.

"Humph! You're away off!" declared his companion. "The last I saw her, and I was headed right for her, she was over there," and he indicated a direction differing from that Russ had shown by at least forty-five degrees.

"I wish they'd show a light!" Russ murmured as he tried to peer through the mist and the gathering darkness. "Why don't they show a light? We could see that!"

"Maybe they don't know we're lost," suggested Pepper Sneed.

"Lost!" cried Russ. "We're not lost! We'll be up to them in a minute or so, but I do wish they'd show a light."

The motorboat Ajax was chugging over the heaving water at good speed, but as far as the eyes of either of her occupants could see, she might have been driving straight into the utter desolation of a vast ocean, for not an object was in sight.

The wind had again taken up that nerve-racking moaning and groaning sound, as of an unseen giant in distress, and the spray from the crests of the waves blew in the faces of the two young men, as they crouched down behind the shelter of the half-cabin.

It seemed as though the storm had begun, had halted in its purpose, or had gone off momentarily in some other direction, and was now headed back, to sweep destruction down on those aboard the Mary Ellen, and the two in the motorboat.

But where was the Mary Ellen?

That was a question Russ and Mr. Sneed asked of themselves over and over again as they drove into the very teeth of the storm. They had to head into it, as in the small boat no other course would have been safe. Fortunately the Ajax was built dory-fashion, with high bow and stern, after the pattern of the skiffs in which the fishermen of the New Foundland banks go out in heavy weather.

"What are you going to do?" asked Mr. Sneed, as Russ increased the speed of the engine, so that the small craft fairly tore up the inclined hills of green waters, which the waves represented, and slid down them with sickening speed on the other slope.

"I'm going to keep on until I find her -- find the schooner," Russ said, grimly. "That's all we can do. But I can't understand why they don't show a light."

"Maybe they're having troubles of their own," suggested the actor.

"Well, they could shout, so as to let us know where to steer," Russ went on, rather provoked.

"We could do that ourselves," Pepper Sneed said.

"Do what?" asked Russ, hardly conscious of what he was saying, for just then a heavy wave threatened to swamp the dory, and it required skillful handling to keep her from being swamped.

"We could yell," suggested Mr. Sneed. "Come on, give 'em a call!"

Russ agreed to this, and, standing up, so their voices would carry better, and bracing themselves against the tumbling, swaying motion of the craft, they sent out a cry for aid -- and yet not so much a cry for aid, as they were not yet in distress, but a cry for direction.

"If I could only see where to steer," Russ exclaimed, when they had paused in their yelling, well-nigh exhausted, "it wouldn't be so bad! But I can't see a thing. It's getting darker every minute. I never saw such a funny storm."

"It's coming up all right," declared the actor. "Going to blow great guns soon."

"It's blowing them now," said Russ, grimly, as he clung to the wheel. "I can hardly keep her on the course."

"What's the use of steering a course when you don't know whether it's right or not?" asked the actor.

"Well, I'm not going to give up," Russ said, grimly. "I think I'm headed for the schooner, though I ought to have fetched her sooner than this, at the speed we're going."

"Perhaps she's blowing away from us," suggested Mr. Sneed.

"That's it!" Russ cried. "Why didn't I think of that before? She's running away from us. She can't help it, though, for she must scud before this storm. We've got to increase our speed to catch up to her. The wind and our engine ought to be more than a match for her sails alone. I'll put on more speed."

The wind was now a howling gale.

Suddenly, as they drove on, the motor seemed to increase its speed.

"What's that?" asked Mr. Sneed. "I thought you had her running at her limit."

"So did I," Russ answered, bending over the machinery. Then he cried: "She's racing! We've lost our propeller! We're disabled in this storm!"



Chapter XX

In The Vortex


"Haven't we looked distressed long enough?"

"I'm going below. I can't bear to watch that storm!"

The speakers were Alice and Ruth DeVere respectively, and they were leaning over the rail of the Mary Ellen, peering off into the swirl of driving mists, and across the heaving waters toward where the motorboat had been last seen.

"Yes, I think Russ has enough pictures," Mr. Pertell said in answer to the remark of Alice. "I think you all looked sufficiently distressful. If the scenes of the shipwreck itself go as well as the first part of the drama has gone, we'll have a fine film."

"Then may I go below?" asked Ruth. "I don't like the looks of the weather."

"It does seem as though we'd get the storm after all," her father remarked.

"Go below, by all means," assented the manager. "We have done enough for today, and I'll signal Russ to come in, if he hasn't already started to do so. My, but this wind is blowing a regular gale!"

Others than Ruth found it uncomfortable on deck, and there was a general movement toward the cabins which had been fitted up with considerable comfort, even if the craft was an old one.

But just then, when there was a partial calm before another burst of fury on the part of the storm, something occurred that threw the ship into a flurry of excitement for a time. The sailors were making some changes in the craft's canvas, when suddenly the throat and peak halyards of the mainsail either parted, or, coming loose from the cleats, came down on the run. The effect was to lower the sail so quickly, and in such a fashion, with the wind blowing hard against it, that there was a crash, a banging and booming of the canvas, and the boom and gaff. The first mate, who was standing near the mast, was knocked down, narrowly escaping going overboard.

"Oh, what has happened?" cried Ruth.

"Be still!" commanded Alice, clutching her sister by the arm. "Yelling isn't going to do any good. We're not hurt."

They were standing near a companionway, well out of reach of the falling sail.

"Oh, we're sinking! We're sinking!" screamed Miss Dixon.

"And the sharks! The terrible sharks in the water!" hysterically added her friend.

The other ladies of the party were very much frightened, naturally, not only by the accident to the sail, but by the screams of the two former vaudeville actresses.

"Lively now, men!" called Jack Jepson, who happened to be nearest the confusion of tangled ropes and sail. "Get him below. He doesn't seem to be much hurt."

He pointed to the motionless body of the first mate. A quick examination showed that the man was badly stunned, but that seemed to be the extent of his injuries, as far as could be told.

"Up with her now! Up with her!" the second mate cried, as he gave orders for hoisting the sail again, for the schooner was not under proper control with the main canvas down, and a storm coming up rapidly. The sail had been reefed, so the gaff had not fallen as far as otherwise would have been the case.

"What's the matter?" shouted Captain Brisco who came up from his cabin with Hen Lacomb. The two were seldom apart of late. A glance served to tell the commander what had happened. He saw that Jack Jepson had matters well in hand, and though Alice guessed that Captain Brisco had no love for his second mate, the commander knew seamanship when he saw it.

"Lively now!" he cried. "That's the idea! We'll run before the gale now."

"But the motorboat!" cried Ruth, who had conquered her desire to flee to the cabin, and hide her eyes and ears from such nerve-racking sights and sounds. "Where is the Ajax -- and Mr. Sneed -- and -- Russ?" she faltered.

"They'll probably be coming in now," the captain said, but he did not take the trouble to look around and see. "We can't wait for them in this wind," he went on.

"But we must wait for him!" Ruth cried, getting excited. "We can't go off and leave them in that motorboat, on the ocean, in a storm! We must wait!" She started toward Captain Brisco, with her hands held out appealingly.

Alice was wildly looking around for a sight of the smaller craft. She had seen it just before the sail fell, but now there was nothing about the schooner but a bare waste of waters.

She knew enough about the technical side of moving pictures to realize that for some time, it had been too dark to take any film. Russ must have known that, too, and would have started back for the schooner. But if he had, where was he now?

Alice asked herself that question as she looked around.

"You must wait for him!" cried Ruth.

"Who? What's this?" demanded Mr. Pertell, for he had been hurrying to and fro, making sure none of the members of his company had been injured in the slight accident.

"Russ hasn't come back," volunteered Alice, who almost always spoke ahead of her sister.

"He's out there!" Ruth found voice to say, "and Captain Brisco isn't going to wait for him."

"You can't hold a ship still on the ocean, and a storm coming up!" the commander cried, as though to justify himself. "We've got to run for it. It would be madness now to lay to."

"But we can't desert Russ and Mr. Sneed!" cried the manager. "I thought he was coming in. What shall we do? We must do something! I shouldn't have asked him to risk it!"

The schooner was rapidly forging ahead, even under reefed sails, so powerful was the wind.

"We could work around," said Jack Jepson, who had come up on deck after seeing the first mate comfortably bestowed in his berth. "We could work around and --  -- "

"Who's in charge of this ship; you or me?" snapped Captain Brisco.

"You are, of course," was the quiet answer.

"Well then, have the goodness to keep still and let me manage matters. I'm giving orders -- not you!"

Poor Jack slunk back, smarting under the undeserved rebuke.

"I don't care who is in command!" cried Mr. Pertell. "This is my ship and you're under my orders, Captain Brisco. I order you to pick up that motorboat!"

"And I tell you we can't do it! They've got to come to us, we can't go to them. They're not dependent on the wind as we are. They can travel any direction they like, and they'll have to head for us."

"But we must make some effort to find them!" cried the manager. "It would be wicked -- criminal not to."

"Look here!" cried Captain Brisco. "You are the owner of this schooner, it is true, and as such you are my superior, but the law gives me supreme command of this craft at sea, unless I'm dead, or otherwise deposed. And I tell you I won't risk all these lives by trying to beat back in the teeth of this wind, to pick up a motorboat. It would be worse than criminal -- worse than wicked to do it. It would endanger all on board!"

There was some logic in that. Even Mr. Pertell, exercised as he was by the threatened danger to Russ, could appreciate that.

"But we must do something," the manager repeated.

"I'm doing all I can," Captain Brisco replied. "I'll shorten sail down to the minimum; that will keep us before the wind, and out of the trough of the sea! More I can't do. We must depend on them to pick us up. They ought to be able to do it. You told me Dalwood could manage a boat."

"So he can -- but -- "

There was ominous meaning in the broken-off sentence.

"Well, we'll do the best we can," concluded Captain Brisco. "They will have to take chances, as we're doing."

He went forward to give some orders.

Those aboard the schooner peered anxiously over the storm swept waters for a sight of the motor craft, but they saw nothing. They shouted and called, but only the wind howled back at them.

Then, with a suddenness that was appalling, they seemed to be flung into the midst of a hurricane. The wind lashed the sea to fury, and the Mary Ellen spun around like some gigantic top.

"We're in the vortex!" cried Jack Jepson. "We're in the vortex of a cyclone! All hands look to themselves!"



Chapter XXI

Wrecked


Confusion on board a ship in a storm may be real confusion and riot, or it may only seem so to those not used to the sea. Often what is a hopelessly tangled mass of sails, ropes, spars and gears to the landsman, is as clear to a sailor as a skein of yarn is to an experienced knitter, who can ply her needles in the dark.

It was so on the Mary Ellen when the storm, that had been so long threatening, and half-performing, broke in all its fury.

There was a tangle of ropes, a banging and slamming of canvas, which, stretched taut and to its utmost, was as stiff as a board. There was a rattling of blocks and the creaking of the boom-crotches against the masts. The squeak of the gaffs higher up added to the din.

The shouting of Captain Brisco, and the answering calls of his men did not lessen the confusion.

"Lower away! Lower away!" the commander cried, ordering even the already doubly-reefed sails gotten down, so the powerful wind would have less resistance. Even with the small area of canvas shown, the craft was being heeled over until the scuppers -- or the holes by which water runs off the deck -- dipped under the waves, and there was plenty of sea aboard.

"Set that storm jib!" came the next order, when the main sails had been furled, and that was no easy task with the sharp pitching and tossing of the schooner. Not a very seamanlike job was made of it, but there was no time for the finer touches. The sails were just clewed up to prevent them from blowing away, until more time could be devoted to them.

The storm jib, which is the sail furthest front on a vessel, unless it be a flying jib, was set to give her enough way so she would respond to the helm, for it was necessary to keep the craft before the wind, and head on to the seas -- that is, the big waves must be cut and broken by the sharp prow, or bow, for had they come at the schooner sideways, she would have been swamped instantly.

Even the small area of the storm jib was hardly necessary. The Mary Ellen, in that blow, would have scudded along fairly well "under bare poles," that is with no sails set at all. Even Captain Brisco had his doubts about the storm jib resisting. It might pull away from the holding ropes at any moment. But its loss would do no harm, for it would only be blown out to sea, and there were enough spare sails.

So, as I have said, order came out of confusion, but even the order was somewhat confused, at least to the members of the moving picture company. They had been ordered below, and had managed, somehow, to get there, though more than one received bumps and bruises on the pitching, tossing companionway.

"Oh, what an awful storm!" complained Miss Dixon, when they were huddled in the cabin.

"Isn't it awful -- terrible!" agreed her companion. "I am frightened to death. We may sink at any minute."

"Oh, not so much danger of that in a wooden ship," said Paul consolingly. He wished the two former vaudeville actresses would try to have a little courage.

"I am so frightened," murmured Miss Pennington. "I wish Captain Brisco would come down here."

"What for?" asked Alice, hardly able to keep the contempt out of her voice.

"So he could tell us if we are in any danger, and what we ought to do," was the selfish answer. "He must save us!"

"He's trying to save the ship!" said Alice, "and you two ought to be ashamed of yourselves at a time like this. Think of poor Russ and Mr. Sneed out in that motorboat all alone!"

"Oh, but they -- they're men," faltered Miss Dixon.

"Then why don't you try to be women!" snapped Alice.

"Hush, my dear," said her sister gently.

"I can't!" was the answer. "When I think of poor Russ --  -- "

"I'm going to put on a life preserver," exclaimed Miss Pennington, favoring Alice with a frosty stare.

"Perhaps that would be a good plan for us, my dears," said Mr. DeVere to his daughters. "It can do no harm, at all events."

"No," admitted Alice. "But we appear to be all right -- for the time being, at least."

It seemed quieter up on deck now, for the sailors had ceased rushing about adjusting the canvas, though there was still plenty of noise. There was the rattle and bang of blocks, the whipping about of ends of ropes, the slap, now and then, of the storm jib, as it was whipped back and forth. Now and then a heavy sea would fall on deck with a crash.

At such times the Mary Ellen, stout as she was, would tremble from stem to stern, and those in the cabin would shiver and look at one another apprehensively.

"Come on, Laura," called Miss Pennington to her companion. "Let's take all the precautions we can. We'll put on life preservers. But oh, I daren't think of being in the water with all those sharks."

"Don't talk that way!" said Paul in a sharp whisper, as he saw Ruth shrink back at the word "shark."

Miss Pennington did not deign to answer, but she and her friend were soon struggling with the straps of a life preserver. At this moment Captain Brisco came down into the cabin.

"What does this mean?" he asked, and his voice was stern.

"We -- we are getting ready for an -- an emergency," faltered Miss Pennington.

"Well, there won't be any emergency -- at least not for a while," the commander said grimly "We are doing very well. If you want to be uncomfortable do so, and put on those cork jackets. But there is no need of it. I'll give you plenty of warning if the ship is likely to founder, and we'll lower the boats."

"Is there any real danger, Captain?" asked Mr. DeVere.

"Well, of course there always is, in a storm at sea. But we are in no more danger than hundreds of others. This is a wooden ship, and it will be a long time sinking, even if it gets to that point, which is far off. We haven't leaked a drop yet, and we're running before the storm nicely. You need have no fears."

"That's what I thought!" exclaimed Alice, with a look at the two former stage actresses.

"Humph!" sniffed Miss Dixon. "Any one would think you were a sailor."

"She's a good deal better 'n some," said Jack Jepson coming into the cabin then to report something to Captain Brisco.

"Then you would not advise us to put on life preservers?" asked Mr. DeVere.

"Not now, at least," the captain replied. "I have done everything possible, and the only thing now is to run before the storm. We are in good shape. The Mary Ellen is a better craft than I gave her credit for being. The only thing to do is to wait, and hope for the best."

"Have you plenty of lifeboats?" the old actor wanted to know.

"Yes, enough for all hands. They are provisioned and watered, and are staunch craft. My men have orders to stand by in case of any real danger, and put the small boats over. But we will stick to the ship until the last, though that is not saying, mind you, that we will have to desert her."

"Oh! I couldn't think of going in one of those small boats!" cried Miss Dixon. "They are so low in the water. I should faint every time I looked over the side."

"Well if she looked once, and fainted and stayed so, it would be a good thing for all hands," murmured Paul Ardite.

"Oh, don't say that," Alice reproached him.

"That's how I feel about her," he answered.

"What can be done about picking up the motorboat?" asked Mr. DeVere. They all looked anxiously toward Captain Brisco.

"I have a man on the lookout," answered the commander. "It may seem to some of you heartless to go away and leave her."

"It was," murmured gentle Ruth. But she only whispered the words. There were tears in her eyes.

"But I could do nothing else," resumed Captain Brisco. "As I told you, a vessel can't remain stationary on the sea. We had to move on before the gale. And, as I also said, the motorboat has a better chance of going where she wants to than have we, who must depend on our sails. I have no doubt but that the two in the Ajax are safe."

But if Captain Brisco, or any of those then huddled in the cabin of the Mary Ellen, could have seen Russ and Mr. Sneed just then they would not have envied them.

With the racing of the engine, indicating to Russ that the propeller had dropped off into the sea, he at once shut off the power. Without the resistance of the screw the machine would soon have racked itself to pieces.

"Well, what's to be done?" asked Mr. Sneed.

"That's the way to talk," was the response. "We've got to do something, that's sure."

The storm which at that moment was enveloping the Mary Ellen was, at the same time, buffeting about the smaller motorboat. When she lost headway by the stopping of her engine she no longer took the seas head, or bow, on. She fell into the trough, and was in imminent danger of being swamped.

"We've got to bring her up, the first thing we do," Russ decided. "What we need is a drag anchor. That will bring her head on to the waves, and we can ride them better until help comes."

"Will help ever come?" asked the actor, despondently.

"Of course it will. Or else we'll find the schooner, or they us!" responded Russ.

While he was talking, he was looking about for something to use as a drag anchor.

"That will do!" Russ decided as he saw a heavy wooden box. "I'll use that." Quickly he tied a rope to it, and tossed the box out.

"This is better!" exclaimed Russ. "Now let's take an account of stock, and see what else we can do. We may be here for some time."

"We can't live very long in this awful weather!" groaned, rather than spoke, Mr. Sneed.

"Oh, don't give up so easily," said Russ.

But when the storm grew worse, and the tiny craft was buffeted about, shipping considerable water, even stout-hearted Russ was not as hopeful as he had been. He had stowed the camera in a safe place, and put the films in a water-tight box well forward. Then the only thing to do was to wait. In vain he scanned the sea through the storm for a sight of the schooner. He could catch no glimpse of her.

Meanwhile the lookout on the Mary Ellen was eagerly watching for any signs of the Ajax, but he had even less chance of seeing her than Russ and Mr. Sneed did of sighting the larger vessel.

The storm was constantly growing worse. As old Jack had said, the schooner had actually been caught in the very vortex of it, but the whirling motion, imparted by the meeting of two different wind currents, had been the saving of the craft. She had been shunted to the outer edge, as a cork, going around in a whirlpool, is sometimes tossed to safety by the very violence of the motion.

Then she had scudded before the gale.

All that night they scudded before the storm, not knowing where they were, and when morning came there was a wild and tumultuous waste of waters all about them. Alice ventured up on deck, against the advice of her father and sister.

She saw Jack Jepson and some sailors amidships. They seemed to be in earnest consultation. Alice drew near them, intending to ask if there were any news.

As she came near the mainmast, there was a sudden veer to the craft, a snapping, splintering sound, and the mast, with its gear of sail, boom and gaff crashed over the side, smashing the stout bulwarks.

"Look out, gal!" hoarsely cried Old Jack, and he snatched Alice back only just in time, for the mast splintered down right in front of her.

With the crash and splintering of the wood, and the breaking of the side of the schooner, there arose the cry of:

"We're wrecked! We're wrecked!"



Chapter XXII

"Mutiny!"


Jack Jepson's first thought was to get Alice to a place of safety.

"You shouldn't have come up!" he shouted in her ear, as he fairly carried her along the sloping deck. He had to shout to be heard above the roar of the wind, the pounding of the broken mast against the side of the schooner, and the swish of the salt water whipped into spray by the powerful gale.

Jack set Alice down at the head of the companionway, and indicated by gestures, rather than words, that she was to go below. As she descended the sloping stairs, holding to the rope rail to prevent stumbling, she saw Captain Brisco spring forward. Whatever else he was, the commander did not shrink from any emergency.

"Cut away that mast!" he cried. "She'll have us stove in if we don't cut her loose!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" answered Jack.

He and several other sailors had seized axes as soon as the result of the crash was seen, and now sprang to the broken bulwarks, over which the mainmast lay, the jagged end of it in the water, pounding against the side of the schooner at every roll, and threatening to punch a hole in her as a battering ram punctures a wall.

"Strike hard, men!" called Jack, and the sound of their axes followed. Ropes were severed with a blow, but the wire shrouds were tougher, and it was not until several minutes had passed that the mast, with its tangle of sails and ropes, was chopped free to float away on the crest of a billow.

"Get up the mizzen storm sail!" ordered Captain Brisco. "She's falling off!"

The schooner was indeed in danger of wallowing in the trough of the big waves.

Pausing only for a moment, the sailors who had labored so valiantly at cutting loose the broken mast, sprang to get more sail on the craft. She was deprived of the reefed, or shortened, one that had been on the stick which was now overboard, and the jib was not enough to hold her head to the waves.

"What is it? Oh what is it?" gasped Miss Pennington as Alice fell, rather than walked down the companionway into the cabin.

"Are we sinking?" demanded Miss Dixon.

"Not at all!" answered Alice, catching her breath, and, with a shake of her head freeing her face from the salty spray that had drenched her. "It isn't anything at all."

She determined to make light of it, even though her own heart was beating like a hammer at the thought of her narrow escape from possible death.

Alice really did not know whether there was any danger or not from the fall of the mast. She had often read of such things happening, and she remembered that the masts were always "cut away." So she supposed, as long as this was being done, that the proper course was being followed.

"There's no danger at all," she said, speaking more calmly now.

"No danger!" cried Miss Pennington. "Listen to that!"

It was the noise of sailors on deck chopping away the mast-gear.

"Oh, one of those upright sticks, that they hang the sails on, fell over. Not enough glue on it, I guess," said Alice, calmly.

"Not enough glue!" gasped Paul. "Well, I never -- "

"Can't you take a joke?" Alice whispered to him, as she saw that her minimizing of the accident was having its effect.

"Oh, yes, of course!" Paul exclaimed. "Not enough glue on it -- Oh yes!" and he had to turn away to keep from smiling at the idea of a mast, -- that is the most firmly set of anything on a ship, (being indeed almost an integral part of it) -- the idea of that being stayed with glue was enough to make almost anyone smile, even in the midst of danger.

The sounds on the deck gradually became more quiet. The danger seemed to be over for the time being. The moving picture actors and actresses crowded around Alice to hear her story of the accident. She carefully avoided mentioning her own peril, but she resolved to properly thank old Jack later. Just now Alice did not want her father to worry. His throat was troubling him, because of the amount of salt spray in the air.

On deck Captain Brisco and Jack Jepson took charge of matters until the wreckage had been cleared away. And a lot of wreckage there was. The Mary Ellen looked little like the trim, schooner that had left New York a few weeks before.

Jack Jepson stepped close to the stump of the mainmast. He gave one look at it, and uttered a single word.

"Rotten!" he exclaimed.

"What's that?" cried Captain Brisco sharply.

"Rotten!" repeated the mate. "That mast had dry rot to the very core. Only the varnish held her together."

"What's that to you?" cried the captain in angry tones. "You keep your opinions to yourself! When I want 'em, I'll ask for 'em! Now get below and see if we're taking in any water."

"Very well, sir," was the answer, but Jack gave the captain a queer look.

He found some water coming in, but not more, he thought, than the pumps could take care of, so he reported the matter only to Captain Brisco.

"That's good," the commander said, seemingly well pleased. "I guess they can have their fake shipwreck after all, if the weather clears."

As the day advanced, the storm lulled slightly, but it was still rough. Those of the moving picture company who ventured up on deck went below again with white, scared faces at the sight of the wreckage of the mainmast. For it did look doleful.

"This shipwreck comes pretty near being real," said Mr. Pertell. "If we could only photograph it now, it would make a fine film."

"Can't you?" asked Alice.

"Yes, I suppose I could make some views."

A few hundred feet of film were exposed by one of the operators, but the pretended shipwreck would need to be taken from a small boat, and the sea was too rough to admit of that.

Then the storm, that had given them a brief respite, began again, worse than before. The schooner was tossed about like a toy, and the mizzenmast was sprung so that no sail could be rigged on it.

Then when a great wave struck the craft, washing over her from stem to stern, the work of the ocean and the storm elements seemed completed. The Mary Ellen staggered under the blow like some living thing, and she did not rise to it as buoyantly as she had before.

Jack Jepson came rushing up from below.

"We're leaking fast!" he cried. "We'd better take to the boats, Captain Brisco! The pumps won't work!"

"The boats! Nonsense!" the captain cried. "We'll ride it out here. The schooner is all right!"

"I tell you she's sinking!" yelled Jack. "We must take to the boats."

"What? Do you dare give orders in my face!" stormed Captain Brisco. "This is mutiny, sir! This is mutiny! I'll put you in irons!" and with raised fist he started toward the old sailor.



Chapter XXIII

Help At Last


Jack Jepson was a brave man. He proved it then by standing unflinchingly in front of the angry captain, when shrinking back might have meant a blow that would have brought about a general fight. Seeing him standing there fearlessly, made Captain Brisco pause. And that gave the others time for action.

"What does this mean?" cried Mr. Pertell.

"He is trying to start a mutiny as he did once before!" fairly yelled Captain Brisco.

"I never started a mutiny before, and I'm not trying to do so now!" retorted Jack, and he seemed to have lost much of his timid simplicity. "I tell you the ship is sinking, and we had best take to the boats while there is time."

"And I tell you that you are wrong!" snarled Captain Brisco. "I order you below!"

"And I won't go, until I have told these people what is going on here!" retorted Jack Jepson.

"If that isn't mutiny, I'd like to know what is," cried the captain.

"Well, if that's mutiny, then I'm glad to be a mutineer!" shouted the old salt, "and any court in the land would uphold me, for I am trying to save lives, and you're trying to throw 'em away."

"Throw 'em away! What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," replied Jack, and there was significance in his voice. "I won't say anything about putting to sea in a ship that wasn't fit -- with masts that were nothin' but dry rot, and with pumps that only half work at best. And I won't say anything about your plot -- there isn't time now. But I will say --  -- "

"A plot!" cried Alice, who, with Ruth, stood near her father.

"Yes, a plot, Miss!" Jack Jepson cried. "I'll tell you about it later. But now we've got to do something. The water's comin' in fast, and if we can't stop it, we'll have to take to the boats."

"Look here!" stormed Captain Brisco, and his voice was almost in keeping with the howl of the gale all about them, and almost as raucous as the salty spray that flew over everything. "Look here! Who is captain of this ship?"

"You are," replied Jack quietly enough. He looked the angry man full in the eye, and the half-raised fist of the commander fell again.

"Then if I'm captain, I'm going to be obeyed!" came next. "I order you below, Jepson. You're no longer mate of this craft. You're deposed! Hen Lacomb, I hereby appoint you first mate until my regular one recovers, and you, Hankinson, you're second mate. Lively now. Jepson, go below, and if he makes any more trouble, Hen, clap him in irons," he added significantly.

For a moment there was silence following this announcement -- that is, as much quiet as the storm permitted. Then Alice cried out:

"Father, won't you say something! Mr. Pertell, you're not going to permit this, are you? I'm sure Jack Jepson is honest and that he is faithfully warning us. Don't let him be put down this way. Ask him what he means by a plot!"

"Oh, Alice!" protested her sister. "At a time like this -- when we may all be drowned!"

"We'll all be drowned worse, maybe, if Jack's advice isn't taken. What is it?" she asked, appealing to the old sailor. "What is the plot you spoke of?"

"Ask him?" cried the old salt, pointing an accusing finger at the captain. "Ask him, and if he doesn't tell you, I will. Talk about a mutiny! It wouldn't be half as bad as his plot for getting possession of this vessel."

"What's that!" cried Captain Brisco, starting forward. "You dare accuse me --  -- "

"Yes, you and Hen Lacomb!" cried Jack, who seemed to have acquired a new boldness. "I charge you with plotting to make a fizzle of the shipwreck these picture people planned. You were going to pretend the vessel was sinking, before the time set for the pictures, and you were going to get them to abandon the schooner. Then you and Lacomb were going to come back to the ship later, take her to some secret port, fit her out again and use her for your own purposes.

"That's the plot! That's what I overheard you and Lacomb plannin', and when you suspected I knew, you thought I'd be better off in the sea. That's how I happened to go overboard. I was thrown! That's what I charge you with. Deny it if ye dare!" and he pointed an accusing finger at the two men. "You threw me overboard, Hen Lacomb! And Captain Brisco planned to have you do it!"

Captain Brisco appeared to struggle with some emotion. His face went red and white by turns. He seemed unable to speak. But at last he choked out:

"What! You dare say that to me. You accuse me --  -- !"

"Yes, and I have the proof!" cried Jack. "Here's the agreement you made Lacomb sign. You were afraid to trust to him unless he made a promise in writing, and here it is. I found it in the secret compartment in your cabin. Your cabin that used to be mine in the old Mary Ellen. That's how I made sure this ship was the old one I used to serve on, made over. I found this agreement! It's the proof of what I say. Deny it if you can."

"Why -- why -- " stammered the captain. "Do you dare -- " but it seemed he could not get any farther. He glanced at Hen Lacomb who stood near him. A meaning look passed between the two men, and Hen started edging around toward Jack Jepson.

"Father! Mr. Pertell!" cried Alice. "Let us have this settled! Jack has made charges. They may be true or they may not be. But our lives surely are in danger if this vessel is sinking."

"And I say she isn't sinking! She's as sound as a bell below the water line!" cried the captain.

"And I say she has a hole stove in her, an' unless it's stopped we'll be at the bottom in a few hours!" cried Jack. "The mast knocked a hole in her and she's takin' water fast. The pumps are no good, but they can be fixed with a little work on 'em."

"Keep still!" the captain shouted. "You're under arrest as a mutineer."

"No he isn't!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell. "This is my vessel. I'm the chief owner of it, and I here and now depose you as captain, Mr. Brisco, and appoint Jack Jepson in your place!"

There was a gasp of baffled rage from the former commander.

"Jack, take charge," said Mr. Pertell. "Select as mates whoever you want. We'll go into this matter of the plot later. Just now we must save the ship if we can. Everything must give way to that. Do you accept?"

"What! Him captain?" cried Hen Lacomb, who was edging nearer and nearer to Jack all this while.

"Why not?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"He doesn't know how to navigate. He'll run us aground."

"I wish he would run us on der ground!" murmured Mr. Switzer. "I haf hat enough of der ocean. Der ground is goot enough for me."

"I can navigate!" cried Jack. "I hold a master's certificate, though I've only filled mates' berths of late."

"I -- I refuse to serve under him," stormed Captain Brisco. "And when we reach port, I shall lay this matter before the authorities. You can't depose a captain this way!"

"Can't I?" asked Mr. Pertell coolly. "I rather think I can. I looked up the law on the rights of owners before I started on this voyage. Jack Jepson is captain."

"And I refuse to serve under him."

"Very well. Then you can either work your passage, or pay for your passage, I don't care which. But I'm going to save this ship, and the lives of those aboard her, if I can."

There was a sudden little scuffle near Jack Jepson, and Hen Lacomb went sprawling on the deck.

"No you don't!" drawled Mr. Switzer in his most German comedian voice. "I think you haf fallen. Dit you hurt yourself?" he asked of the prostrate Hen.

The latter, with a growl, got to his feet, an angry look on his face.

"What happened?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"Oh, noddings dit happen," was the reply. "It iss only vat might haf happenet. He vas getting so close by Jack dot Jack might fall ofer board again, und ve don't vant to lose our new captain so soon yet," explained Mr. Switzer cheerfully.

He thus made light of the affair, but later it came out that Hen Lacomb had evidently had the intention of at least trying to pitch Jack overboard, as the easiest solution of the trouble of Captain Brisco and his crony.

"This is enough!" cried Mr. Pertell. "Jack, you're captain. Do what you like to insure the safety of us and the ship. Captain Brisco is no longer in command of this vessel," the manager went on to a wondering group of sailors. "I call for three cheers for Captain Jack Jepson!"

They were given with a will, for evidently Jack was a favorite, and the deposed captain was not. The latter slunk below followed by Hen Lacomb.

"We've got to try to stop that leak first of all!" said Jack, as he carefully put in his pocket the paper he had claimed was an agreement between Brisco and his crony. "I appoint Jim West as first mate and Frank Snyder as second!" the new captain went on. "Come below, you two, and we'll see what we can do. We've got to mend the pumps. Keep her about as she is," he ordered the steersman.

"Aye, aye, sir!" was the respectful answer. Jack was already developing new qualities as a commander.

"This is a distressing state of affairs," said Mr. DeVere.

"Not as bad as it might be," Mr. Pertell answered. "There is a chance for us now. I never dreamed that Brisco was such a scoundrel."

"Oh, I'm so glad Captain Jack is in charge!" cried Alice. "And I'm so glad he found out about the plot. Maybe this will help to clear him of the other unjust charge," she went on.

"Perhaps," agreed Ruth. "But oh, Alice! If we should sink!"

"Nonsense! We're not going to sink!"

And so it proved -- at least the Mary Ellen was not doomed to go to the bottom at once. The storm still raged with seemingly unabated violence, but the sailors, under the direction of Captain Jepson, got a heavy piece of canvas over the worst leak, and then the repaired pumps kept the water in the hold down to a normal level.

The failure of the pumps to work, until Jack and the men fixed them was due to criminal negligence on the part of Brisco. He put to sea with this necessary part of a ship in poor condition, not thinking they would be needed.

Brisco was a desperate man, and so was Lacomb. They had been involved in more than one shady transaction, and though both may have been aboard with Jack, during the mutiny, they successfully covered their tracks.

Brisco and Lacomb sulked below, and, for the time being, no effort was made to bring them up and set them to work, though every hand was needed. Some of the members of the film company turned in and helped. It was thought better not to incite a fight.

So the Mary Ellen lurched on through the storm, a mere semblance of the gallant craft she had appeared to be on leaving port. And those aboard labored desperately to keep her afloat.

"Talk about a shipwreck!" gasped Mr. Pertell, as a wave drenched him, "this is the most realistic I ever saw. If I could only picture this!"

But it was impossible. How the planned drama of the sea would end, no one could tell.

"And oh! to think of poor Russ and Mr. Sneed out in this -- if they are still out in it," murmured Alice, as she and Ruth clung to one another in their cabin.

"The Ajax may have survived," Ruth said, hopefully.

And indeed, at that moment, the motorboat was making the best of the bad weather.

The sea anchor which Russ had rigged provided the necessary drag and steerage way, and the boat's head was kept to the waves. Her high bow, and covered fore-part, enabled her to ride seas that would have swamped another craft of like size. And her dory-build added to her safety. The bank fishermen know well how to shape a boat to meet heavy seas.

"Well, we seem to be doing fairly well," said Russ, as he and his companion settled down in the shelter, to nibble at a bit of hard tack and drink some of the water Jack had put on board.

"Yes, I suppose it might be worse," agreed Mr. Sneed. And that, for him, was saying a great deal.

So the Ajax drifted on, as the Mary Ellen was driving, before the gale, the occupants of neither craft knowing aught of the others. And the storm still raged.

After a while Russ, for want of something better to do, began looking over the motor. Presently he discovered something that made him shout for joy.

"What is it?" asked his companion. "Do you see the schooner?"

"No, but I can make this boat run. Look, the propeller hasn't dropped off at all! The set screws of the sleeve have become loose and the propeller shaft didn't turn, that was all."

If any of you know anything about motor-boats, you know that the shaft which passes through the stuffing box, and to which shaft the propeller is fastened, is joined to the shaft of the engine by a coupling, or sleeve. If you take two lead pencils, and thrust an end of each into each end of a hollow, brass pencil holder, you will get an idea of what I mean. One pencil will represent the shaft to which the propeller is fastened, and the other the engine shaft. The brass holder is the coupling, or sleeve. In order that the shafts will be held rigidly together, turning at the same time, set screws in the sleeve are tightly turned down on the shaft, binding both in the sleeve.

It was the set screws on the propeller shaft that had loosed, allowing the sleeve to slip uselessly around, that had caused all the trouble. With a wrench Russ tightened the screws. He tested them, and, finding them firm, started the engine. A moment later the Ajax was moving over the waves under her own power.

"Hurray!" cried Mr. Sneed. "This is great!"

"And we don't need this any longer," Russ said, hauling in the drag anchor. Then, able to mount the waves, the motorboat was in much better condition for fighting the storm.

On and on she rushed. Hour after hour passed, but the gale showed no signs of abating. The two young men were weary and disheartened, when, as there came a little rift in the clouds Russ, who stood up to look about, gave a yell.

"What is it now?" asked Mr. Sneed. "More trouble?"

"No!" cried Russ. "I see a steamer. Help at last! I'm going straight for her!"



Chapter XXIV

A Signal Of Distress


Russ had been running the motor at moderate speed, for he did not know just how long the supply of gasoline would last, and he did not know as yet what might be before him and his companion in distress. But the sight of the steamer gave him hope, and he turned on full speed.

The Ajax was a powerful craft, though even a mighty steamer would not have found it easy to make headway in that sea and in that gale. The motor craft responded gallantly, and shot up on the crest of each wave, sliding down the opposite side as though she were going to investigate the uttermost depths of Father Neptune's caverns.

"Steamer! I don't see any steamer!" exclaimed Mr. Sneed, as he looked in the direction toward which the face of Russ was turned.

"You will when we both come on top of a wave at the same time," was the answer. "You see we lie so low in the water she can't see us, and we can't glimpse her until we're both on a crest together. She's off to the east there. Watch and you'll see her. Look now!"

At that moment the Ajax rose on a mighty wave, which lifted her high toward the sky, in which were now rifted clouds. Mr. Sneed glanced to where Russ pointed, and saw the long, black hull of a steamer, from whose stacks belched forth clouds of smoke, showing that her engines were being driven at top speed to overcome the storm.

"There she is!" cried Russ. "Now if we can only reach her, we'll be all right, and we can help the others."

"The others," murmured the actor.

"Yes, those on the Mary Ellen. She must be in trouble in this storm, for she isn't built for this sort of thing. It's a wonder she lasted as long as she did."

"Maybe she's at the bottom now," suggested Mr. Sneed.

"Cheerful, aren't you?" remarked Russ. "I thought you'd given that sort of thing up."

"I meant to. I really did. I'm sorry!" the other exclaimed, contritely enough. Really he was a different sort of Mr. Sneed from the "human grouch" who often made matters so unpleasant for members of the Comet Film Company. Since he and Russ had so nearly faced death, Mr. Sneed was much braver and more cheerful.

"I think she'll keep afloat for some time," Russ went on, "as she is all wood, you know. She may be pretty well battered, though."

If he could only have seen the hapless Mary Ellen then, he would have believed her quite battered indeed. For another rotten mast had fallen.

"Do you mean you're going to ask those on the steamer to look for the schooner," asked Mr. Sneed.

"That's what I'm going to do, if we can get to her," Russ said. "It's going to be nip and tuck, for she's going fast and she won't see us, as we're so low in the water. She's not heading in our direction, either, but I'll go after her on a long slant, and maybe I can reach her, or get near enough to make her see us. This is a pretty fast boat."

They were speeding over the waves, now down in a hollow, and again on the crest. Sometimes they would lose sight of the steamer altogether, and again they would catch a fleeting glimpse of her. And, when they did, she seemed farther off than ever.

"Oh, we'll never reach her!" said Mr. Sneed, despondently enough. "She'll never give us any aid."

"There you go!" cried Russ. "I thought you'd given up that sort of thing!"

"Well, I didn't mean just that," the actor said. "Perhaps we will make her see us after all."

"That's better!" exclaimed Russ. "We'll get her -- or crack a cylinder!" and he tried to get a few more revolutions out of the fly wheel.

In spite of their brave front, Russ and his companion were sufficiently miserable. Their boat constantly shipped water, and they had to use the hand force pump, which, fortunately, was in the craft. A pump was connected with the cylinder cooling apparatus, designed to free the cockpit of bilge water, but the pump would not work.

Russ and Mr. Sneed were wet through, for the cabin could not be entirely closed against the spray. And they had nothing to eat except cold victuals. There was a gasoline stove aboard, but there was nothing to cook, for only an emergency ration had been put in the craft, and that was more because of a whim on the part of Jack Jepson, than because he really thought it would be needed.

But more than once as they drank of the water, and nibbled the hard biscuits, or crackers, in the water-tight box, Russ and his companion blessed the forethought of honest Jack Jepson -- I beg his pardon, Captain Jepson it was now, though neither Russ nor Mr. Sneed knew that.

"I think I'll hoist a signal," said the actor, as they drove on, now seeing the steamer, and again losing her.

"Good idea," Russ agreed, as he busied himself with an oil can.

Mr. Sneed managed to lash an oar upright, and on it he fastened a bit of canvas. It stood out straight, like a board, so strong was the wind that whipped it.

"I hope they see that," commented the actor.

"I hope so, too," added Russ. "It doesn't do any good to yell, for the wind is blowing from them to us."

More than once, as they urged their craft on a long slant toward the steamer, they almost gave up hope. But it sprang up again, and finally, as a break in the clouds let out a little rift of light, someone on the watch aboard the steamer saw the fluttering signal.

"She's seen us! She's seen us!" cried Russ in delight.

"How can you tell?" demanded his companion.

"She whistled. I saw the steam. You'll hear the blast in a second."

And they did. Light travels faster than sound. They saw the steam from the powerful whistle before they heard the hoarse blast; even as one sees the flash of a gun before hearing the report.

The steamer changed her course, and came on toward the motorboat.

"Suppose it's the English one, that wants to capture poor Jack," suggested Mr. Sneed.

"That doesn't make any difference," Russ said. "She'll save us, and then look for the schooner. We can take up Jack's case later."

It did not prove to be the English steamer. Instead it was a powerful fruiter, hailing from New York, and Russ and Mr. Sneed were soon aboard, the Ajax being hoisted to her deck. Then she resumed her course, but it was a different one.

For, on the earnest plea of Russ and Mr. Sneed, the steamer's captain consented to turn back and search for the Mary Ellen.

"I don't know as I'll find her," he said, "but we can't let all those poor souls perish."

So the search began. It lasted three days, during which the storm nearly blew itself out. And on the morning of the fourth day, when the sullen sea was trying to calm itself, and when the wind had died down to a moderate gale, the lookout of the Sirius called out:

"Sail ho!"

"Where away?" came the demand.

"Dead ahead. She's a schooner, low in the water, and she's flying a signal of distress!"



Chapter XXV

Clear Skies


Instantly there was commotion and excitement on board the Sirius, for Russ and Mr. Sneed had told their story of the starting out to make a pictured shipwreck, which shipwreck had evidently, now, become real.

"That's the Mary Ellen, I'm sure of it!" Russ cried as he caught a glimpse of the sighted schooner. "But what has happened to her?"

"Masts are gone, and she's sinking," one of the steamer's officers told him. "I guess we can't get to her any too quickly."

And it was high time a rescue was made, for Captain Jepson, and Mr. Pertell had decided to take to the boats with all on board.

The Mary Ellen was sinking; there was no doubt of that. All that could be done had been done, but to no avail.

But hope revived when the steamer was sighted.

A little later, the Sirius stood by. And high time, too. As a last resort, when it was found that the repaired pumps could not keep the water down in the hold, so big was the leak, the signal of distress had been hoisted. And, after many anxious hours, it had been thus providentially answered.

Then a thought came to Mr. Pertell. The weather had cleared. The schooner would keep afloat a few hours more. Why not make the pictures of the shipwreck now? It would be his only chance. True, they would not be just as planned, but they would be better than losing all the efforts that had been made.

There was a brief talk with the captain of the Sirius. He consented to stand by until the sea drama, quickly revised, was acted out -- at least, until shipwreck scenes were portrayed.

It was rather an exciting time, the passengers dropping overboard from the sinking schooner, and being rescued in boats. Russ, on board the Ajax, which was again put into the sea, worked the camera. The Mary Ellen made a more realistic wreck than had been hoped for. Former Captain Brisco and Hen Lacomb, alone, refused to take any part in the drama.

At last the final film was run off, the last rescue was made by the motor craft and small boats, and all, passengers and crew, from the sinking schooner, were taken aboard the Sirius.

"There she goes!" said Alice softly, as, with a final lurch, and a blowing up of her decks, from the compressed air under them, the old craft, bow first went beneath the waves. Russ took the final pictures.

"Game to the last!" said Captain Jepson. "She went down bow on, to show she wasn't afraid of Davy Jones! That's the last of her, and the last of Brisco's schemes to get her for his own use."

"Tell me about that now," suggested Mr. Pertell. "I have time to listen now, for we aren't trying to save a sinking ship."

They were all now safely aboard the steamer, which had resumed her course. The moving pictures had all been taken, save some that needed a shore background, and these could be done later.

"Did Brisco really plot to get the Mary Ellen?" asked the manager.

"He did," said Jack Jepson. "I'll tell you the whole story." And he did. Briefly it was this:

On his first trip to the schooner, Jack had recognized Brisco as an unscrupulous man who had been engaged in several shady ship transactions. But Brisco denied his identity, and Jack pretended to have been mistaken, in order to throw him off his guard. Brisco was also, Jack said, one of the mutineers of the Halcyon, but the plotter denied this, and Jack admitted he may have been mistaken.

Then came the advent of Hen Lacomb, whom Jepson recognized as a fellow plotter with Brisco. The evil men knew him, too, after a bit, but they counted on the charge of mutiny hanging over him to make him keep quiet, and not reveal their plot.

Brisco and Lacomb plotted to get the schooner for themselves. They were not really going to endanger the lives of the passengers or crew, but their game was to only pretend to sink the ship, and to raise such an alarm that she would be hastily abandoned. Then they would come back to her later, salvage her, and use her for their own ends.

Jack Jepson had overheard this plot, and, as he had said, found the incriminating document signed by Lacomb. This was hidden in a secret compartment in what had formerly been his bunk, when the schooner was the Halcyon.

When Brisco and Lacomb discovered that Jepson knew their secret, they tried to get rid of him, by a seeming accident. But Fate interfered with their plans, and the storm made a big change. Then came the deposing of Captain Brisco, and the rest of the story is known to my readers.

"Well, Jack Jepson -- or, Captain Jepson, though you haven't now command of any ship," said Mr. Pertell, "we owe much to you."

"It's nothin' at all," Jack said, modestly enough. "When I saw this steamer, though, I thought it was that Britisher coming back for me."

"It's a shame that the charge of mutiny should hang over you!" exclaimed Alice. "I think it should be wiped out."

"I wish it could be," Jack said with a sigh.

A steward, a little later, came to where the rescued ones were talking together -- Brisco and Lacomb having gone off by themselves -- and the steward said the steamer's captain wanted to talk to the schooner's commander.

"There he is," said Mr. Pertell, pointing to Jack Jepson. "That's our new captain."

The steward looked. A queer change came over his face.

"Jack!" he cried. "Is it really you? I've looked all over the world for you!"

"Tom Buttle!" cried Jepson, leaping to his feet. "My old shipmate. Say, if anyone knows, you do, that I never had a thing to do with that mutiny on the Halcyon. Don't you know I didn't?"

"Of course I do!" the steward cried. "I can prove you were as innocent as a babe, and I know others who can, too."

"What's this -- more of the mystery?" asked Alice.

"It's the end of it, I hope," said Jack solemnly. "Tell 'em, Tom!"

"There isn't much to tell," the steward said. "I was a shipmate with Jack on the Halcyon or the Mary Ellen, in the old days. He's probably told you of the mutiny. I was hurt in it, and lay unconscious when they arrested him for it. I didn't recover until he had been put in jail, and when I tried to give my evidence, I could get no one to listen to me. Then I heard Jack had escaped and I rested easy. I never knew the charge was hanging over him all this while.

"I've been all over the world since, sailing in different vessels, and in every port I'd inquire of Jack from those who knew him. But I never found him until now. Clear him -- of course I can clear him of the unjust charge!"

"Thank Heaven for that!" said Jack Jepson.

"Everything is cleared up!" cried Alice gaily. "Even the sky -- see how blue it is!"

In due time Jack's innocence was proved before the English courts, and the charge against him wiped out. He was then free to come and go as he pleased. But the mystery of the disappearance of Captain Watson, of the Halcyon, or old Mary Ellen, and his companion, Mike Tullane, was never solved.

The Mary Ellen, all that was left of the reconstructed Halcyon, was, of course, a total wreck. Brisco's plan failed. Nothing was done to him, as it would have been difficult to prove a case against him.

Arrangements were made for taking the needed land scenes of the sea drama, and when this was done, the whole company returned to New York.

"Well, Alice," remarked Ruth one day, as they were on their way up the coast in a steamer, "did you have enough of sea-life this trip?"

"I certainly did," was the answer. "No more shipwrecks for me!"

"Same here!" put in Russ. "It's taking too many chances!"

"Oh, you'd do it over again -- or something like it -- and so would you girls, if you knew a good film would come of it," predicted Paul Ardite, with a laugh.

And here we will say good-bye to the Moving Picture Girls.

<eob>

Friends Though Divided: A Tale Of The Civil War

By

G.A. Henty



Chapter I.

The Eve Of The War.


It was a pleasant afternoon in the month of July, 1642, when three young people sat together on a shady bank at the edge of a wood some three miles from Oxford. The country was undulating and picturesque, and a little more than a mile in front of them rose the lofty spire of St. Helen's, Abingdon. The party consisted of two lads, who were about fifteen years of age, and a girl of ten. The lads, although of about the same height and build, were singularly unlike. Herbert Rippinghall was dark and grave, his dress somber in hue, but good in material and well made. Harry Furness was a fair and merry-looking boy; good humor was the distinguishing characteristic of his face; his somewhat bright and fashionably cut clothes were carelessly put on, and it was clear that no thought of his own appearance or good looks entered his mind. He wore his hair in ringlets, and had on his head a broad hat of felt with a white feather, while his companion wore a plain cap, and his hair was cut closely to his head.

"It is a bad business, Harry," the latter said, "but, there is one satisfaction that, come what may, nothing can disturb our friendship. We have never had a quarrel since we first met at the old school down there, six years ago. We have been dear friends always, and my only regret has been that your laziness has prevented our being rivals, for neither would have grudged the other victory."

"No, indeed, Herbert. But there was never a chance of that. You have always been Mr. Gregory's prize boy, and are now head of the school; while I have always been in his bad books. But, as you say, Herbert, we have been dear friends, and, come what will, we'll continue so. We cannot agree on the state of the kingdom, and shall never do so. We have both taken our views from our parents; and indeed it seems to me that the question is far too difficult a one for boys like us to form any opinion of it. When we see some of the best and wisest in the land ranging themselves on either side, it is clear that even such a wise noddle as yours -- to say nothing of a feather brain like mine -- cannot form any opinion on a subject which perplexes our elders and betters."

"That is true, Harry; but still -- "

"No, no, Herbert, we will have no argument. You have the best of it there, and I fall back upon authority. My father, the colonel, is for the king; yours for the Parliament. He says that there are faults on both sides, and indeed, for years he favored the Commons. The king's acts were unconstitutional and tyrannical, and my father approved of the bold stand which Sir George Elliot made against him. Now, however, all this has been changed, he tells me, and the Commons seek to rule without either king or peers. They have sought to impose conditions which would render them the lords absolute of England, and reduce the king to a mere puppet. They have, too, attacked the Church, would abolish bishops, and interfere in all matters spiritual. Therefore, my father, while acknowledging the faults which the king has committed, and grieving over the acts which have driven the Parliament to taking up a hostile attitude to him, yet holds it his duty to support him against the violent men who have now assumed power, and who are aiming at the subversion of the constitution and the loss of the country."

"I fear, also," Herbert said, "that the Commons have gone grievously beyond their rights, although, did my father hear me say so, I should fall under his gravest displeasure. But he holds that it is necessary that there should be an ecclesiastical sweep, that the prelates should have no more power in the land, that popery should be put down with an iron hand, and that, since kings cannot be trusted to govern well, all power should be placed in the hands of the people. My own thoughts do incline toward his; but, as you say, when one sees men like my Lord Falkland, who have hitherto stood among the foremost in the ranks of those who demand that the king shall govern according to law, now siding with him against them, one cannot but feel how grave are the difficulties, and how much is to be said on either side. How is one to choose? The king is overbearing, haughty, and untrue to his word. The Parliament is stiff-necked and bent upon acquiring power beyond what is fair and right. There are, indeed, grievous faults on both sides. But it seems to me that should the king now have his way and conquer the Commons, he and his descendants will henceforth govern as absolute monarchs, and the liberty of the people will be endangered; while on the other hand, should the Parliament gain the upper hand, they will place on a firm basis the liberties of Englishmen, and any excesses which they may commit will be controlled and modified by a future parliament, for the people of England will no more suffer tyranny on the part of the Commons than of the king; but while they cannot change the one, it is in their power to elect whom they will, and to send up men who will govern things moderately and wisely."

"At any rate," Harry said, "my father thinks that there is neither moderation nor wisdom among the zealots at Westminster; and as I hear that many nobles and country gentlemen throughout England are of the same opinion, methinks that though at present the Parliament have the best of it, and have seized Portsmouth, and the Tower, and all the depots of arms, yet that in the end the king will prevail against them."

"I trust," Herbert continued earnestly, "that there will be no fighting. England has known no civil wars since the days of the Roses, and when we see how France and Germany are torn by internal dissensions, we should be happy indeed that England has so long escaped such a scourge. It is indeed sad to think that friends should be arrayed against each other in a quarrel in which both sides are in the wrong."

"I hope," Harry said, "that if they needs must fight, it will soon be over, whichever way fortune may turn."

"I think not," Herbert answered. "It is a war of religion as much as a war for power. The king and the Commons may strive who shall govern the realm; but the people who will take up arms will do it more for the triumph of Protestantism than for that of Pym and Hampden."

"How tiresome you both are," Lucy Rippinghall interrupted, pouting. "You brought me out to gather flowers, and you do nothing but talk of kings and Parliament, as if I cared for them. I call it very rude. Herbert is often forgetful, and thinks of his books more than of me; but you, Master Harry, are always polite and gentle, and I marvel much that you should be so changed to-day."

"Forgive me," Harry said, smiling. "We have been very remiss, Miss Lucy; but we will have no more of high politics, and will, even if never again," he said sadly, "devote all our energies to getting such a basket of flowers for you as may fill your rooms with beaupots. Now, if your majesty is ready to begin, we are your most obedient servants."

And so, with a laugh, the little party rose to their feet, and started in quest of wild flowers.

The condition of affairs was at the outbreak of the civil war such as might well puzzle older heads than those of Harry Furness or Herbert Rippinghall, to choose between the two powers who were gathering arms.

The foundations of the difficulty had been laid in the reign of King James. That monarch, who in figure, manners, and mind was in the strongest contrast to all the English kings who had preceded him, was infinitely more mischievous than a more foolish monarch could have been. Coarse in manner -- a buffoon in demeanor -- so weak, that in many matters he suffered himself to be a puppet in the hands of the profligates who surrounded him, he had yet a certain amount of cleverness, and an obstinacy which nothing could overcome. He brought with him from Scotland an overweening opinion of the power and dignity of his position as a king. The words -- absolute monarchy -- had hitherto meant only a monarch free from foreign interference; to James they meant a monarchy free from interference on the part of Lords or Commons. He believed implicitly in the divine right of kings to do just as they chose, and in all things, secular and ecclesiastical, to impose their will upon their subjects.

At that time, upon the Continent, the struggle of Protestantism and Catholicism was being fought out everywhere. In France the Huguenots were gradually losing ground, and were soon to be extirpated. In Germany the Protestant princes had lost ground. Austria, at one time halting between two opinions, had now espoused vehemently the side of the pope, and save in Holland and Switzerland, Catholicism was triumphing all along the line. While the sympathies of the people of England were strongly in favor of their co-religionists upon the Continent, those of James inclined toward Catholicism, and in all matters ecclesiastical he was at variance with his subjects. What caused, if possible, an even deeper feeling of anger than his interference in church matters, was his claim to influence the decisions of the law courts. The pusillanimity of the great mass of the judges hindered them from opposing his outrageous claims, and the people saw with indignation and amazement the royal power becoming infinitely greater and more extended than anything to which Henry VIII. or even Elizabeth had laid claim. The negotiations of the king for a marriage between his son and the Infanta of Spain raised the fears of the people to the highest point. The remembrance of the Spanish armada was still fresh in their minds, and they looked upon an alliance with Spain as the most unholy of contracts, and as threatening alike the religion and liberties of Englishmen.

Thus when at King James' death King Charles ascended the throne, he inherited a legacy of trouble. Unhappily, his disposition was even more obstinate than that of his father. His training had been wholly bad, and he had inherited the pernicious ideas of his father in reference to the rights of kings. Even more unfortunately, he had inherited his father's counselors. The Duke of Buckingham, a haughty, avaricious, and ambitious noble, raised by King James from obscurity, urged him to follow the path of his father, and other evil counselors were not wanting. King Charles, indeed, had an advantage over his father, inasmuch as his person was stately and commanding, his manner grave and dignified, and his private life irreproachable. The conflicts which had continued throughout the reign of his father between king and Parliament speedily broke out afresh. The Commons refused to grant supplies, unless the king granted rights and privileges which he deemed alike derogatory and dangerous. The shifty foreign policy of England was continued, and soon the breach was as wide as it had been during the previous reign.

After several Parliaments had been called and dissolved, some gaining advantage from the necessities of the king, others meeting only to separate after discussions which imbittered the already existing relations, for ten years the king dispensed with a Parliament. The murder of the Duke of Buckingham by Felton brought no alleviation to the situation. In Ireland, Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, ruled with tyrannical power. He was a man of clear mind and of great talent, and his whole efforts were devoted to increasing the power of the king, and so, as he considered, the benefit of the country. In Ireland he had a submissive Parliament, and by the aid of this he raised moneys, and ruled in a manner which, tyrannical as it was, was yet for the benefit of that country. The king had absolute confidence in him, and his advice was ever on the side of resistance to popular demands. In England the chief power was given to Archbishop Land, a high church prelate, bent upon restoring many of the forms of Catholic worship, and bitterly opposed to the Puritan spirit which pervaded the great mass of the English people.

So far the errors had been entirely upon the side of the king. The demands of the Commons had been justified by precedent and constitutional rule. The doings of the king were in equal opposition to these. When at last the necessity of the situation compelled Charles to summon a Parliament, he was met by them in a spirit of absolute defiance. Before any vote of supply would he taken, the Commons insisted upon the impeachment of Strafford, and Charles weakly consented to this. The trial was illegally carried on, and the evidence weak and doubtful. But the king's favorite was marked out for destruction, and to the joy of the whole kingdom was condemned and executed. A similar fate befell Laud, and encouraged by these successes, the demands of the Commons became higher and higher.

The ultimatum which at last the Puritan party in Parliament delivered to the king, was that no man should remain in the royal council who was not agreeable to Parliament; that no deed of the king should have validity unless it passed the council, and was attested under their hands; that all the officers of the state and principal judges should be chosen with consent of Parliament, and enjoy their offices for life; that none of the royal family should marry without consent of Parliament or the council; that the penal laws should be executed against Catholics; that the votes of popish lords should not be received in the Peers, and that bishops should be excluded from the House; that the reformation of the liturgy and church government should be carried out according to the advice of Parliament; that the ordinances which they had made with regard to the militia should be submitted to; that the justice of Parliament should pass upon all delinquents, that is, upon all officials of the state and country who had assisted in carrying out the king's ordinances for the raising of taxes; that a general pardon should he granted, with such exceptions as should he advised by Parliament; that the fort and castles should be disposed of by consent of Parliament; and that no peers should be made but with the consent of both Houses. They demanded also that they should have the power of appointing and dismissing the royal ministers, of naming guardians for the royal children, and of virtually controlling military, civil, and religious affairs.

As it was clear that these demands went altogether beyond the rights of the Commons, and that if the king submitted to them the power of the country would be solely in their hands, while he himself would become a cipher, he had no course open to him but to refuse assent, and to appeal to the loyal nobility and gentry of the country.

It is true that many of these rights have since been obtained by the Houses of Parliament; but it must be remembered that they were altogether alien at the time to the position which the kings of England had hitherto held, and that the body into whose hands they would be intrusted would be composed solely of one party in the state, and that this party would be controlled by the fanatical leaders and the ministers of the sects opposed to the Established Church, which were at that time bitter, narrow, and violent to an extent of which we have now no conception.

The attitude thus assumed by Parliament drove from their ranks a great many of the most intelligent and enlightened of those who had formerly sided with them in their contest against the king. These gentlemen felt that intolerable as was the despotic power of a king, still more intolerable would it be to be governed by the despotic power of a group of fanatics. The liberty of Englishmen was now as much threatened by the Commons as it had been threatened by the king, and to loyal gentlemen the latter alternative was preferable. Thus there were on both sides earnest and conscientious men who grieved deeply at being forced to draw swords in such a quarrel, and who felt that their choice of sides was difficult in the extreme. Falkland was the typical soldier on the royal side, Hampden on that of the Commons.

It is probable that were England divided to-morrow under the same conditions, men would be equally troubled upon which side to range themselves. At this period of the struggle, with the exception of a few hot-headed followers of the king and a few zealots on the side of the Commons, there was a general hope that matters would shortly be arranged, and that one conflict would settle the struggle.

The first warlike demonstration was made before the town of York, before whose walls the king, arriving with an armed force, was refused admittance by Sir John Hotham, who held the place for the Parliament. This was the signal for the outbreak of the war, and each party henceforth strained every nerve to arm themselves and to place their forces in the field.

The above is but a brief sketch of the circumstances which led the Cavaliers and Puritans of England to arm themselves for civil war. Many details have been omitted, the object being not to teach the history of the time, but to show the general course of events which had led to so broad and strange a division between the people of England. Even now, after an interval of two hundred years, men still discuss the subject with something like passion, and are as strong in their sympathies toward one side or the other as in the days when their ancestors took up arms for king or Commons.

It is with the story of the war which followed the conversation of Harry Furness and Herbert Rippinghall that we have to do, not with that of the political occurrences which preceded it. As to these, at least, no doubts or differences of opinion can arise. The incidents of the war, its victories and defeats, its changing fortunes, and its final triumph are matters beyond the domain of politics, or of opinion; and indeed when once the war began politics ceased to have much further sway. The original questions were lost sight of, and men fought for king or Parliament just as soldiers nowadays fight for England or France, without in any concerning themselves with the original grounds of quarrel.



Chapter II.

For The King.


It was late that evening when Sir Henry Furness returned from Oxford; but Harry, anxious to hear the all-absorbing news of the day, had waited up for him.

"What news, father?" he said, as Sir Henry alighted at the door.

"Stirring news, Harry; but as dark as may be. War appears to be now certain. The king has made every concession, but the more he is ready to grant, the more those Puritan knaves at Westminster would force from him. King, peers, bishops, Church, all is to go down before this knot of preachers; and it is well that the king has his nobles and gentry still at his back. I have seen Lord Falkland, and he has given me a commission in the king's name to raise a troop of horse. The royal banner will be hoisted at Nottingham, and there he will appeal to all his loyal subjects for aid against those who seek to govern the nation."

"And you think, sir, that it will really be war now?" Harry asked.

"Ay, that will it, unless the Commons go down on their knees and ask his majesty's pardon, of which there is, methinks, no likelihood. As was to be expected, the burghers and rabble of the large towns are everywhere with them, and are sending up petitions to the Commons to stand fast and abolish everything. However, the country is of another way of thinking, and though the bad advisers of the king have in times past taken measures which have sorely tried our loyalty, that is all forgotten now. His majesty has promised redress to all grievances, and to rule constitutionally in future, and I hear that the nobles are calling out their retainers in all parts. England has always been governed by her kings since she was a country, and we are going to try now whether we are to be governed in future by our kings or by every tinker, tailor, preacher, or thief sent up to Westminster. I know which is my choice, and to-morrow I shall set about raising a troop of lads of the same mind."

"You mean to take me, sir, I hope," Harry said.

"Take you?" his lather repeated, laughing. "To do what?"

"To fight, certainly," Harry replied. "I am sure that among the tenants there is not one who could use the small sword as I can, for you have taught me yourself, and I do not think that I should be more afraid of the London pikemen than the best of them."

"No, no, Harry," his father said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder; "I do not doubt your bravery. You come of a fighting stock indeed, and good blood cannot lie. But you are too young, my boy."

"But if the war goes on for a couple of years, father."

"Ay, ay, my boy; but I hope that it will be ended in a couple of months. If it should last -- which God forbid! -- you shall have your chance, never fear. Or, Harry, should you hear that aught has happened to me, mount your horse at once, my boy; ride to the army, and take your place at the head of my tenants. They will of course put an older hand in command; but so long as a Furness is alive, whatever be his age, he must ride at the head of the Furness tenants to strike for the king. I hear, by the way, Harry, that that Puritan knave, Rippinghall, the wool-stapler, is talking treason among his hands, and says that he will add a brave contingent to the bands of the Commons when they march hither. Hast heard aught about it?"

"Nothing, father, but I hope it is not true. I know, however, that Master Rippinghall's thoughts and opinions lie in that direction, for I have heard from Herbert -- "

"Ah, the son of the wool-stapler. Hark you, Harry, this is a time when we must all take sides for or against the king. Hitherto I have permitted your acquaintance with the wool-stapler's son, though, in truth, he be by birth no fit companion for you. But times have changed now. The sword is going to be drawn, and friends of the king can no longer be grip hands with friends of the Commons. Did my own brother draw sword for Parliament, we would never speak again. Dost hear?"

"Yes, sir; and will of course obey your order, should you determine that I must speak no more to Herbert. But, as you say, I am a boy yet, too young to ride to the wars, and Herbert is no older. It will be time for us to quarrel when it is time for us to draw the sword."

"That is so, Harry, and I do not altogether forbid you speaking with him. Still the less you are seen together, the better. I like the lad, and have made him welcome here for your sake. He is a thoughtful lad, and a clever one; but it is your thoughtful men who plot treason, and until the storm be overpast, it is best that you see as little of him as may be. And now I have eaten my supper, and it is long past the time that you should have been in bed. Send down word by Thomas Hardway to Master Drake, my steward, to bid him send early in the morning notices that all my tenants shall assemble here to-morrow at four in the afternoon, and bid the cook come to me. We shall have a busy day to-morrow, for the Furness tenantry never gather at the hall and go out empty. And short though be the notice, they shall not do so this time, which to some of us may, perchance, be the last."

The next day there was bustle and hurry at Furness Hall. The ponds were dragged for fish; the poultry yard was scoured for its finest birds; the keepers were early afield, and when they returned with piles of hares and rabbits, these were seized by the cook and converted into huge pies and pasties. Two sheep were slaughtered, and the scullions were hard at work making confections of currants, gooseberries, plums, and other fruits from the garden. In the great hall the tables were laid, and when this was done, and all was in readiness, the serving men were called up to the armory, and there, throughout the day, the cleaning of swords and iron caps, the burnishing of breast and back pieces, the cleaning of firelocks, and other military work went on with all haste.

The Furness estates covered many a square mile of Berkshire, and fifty sturdy yeomen dismounted before Furness Hall at the hour named by Sir Henry. A number of grooms and serving men were in attendance, and took the horses as they rode up, while the major-domo conducted them to the great picture gallery. Here they were received by Sir Henry with a stately cordiality, and the maids handed round a great silver goblet filled with spiced wine.

At four exactly the major-domo entered and announced that the quota was complete, and that every one of those summoned was present.

"Serve the tables then," Sir Henry said, as he led the Way to the great dining-hall.

Sir Henry took the head of the broad table, and bade Harry sit on his right hand, while the oldest of the tenants faced him at the opposite end. Then a troop of servants entered bearing smoking joints, cold boars' heads, fish, turkeys, geese, and larded capons. These were placed upon the table, with an abundance of French wine, and of strong ale for those who preferred it, to wash down the viands. The first courses were followed by dishes of meats and confections, and when all was finished and cleared away Sir Henry Furness rose to his feet.

"Fill your glasses all," he said; "and bumpers. The toast which I give you to-day is 'The king, God bless him.' Never should Englishmen drink his health more earnestly and solemnly than to-day, when rebels have driven him from his capital, and pestilent traitors threatened him with armed force. Perhaps, my friends, you, like me, may from time to time have grumbled when the tax-collectors have come round, and you have seen no one warrant for their demands. But if the king has been forced so to exceed his powers, it was in no slight degree because those at Westminster refused to grant him the sums which were needful. He has, too, been surrounded by bad advisers. I myself loved not greatly either Stratford or Laud. But I would rather bear their high-handed ways, which were at least aimed to strengthen the kingdom and for the honor of the king, than be ground by these petty tyrants at Westminster, who would shut up our churches, forbid us to smile on a Sunday, or to pray, except through our noses; who would turn merry England into a canting conventicle, and would rule us with a rod to which that of the king were as a willow wand. Therefore it is the duty of all true men and good to drink the health of his majesty the king, and confusion to his enemies."

Upstanding, and with enthusiastic shouts, the whole of the tenants drank the toast. Sir Henry was pleased with the spirit which was manifested, and when the cheering had subsided and quiet was again restored, he went on:

"My friends, I have summoned you here to tell you what many of you no doubt know already -- that the king, driven from London by the traitors of Parliament, who would take from him all power, would override the peers, and abolish the Church, has appealed to his faithful subjects to stand by him, and to maintain his cause. He will, ere a fortnight be past, raise his banner at Nottingham. Already Sir John Hotham, the rebel Governor of York, has closed the gates of that city to him, and it is time that all loyal men were on foot to aid his cause. Lord Falkland has been pleased to grant me a commission to raise a troop of horse in his service, and I naturally come to you first, to ask you to follow me."

He paused a moment, and a shout of assent rang through the hall.

"There are," he said, "some among you whom years may prevent from yourselves undertaking the hardships of the field, but these can send substitutes in their sons. You will understand that none are compelled to go; but I trust that from the long-standing friendship between us, and from the duty which you each owe to the king, none will hold back. Do I understand that all here are willing to join, or to furnish substitutes?"

A general shout of "All" broke from the tenants.

"Thank you, my friends, I expected nothing else. This will give me fifty good men, and true, and I hope that each will be able to bring with him one, two, or more men, in proportion to the size of his holding. I shall myself bear the expense of the arms and outfit of all these; but we must not strip the land of hands. Farming must still go on, for people must feed, even if there be war. As to the rents, we must waive our agreements while the war lasts. Each man will pay me what proportion of his rent he is able, and no more. The king will need money as well as men, and as all I receive will be at his service, I know that each of you will pay as much as he can to aid the common cause. I have here a list of your names. My son will take it round to each, and will write down how many men each of you may think to bring with him to the war. No man must be taken unwillingly. I want only those whose hearts are in the cause. My son is grieving that he is not old enough to ride with us; but should aught befall me in the strife, I have bade him ride and take his place among you."

Another cheer arose, and Harry went round the table taking down the names and numbers of the men, and when his total was added up, it was found that those present believed that they could bring a hundred men with them into the field.

"This is beyond my hopes," Sir Harry said, as amid great cheering he announced the result. "I myself will raise another fifty from my grooms, gardeners, and keepers, and from brave lads I can gather in the village, and I shall be proud indeed when I present to his majesty two hundred men of Furness, ready to die in his defense."

After this there was great arrangement of details. Each tenant gave a list of the arms which he possessed and the number of horses fit for work, and as in those days, by the law of the land each man, of whatsoever his degree, was bound to keep arms in order to join the militia, should his services be required for the defense of the kingdom, the stock of arms was, with the contents of Sir Henry's armory, found to be sufficient for the number of men who were to be raised. It was eight o'clock in the evening before all was arranged, and the party broke up and separated to their homes.

For the next week there was bustle and preparation on the Furness estates, as, indeed, through all England. As yet, however, the Parliament were gathering men far more rapidly than the king. The Royalists of England were slow to perceive how far the Commons intended to press their demands, and could scarcely believe that civil war was really to break out. The friends of the Commons, however, were everywhere in earnest. The preachers in the conventicles throughout the land denounced the king in terms of the greatest violence, and in almost every town the citizens were arming and drilling. Lord Essex, who commanded the Parliamentary forces, was drawing toward Northampton with ten thousand men, consisting mainly of the train-bands of London; while the king, with only a few hundred followers, was approaching Nottingham, where he proposed to unfurl his standard and appeal to his subjects.

In a week from the day of the appeal of Sir Henry two troops, each of a hundred men strong, drew up in front of Furness Hall. To the eye of a soldier accustomed to the armies of the Continent, with their bands trained by long and constant warfare, the aspect of this troop might not have appeared formidable. Each man was dressed according to his fancy. Almost all wore jack-boots coming nigh to the hip, iron breast and back pieces, and steel caps. Sir Henry Furness and four gentlemen, his friends, who had seen service in the Low Countries, and had now gladly joined his band, took their places, Sir Henry himself at the head of the body, and two officers with each troop. They, too, were clad in high boots, with steel breast and back pieces, thick buff leather gloves, and the wide felt hats with feathers which were worn in peace time. During the war some of the Royalist officers wore iron caps as did their foes. But the majority, in a spirit of defiance and contempt of their enemies, wore the wide hat of the times, which, picturesque and graceful as it was, afforded but a poor defense for the head. Almost all wore their hair long and in ringlets, and across their shoulders were the white scarfs typical of their loyalty to the king. Harry bestrode a fine horse which his father had given him, and had received permission to ride for half the day's march by his side at the head of the troop. The trumpeter sounded the call, Sir Henry stood up in his stirrups, drew his sword and waved it over his head, and shouted "For God and King." Two hundred swords flashed in the air, and the answering shout came out deep and full. Then the swords were sheathed, the horses' heads turned, and with a jingle of sabers and accouterments the troop rode gayly out through the gates of the park.

Upon their way north they were joined by more than one band of Cavaliers marching in the same direction, and passed, too, several bodies of footmen, headed by men with closely-cropped heads, and somber figures, beside whom generally marched others whom their attire proclaimed to be Puritan preachers, on their way to join the army of Essex. The parties scowled at each other as they passed; but as yet no sword had been drawn on either side, and without adventure they arrived at Nottingham.

Having distributed his men among the houses of the town, Sir Henry Furness rode to the castle, where his majesty had arrived the day before. He had already the honor of the personal acquaintance of the king, for he had in one of the early parliaments sat for Oxford. Disgusted, however, with the spirit that prevailed among the opponents of the king, and also by the obstinacy and unconstitutional course pursued by his majesty, he had at the dissolution of Parliament retired to his estate, and when the next House was summoned, declined to stand again for his seat.

"Welcome, Sir Henry," his majesty said graciously to him, "you are among the many who withstood me somewhat in the early days of my reign, and perchance you were right to do so; but who have now, in my need, rallied round me, seeing whither the purpose of these traitorous subjects of mine leads them. You are the more welcome that you have, as I hear, brought two hundred horsemen with you, a number larger than any which has yet joined me. These," he said, pointing to two young noblemen near him, "are my nephews, Rupert and Maurice, who have come to join me."

Upon making inquiries, Sir Henry found that the prospects of the king were far from bright. So far, the Royalists had been sadly behindhand with their preparations. The king had arrived with scarce four hundred men. He had left his artillery behind at York for want of carriage, and his need in arms was even greater than in men, as the arsenals of the kingdom had all been seized by the Parliament. Essex lay at Northampton with ten thousand men, and had he at this time advanced, even the most sanguine of the Royalists saw that the struggle would be a hopeless one.

The next day, at the hour appointed, the royal standard was raised on the Castle of Nottingham, in the midst of a great storm of wind and rain, which before many hours had passed blew the royal standard to the ground -- an omen which those superstitiously inclined deemed of evil augury indeed. The young noblemen and gentlemen, however, who had gathered at Northampton, were not of a kind to be daunted by omens and auguries, and finding that Essex did not advance and hearing news from all parts of the country that the loyal gentlemen were gathering their tenants fast, their hopes rose rapidly. There was, indeed, some discontent when it was known that, by the advice of his immediate councilors, King Charles had dispatched the Earl of Southampton with Sir John Collpeper and Sir William Uvedale to London, with orders to treat with the Commons. The Parliament, however, refused to enter into any negotiations whatever until the king lowered his standard and recalled the proclamation which he had issued. This, which would have been a token of absolute surrender to the Parliament, the king refused to do. He attempted a further negotiation; but this also failed.

The troops at Nottingham now amounted to eleven hundred men, of which three hundred were infantry raised by Sir John Digby, the sheriff of the county. The other eight hundred were horse. Upon the breaking off of negotiations, and the advance of Essex, the king, sensible that he was unable to resist the advance of Essex, who had now fifteen thousand men collected under him, fell back to Derby, and thence to Shrewsbury, being joined on his way by many nobles and gentlemen with their armed followers. At Wellington, a town a day's march from Shrewsbury, the king had his little army formed up, and made a solemn declaration before them in which he promised to maintain the Protestant religion, to observe the laws, and to uphold the just privileges and freedom of Parliament.

The Furness band were not present on that occasion, as they had been dispatched to Worcester with some other soldiers, the whole under the command of Prince Rupert, in order to watch the movements of Essex, who was advancing in that direction. While scouring the ground around the city, they came upon a body of Parliamentary cavalry, the advance of the army of Essex. The bands drew up at a little distance from each other, and then Prince Rupert gave the command to charge. With the cheer of "For God and the king!" the troop rushed upon the cavalry of the Parliament with such force and fury that they broke them utterly, and killing many, drove them in confusion from the field, but small loss to themselves.

This was the first action of the civil war, the first blood drawn by Englishmen from Englishmen since the troubles in the commencement of the reign of Mary.



Chapter III.

A Brawl At Oxford.


News in those days traveled but slowly, and England was full of conflicting rumors as to the doings of the two armies. Every one was unsettled. Bodies of men moving to join one or other of the parties kept the country in an uproar, and the Cavaliers, or rather the toughs of the towns calling themselves Cavaliers, brought much odium upon the royal cause by the ill-treatment of harmless citizens, and by raids on inoffensive country people. Later on this conduct was to be reversed and the Royalists were to suffer tenfold the outrages now put upon the Puritans. But there can be no doubt that the conduct of irresponsible ruffians at that time did much to turn the flood of public opinion in many places, where it would otherwise have remained neutral, against the crown.

To Harry the time passed but slowly. He spent his days in Abingdon hearing the latest news, and occasionally rode over to Oxford. This city was throughout the civil war the heart of the Royalist party, and its loss was one of the heaviest blows which befell the crown. Here Harry found none but favorable reports current. Enthusiasm was at its height. The university was even more loyal than the town, and bands of lads smashed the windows of those persons who were supposed to favor the Parliament. More than once Harry saw men pursued through the streets, pelted with stones and mud, and in some cases escaping barely with their lives. Upon one occasion, seeing a person in black garments and of respectable appearance so treated, the boy's indignation was aroused, for he himself, both from his conversations with his friend Herbert, and the talk with his father, was, although enthusiastically Royalist, yet inclined to view with respect those who held opposite opinions.

"Run down that alley!" he exclaimed, pushing his horse between the fugitive and his pursuers.

The man darted down the lane, and Harry placed himself at the entrance, and shouted to the rabble to abstain.

A yell of rage and indignation replied, and a volley of stones was thrown. Harry fearlessly drew his sword, and cut at some of those who were in the foreground. These retaliated with sticks, and Harry was forced backward into the lane. This was too narrow to enable him to turn, his horse, and his position was a critical one. Finding that he was a mark for stones, he leaped from the saddle, thereby disappearing from the sight of those in the ranks behind, and sword in hand, barred the way to the foremost of his assailants. The contest, however, would have been brief had not a party of young students come up the lane, and seeing from Harry's attire that he was a gentleman, and likely to be of Cavalier opinions, they at once, without inquiring the cause of the fray, threw themselves into it, shouting "Gown! gown!" They speedily drove the assailants back out of the lane; but these, reinforced by the great body beyond, were then too strong for them. The shouts of the young men, however, brought up others to their assistance, and a general melee took place, townsmen and gownsmen throwing themselves into the fray without any inquiry as to the circumstances from which it arose. The young students carried swords, which, although contrary to the statutes of the university, were for the time generally adopted. The townspeople were armed with bludgeons, and in some cases with hangers, and the fray was becoming a serious one, when it was abruptly terminated by the arrival of a troop of horse, which happened to be coming into the town to join the royal forces. The officer in command, seeing so desperate a tumult raging, ordered his men to charge into the crowd, and their interference speedily put an end to the fight.

Harry returned to their rooms with some of his protectors and their wounds were bound up, and the circumstances of the fight were talked over. Harry was much blamed by the college men when he said that he had been drawn into the fray by protecting a Puritan. But when his new friends learned that he was as thoroughly Royalist as themselves, and that his father had gone with a troop to Nottingham, they took a more favorable view of his action, but still assured him that it was the height of folly to interfere to protect a rebel from the anger of the townspeople.

"But, methinks," Harry said, "that it were unwise in the extreme to push matters so far here. In Oxford the Royalists have it all their own way, and can, of course, at will assault their Puritan neighbors. But it is different in most other towns. There the Roundheads have the upper hand and might retort by doing ill to the Cavaliers there. Surely it were better to keep these unhappy differences out of private life, and to trust the arbitration of our cause to the arms of our soldiers in the field."

There was a general agreement that this would indeed be the wisest course; but the young fellows were of opinion that hot heads on either side would have their way, and that if the war went on attacks of this kind by the one party on the other must be looked for.

Harry remained for some time with his friends in Christ church, drinking the beer for which the college was famous. Then, mounting his horse, he rode back to Abingdon.

Two days later, as he was proceeding toward the town, he met a man dressed as a preacher.

"Young sir," the latter said, "may I ask if you are Master Furness?"

"I am," the lad replied.

"Then it is to you I am indebted for my rescue from those who assaulted me in the streets of Oxford last week. In the confusion I could not see your face, but I inquired afterward, and was told that my preserver was Master Furness, and have come over to thank you for your courtesy and bravery in thus intervening on behalf of one whom I think you regard as an enemy, for I understand that Sir Henry, your father, has declared for the crown."

"I acted," Harry said, "simply on the impulse of humanity, and hold it mean and cowardly for a number of men to fall upon one."

"We are," the preacher continued, "at the beginning only of our troubles, and the time may come when I, Zachariah Stubbs, may be able to return to you the good service which you have done me. Believe me, young sir, the feeling throughout England is strong for the Commons, and that it will not be crushed out, as some men suppose, even should the king's men gain a great victory over Essex -- which, methinks, is not likely. There are tens of thousands throughout the country who are now content to remain quiet at home, who would assuredly draw the sword and go forth to battle, should they consider their cause in danger. The good work has begun, and the sword will not be sheathed until the oppressor is laid low."

"We should differ who the oppressor is," Harry replied coldly. "I myself am young to discuss these matters, but my father and those who think with him consider that the oppression is at present on the side of the Commons, and of those whose religious views you share. While pretending to wish to be free, you endeavor to bind others beneath your tyranny. While wishing to worship in your way unmolested, you molest those who wish to worship in theirs. However, I thank you for your offer, that should the time come your good services will be at my disposal. As you say, the issue of the conflict is dark, and it may be, though I trust it will not, that some day you may, if you will, return the light service which I rendered you."

"You will not forget my name?" the preacher said -- "Zachariah Stubbs, a humble instrument of the Lord, and a preacher in the Independent chapel at Oxford. Thither I cannot return, and am on my way to London, where I have many friends, and where I doubt not a charge will be found for me. I myself belong to the east countries, where the people are strong for the Lord, and I doubt not that some of those I know will come to the front of affairs, in which case my influence may perhaps be of more service than you can suppose at present. Farewell, young sir, and whatever be the issues of this struggle, I trust that you may safely emerge from them."

The man lifted his broad black hat, and went on his way, and Harry rode forward, smiling a little to himself at the promise given him.

The time passed slowly, and all kinds of rumors filled the land. At length beacon fires were seen to blaze upon the hills, and, as it was known that the Puritans had arranged with Essex that the news of a victory was so to be conveyed to London, the hearts of the Royalists sank, for they feared that disaster had befallen their cause. The next day, however, horsemen of the Parliament galloping through the country proclaimed that they had been defeated; but it was not till next day that the true state of affairs became known. Then the news came that the battle had indeed been a drawn one.

On the 26th of October Charles marched with his army into Oxford. So complete was the ignorance of the inhabitants as to the movements of the armies that at Abingdon the news of his coming was unknown, and Harry was astonished on the morning of the 27th at hearing a great trampling of horsemen. Looking out, he beheld his father at the head of the troop, approaching the house. With a shout of joy the lad rushed downstairs and met his father at the entrance.

"I did not look to be back so soon, Harry," Sir Henry said, as he alighted from his horse. "We arrived at Oxford last night, and I am sent on with my troop to see that no Parliament bands are lurking in the neighborhood."

Before entering the house the colonel dismissed his troop, telling them that until the afternoon they could return to their homes, but must then re-assemble and hold themselves in readiness to advance, should he receive further orders. Then, accompanied by his officers, he entered the house. Breakfast was speedily prepared, and when this was done justice to Sir Henry proceeded to relate to Harry, who was burning with impatience to hear his news, the story of the battle of Edgehill.

"We reached Shrewsbury, as I wrote you," he said, "and stayed there twenty days, and during that time the army swelled and many nobles and gentlemen joined us. We were, however, it must be owned, but a motley throng. The foot soldiers, indeed, were mostly armed with muskets; but many had only sticks and cudgels. On the 12th we moved to Wolverhampton, and so on through Birmingham and Kenilworth. We saw nothing of the rebels till we met at Edgecot, a little hamlet near Banbury, where we took post on a hill, the rebels being opposite to us. It must be owned," Sir Henry went on, "that things here did not promise well. There were dissensions between Prince Rupert, who commanded the cavalry, and Lord Lindsey, the general in chief, who is able and of great courage, but hot-headed and fiery. In the morning it was determined to engage, as Essex's forces had not all come up, and the king's troops were at least as numerous as those of the enemy. We saw little of the fighting, for at the commencement of the battle we got word to charge upon the enemy's left. We made but short work of them, and drove them headlong from the field, chasing them in great disorder for three miles, and taking much plunder in Kineton among the Parliament baggage-wagons. Thinking that the fight was over, we then prepared to ride back. When we came to the field we found that all was changed. The main body of the Roundheads had pressed hotly upon ours and had driven them back. Lord Lindsey himself, who had gone into the battle at the head of the pikemen carrying a pike himself like a common soldier, had been mortally wounded and taken prisoner, and grievous slaughter had been inflicted. The king's standard itself had been taken, but this had been happily recovered, for two Royalist officers, putting on orange scarfs, rode into the middle of the Roundheads, and pretending that they were sent by Essex, demanded the flag from his secretary, to whom it had been intrusted. The scrivener gave it up, and the officers, seizing it, rode through the enemy and recovered their ranks. There was much confusion and no little angry discussion in the camp that night, the footmen accusing the horsemen of having deserted them, and the horsemen grumbling at the foot, because they had not done their work as well as themselves. In the morning the two armies still faced each other, neither being willing to budge a foot, although neither cared to renew the battle. The rest of the Parliamentary forces had arrived, and they might have struck us a heavy blow had they been minded, for there was much discouragement in our ranks. Lord Essex, however, after waiting a day and burying his dead, drew off from the field, and we, remaining there, were able to claim the victory, which, however, my son, was one of a kind which was scarce worth winning. It was a sad sight to see so many men stretched stark and dead, and these killed, not in fighting with a foreign foe, but with other Englishmen. It made us all mightily sad, and if at that moment Lord Essex had had full power from the Parliament to treat, methinks that the quarrel could have been settled, all being mightily sick of such kind of fighting."

"What is going to be done now, father?" Harry asked.

"We are going to move forward toward London. Essex is moving parallel with us, and will try to get there first. From what we hear from our friends in the city, there are great numbers of moderate men will be glad to see the king back, and to agree to make an end of this direful business. The zealots and preachers will of course oppose them. But when we arrive, we trust that our countenance will enable our friends to make a good front, and to overcome the opposition of the Puritans. We expect that in a few days we shall meet with offers to treat. But whether or no, I hope that the king will soon be lodged again in his palace at Whitehall."

"And do you think that there will be any fighting, sir?"

"I think not. I sincerely hope not," the colonel said.

"Then if you think that there will only be a peaceable entry, will you not let me ride with you? It will be a brave sight to see the king enter London again; one to tell of all one's life."

The colonel made no reply for a minute or two.

"Well, Harry, I will not say you nay," he said at length. "Scenes of broils and civil war are not for lads of your age. But, as you say, it would be a thing to talk of to old age how you rode after the king when he entered London in state. But mind, if there be fighting, you must rein back and keep out of it."

Harry was overjoyed with the permission, for in truth time had hung heavily on his hands since the colonel had ridden away. His companionship with Herbert had ceased, for although the lads pressed hands warmly when they met in Abingdon, both felt that while any day might bring news of the triumph of one party or the other, it was impossible that they could hold any warm intercourse with each other. The school was closed, for the boys of course took sides, and so much ill-will was caused that it was felt best to put a stop to it by closing the doors. Harry therefore had been left entirely upon his own resources, and although he had ridden about among the tenants and, so far as he could, supplied his father's place, the time often hung heavy on his hands, especially during the long hours of the evening. After thanking his father for his kindness, he rushed wildly off to order his horse to be prepared for him to accompany the troop, to re-burnish the arms which he had already chosen as fitting him from the armory, and to make what few preparations were necessary for the journey.

It was some days, however, before any move was made. The king was occupied in raising money, being sorely crippled by want of funds, as well as of arms and munitions of war. At the beginning of November the advance was made, Sir Henry with his troop joining Prince Rupert, and advancing through Reading without opposition as far as Maidenhead, where he fixed his quarters. Two days later he learned that Essex had arrived with his army in London. On the 11th King Charles was at Colnbrook. Here he received a deputation from the Houses of Parliament, who proposed that the king should pause in his advance until committees of both Houses should attend him with propositions "for the removal of these bloody distempers and distractions." The king received the deputation favorably, and said that he would stop at Windsor, and there receive the propositions which might be sent him.

Unfortunately, however, the hopes which were now entertained that peace would be restored, were dashed to the ground by an action which was ascribed by the Royalists to the hotheadedness of Prince Rupert, but which the king's enemies affirmed was due to the duplicity of his majesty himself. On this point there is no evidence. But it is certain that the advance made after this deputation had been received rendered all further negotiation impossible, as it inspired the Commons with the greatest distrust, and enabled the violent portion always to feign a doubt of the king's word, and great fears as to the keeping of any terms which might be made, and so to act upon the timid and wavering. The very day after the deputation had left, bearing the news to London of the king's readiness to treat, and inspiring all there with hope of peace, Prince Rupert, taking advantage of a very thick mist, marched his cavalry to within half a mile of the town of Brentford before his advance was discovered, designing to surprise the train of artillery at Hammersmith and to push on and seize the Commons and the city.

The design might have been successful, for the exploits of Rupert's horse at the battle of Edgehill had struck terror into the minds of the enemy. In the town of Brentford, however, were lodged a regiment of foot, under Hollis, and these prepared manfully to resist. Very valiantly the prince, followed by his horse, charged into the streets of Brentford, where the houses were barricaded by the foot soldiers, who shot boldly against them. Many were killed, and for three hours the contest was resolutely maintained. The streets had been barricaded, and Prince Rupert's men fought at great disadvantage. At length, as evening approached, and the main body of the Cavaliers came up, the Parliament men gave way, and were driven from the town. Many were taken prisoners, and others driven into the river, the greater portion, however, making their way in boats safely down the stream. The delay which their sturdy resistance had made saved the city. Hampden was bringing his men across from Acton. Essex had marched from Chelsea Fields to Turnham Green, and the road was now blocked. After it was dark the Train-Bands advanced, and the Parliament regiments, reinforced by them, pushed on to Brentford again; the Royalists, finding that the place could not be held, fell back to the king's quarters at Hounslow.

The chroniclers describe how wild a scene of confusion reigned in London that evening. Proclamations were issued ordering all men to take up arms; shops were closed, the apprentice boys mustered in the ranks, and citizens poured out like one man to defend the town. They encamped upon the road, and the next day great trains of provisions sent by the wives of the merchants and traders reached them, and as many came out to see the forces, the scene along the road resembled a great fair.

In this fight at Brentford Harry Furness was engaged. The Royalists had anticipated no resistance here, not knowing that Hollis held the place, and Sir Henry did not think of ordering Harry to remain behind. At the moment when it was found that Hollis was in force and the trumpets sounded the charge, the lad was riding in the rear of the troop, talking to one of the officers, and his father could take no step to prevent his joining. Therefore, when the trumpets sounded and the troops started off at full gallop toward the town, Harry, greatly exulting in his good luck, fell in with them and rode down the streets of Brentford. The musketry fire was brisk, and many of the troop rolled from their horses. Presently they were dismounted and ordered to take the houses by storm. With the hilts of their swords they broke in the doors, and there was fierce lighting within.

Harry, who was rather bewildered with the din and turmoil of the fight, did as the rest, and followed two or three of the men into one of the houses, whose door had been broken open. They were assailed as they entered by a fire of musketry from the Parliament men within. Those in front fell, and Harry was knocked down by the butt of a pike.

When he recovered he found himself in a boat drifting down the stream, a prisoner of the Roundheads.

For a long time Harry could hear the sounds of the guns and cannon at Brentford, and looking round at the quiet villages which they passed on the banks, could scarce believe that he had been engaged in a battle and was now a prisoner. But little was said to him. The men were smarting under their defeat and indulged in the bitterest language at the treachery with which, after negotiations had been agreed upon, the advance of the Royalists had been made. They speedily discovered the youth of their captive, and, after telling him brutally that he would probably be hung when he got to London, they paid no further attention to him. The boat was heavily laden, and rowed by two oars, and the journey down was a long one, for the tide met them when at the village of Hammersmith, and they were forced to remain tied up to a tree by the bank until it turned again. This it did not do until far in the night, and the morning was just breaking when they reached London.

It was perhaps well for Harry that they arrived in the dark, for in the excited state of the temper of the citizens, and their anger at the treachery which had been practiced, it might have fared but badly with him. He was marched along the Strand to the city, and was consigned to a lock-up in Finsbury, until it could be settled what should be done to him. In fact, the next day his career was nearly being terminated, for John Lilburn, a captain of the Train Bands, who had been an apprentice and imprisoned for contumacy, had been captured at Brentford, and after being tried for his life, was sentenced to death as a rebel. Essex, however, sent in word to the Royalist camp that for every one of the Parliament officers put to death, he would hang three Royalist prisoners. This threat had its effect, and Harry remained in ignorance of the danger which had threatened him.

The greatest inconvenience which befell him was that he was obliged to listen to all sorts of long harangues upon the part of the Puritan soldiers who were his jailers. These treated him as a misguided lad, and did their best to convert him from the evil of his ways. At last Harry lost his temper, and said that if they wanted to hang him, they might; but that he would rather put up with that than the long sermons which they were in the habit of delivering to him. Indignant at this rejection of their good offices, they left him to himself, and days passed without his receiving any visit save that of the soldier who brought his meals.



Chapter IV.

Breaking Prison.


Harry's place of confinement was a cell leading off a guardroom of the Train Bands. Occasionally the door was left open, as some five or six men were always there, and Harry could see through the open door the citizens of London training at arms. Several preachers were in the habit of coming each day to discourse to those on guard, and so while away the time, and upon these occasions the door was generally left open, in order that the prisoner might be edified by the sermons. Upon one occasion the preacher, a small, sallow-visaged man, looked into the cell at the termination of his discourse, and seeing Harry asleep on his truckle bed, awoke him, and lectured him severely on the wickedness of allowing such precious opportunities to pass. After this he made a point of coming in each day when he had addressed the guard, and of offering up a long and very tedious prayer on behalf of the young reprobate. These preachings and prayings nearly drove Harry out of his mind. Confinement was bad enough; but confinement tempered by a course of continual sermons, delivered mostly through the nose, was a terrible infliction. At last the thought presented itself to him that he might manage to effect his escape in the garb of the preacher. He thought the details over and over in his mind, and at last determined at any rate to attempt to carry them into execution.

One day he noticed, when the door opened for the entry of the preacher, that a parade of unusual magnitude was being held in the drill yard, some officer of importance having come down to inspect the Train Band. There were but four men left in the guardroom and these were occupied in gazing out of the window. The preacher came direct into the cell, as his audience in the guardroom for once were not disposed to listen to him, and shutting the door behind him, he addressed a few words of exhortation to Harry, and then, closing his eyes, began a long prayer. When he was fairly under way, Harry sprang upon him, grasping him by the throat with both hands, and forced him back upon the bed. The little preacher was too much surprised to offer the smallest resistance, and Harry, who had drawn out the cords used in supporting the sacking of the bed, bound him hand and foot, keeping, while he did so, the pillow across his face, and his weight on the top of the pillow, thereby nearly putting a stop to the preacher's prayers and exhortations for all time. Having safely bound him, and finding that he did not struggle in the least, Harry removed the pillow, and was horrified to see his prisoner black in the face. He had, however, no time for regret or inquiry how far the man had gone, and stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth, to prevent his giving any alarm should he recover breath enough to do so, Harry placed his high steeple hat upon his head, his Geneva bands round his throat, and his long black mantle over his shoulders. He then opened the door and walked quietly forth. The guards were too much occupied with the proceedings in the parade ground to do more than glance round, as the apparent preacher departed. Harry strode with a long and very stiff step, and with his figure bolt upright, to the gate of the parade ground, and then passing through the crowd who were standing there gaping at the proceedings within, he issued forth a free man.

For awhile he walked at a brisk pace, and then, feeling secure from pursuit, slackened his speed; keeping westward through the city, he passed along the Strand and out into the country beyond. He wore his beaver well down over his eyes, and walked with his head down as if meditating deeply, in order to prevent any passers-by from observing the youthfulness of his face. When he arrived at the village of Chelsea, he saw, in front of a gentleman's house, a horse hitched up to a hook placed there for that purpose. Conceiving that for a long journey four legs are much more useful than two, and that when he got beyond the confines of London he should attract less suspicion upon a horse than if striding alone along the road, he took the liberty of mounting it and riding off. When he had gone a short distance he heard loud shouts; but thinking these in no way to concern him, he rode on the faster, and was soon beyond the sound of the voices. He now took a northerly direction, traveled through Kensington, and then keeping east of Acton, where he knew that some Parliament troops were quartered, he rode for the village of Harrow. He was aware that the Royalists had fallen back to Oxford, and that the Parliament troops were at Reading. He therefore made to the northwest, intending to circuit round and so reach Oxford. He did not venture to go to an inn, for although, as a rule, the keepers of these places were, being jovial men, in no way affected toward the Commons, yet he feared meeting there persons who might question and detain him. He obtained some provision at a small village shop, in which he saw a buxom woman standing behind her counter. She appeared vastly surprised when he entered and asked for a manchet of bread, for the contrast between his ruddy countenance and his Puritan hat and bands was so striking that they could not fail to be noticed. The good woman looked indeed too astonished to be able to attend to Harry's request, and he was obliged to say, "Mother, time presses, and I care not to be caught loitering here."

Divining at once that he was acting a part, and probably endeavoring to escape the pursuit of the Commons, the good woman at once served him with bread and some slices of ham, and putting these in the wallets of the saddle, he rode on.

The next morning, in riding through the village of Wickham, his career was nearly arrested. Just as he passed a sergeant followed by three or four Parliament soldiers came out from an inn, and seeing Harry riding past, addressed him:

"Sir, will it please you to alight, and to offer up a few words of exhortation and prayer?"

Harry muttered something about pressing business. But in his sudden surprise he had not time to think of assuming either the nasal drone or the scriptural words peculiar to these black-coated gentry. Struck by his tone, the sergeant sprang forward and seized his bridle.

"Whom have we here?" he said; "a lad masquerading in the dress of a preacher. This must be explained, young sir."

"Sergeant," Harry said, "I doubt not that thou art a good fellow, and not one to get a lad in a scrape. I am the son of a London citizen; but he and my mother are at present greatly more occupied with the state of their souls than with the carrying on of their carnal business. Being young, the constant offering up of prayers and exhortations has vexed me almost to desperation, and yesterday, while the good preacher who attends then was in the midst of the third hour of his discourse I stole downstairs, and borrowing his hat and cloak, together with his horse, determined to set out to join my uncle, who is a farmer down in Gloucestershire, and where in sooth the companionship of his daughters -- girls of my own age -- suits my disposition greatly better than that of the excellent men with whom my father consorts."

The soldiers laughed, and the sergeant, who was not at heart a bad fellow, said:

"I fear, my young sir, that your disposition is a godless one, and that it would have been far better for you to have remained under the ministration of the good man whose hat you are wearing than to have sought the society of your pretty cousins. However, I do not know but that in the unregenerate days of my own youth I might not have attempted an escapade like yours. I trust," he continued, "you are not tainted with the evil doctrines of the adherents of King Charles."

"In truth," Harry said, "I worry not my head with politics. I hear so much of them that I am fairly sick of the subject, and have not yet decided whether the Commons is composed of an assembly of men directly inspired with power for the regeneration of mankind, or whether King Charles be a demon in human shape. Methinks that when I grow old enough to bear arms it will be time enough for me to make up my mind against whom to use them. At present, a clothyard is the stick to which I am most accustomed, and as plows and harrows are greatly more in accord with my disposition, I hope that for a long time I shall not see the interior of a shop again; and I trust that the quarrels which have brought such trouble into this realm, and have well-nigh made my father and mother distraught, will at least favor my sojourn in the country, for I am sure that my father will not venture to traverse England for the sake of bringing me back again."

"I am not sure," the sergeant said, "that my duty would not be to arrest you and to send you back to London. But as, in truth, I have no instructions to hinder travelers, I must even let you go."

With a merry farewell to the group, and a laugh far more in accordance with his years than with the costume which he wore, Harry set spurs to his horse and again rode forward.

He met with no further adventure on the road. When he found by inquiries that he had passed the outposts of the Parliament forces, he joyfully threw the hat, the bands, and cloak into a ditch, for experience had taught him that, however useful as a passport they might be while still within the lines of the troops of the Commons, they would be likely to procure him but scant welcome when he entered those of the Royalists. Round Oxford the royal army were encamped, and Harry speedily discovered that his father was with his troop at his own place. Turning his head again eastward, he rode to Abingdon, and quickly afterward was at the hall.

The shout of welcome which the servitor who opened the door uttered when he saw him speedily brought his father to the entrance, and Sir Henry was overjoyed at seeing the son whom he believed to be in confinement in London. Harry's tale was soon told, and the colonel roared with laughter at the thought of his boy masquerading as a Puritan preacher.

"King Charles himself," he said, "might smile over your story, Harry; and in faith it takes a great deal to call up a smile into his majesty's face, which is, methinks a pity, for he would be more loved, and not less respected, did he, by his appearance and manner, do something to raise the spirits of those around him."

When once seated in the hall Harry inquired of his father what progress had been made since he was taken prisoner, for he had heard nothing from his guards.

"Things are as they were," his father said. "After our unfortunate advance we fell back hither, and for six weeks nothing was done. A fortnight since, on the 2d of January, a petition was brought by deputies from the Common Council of London, asking the king to return to the capital when all disturbance should be suppressed. King Charles, however, knew not that these gentlemen had the power to carry out their promises seeing that the seditious have the upper hand in the capital, and answered them to that effect. His answer was, however, methinks, far less conciliatory and prudent than it might have been, for it boots not to stir up men's minds unnecessarily, and with a few affectionate words the king might have strengthened his party in London. The result, however, was to lead to a fierce debate, in which Pym and Lord Manchester addressed the multitude, and stirred them up to indignation, and I fear that prospects of peace are further away than ever. In other respects there is good and bad news. Yorkshire and Cheshire, Devon and Cornwall, have all declared for the crown; but upon the other hand, in the east the prospects are most gloomy. There, the seven counties, Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, Cambridge, Herts, Lincoln, and Huntingdon, have joined themselves into an association, and the king's followers dare not lift their heads. At Lichfield, Lord Brook, a fierce opponent of bishops and cathedrals, while besieging a party of Cavaliers who had taken possession of the close, was shot in the eye and killed. These are the only incidents that have taken place."

For some weeks no event of importance occurred. On the 22d of February the queen, who had been absent on the Continent selling her jewels and endeavoring to raise a force, landed at Burlington, with four ships, having succeeded in evading the ships of war which the Commons had dispatched to cut her off, under the command of Admiral Batten. That night, however, the Parliament fleet arrived off the place, and opened fire upon the ships and village. The queen was in a house near the shore, and the balls struck in all directions round. She was forced to get up, throw on a few clothes, and retire on foot to some distance from the village to the shelter of a ditch, where she sat for two hours, the balls sometimes striking dust over them, and singing round in all directions. It was a question whether the small force which the queen brought with her was not rather a hindrance than an assistance to the royal cause, for the Earl of Newcastle, who had been sent to escort her to York, was authorized by the king to raise men for the service, without examining their consciences, that is to say, to receive Catholics as well as Protestants. The Parliament took advantage of this to style his army the Catholic Army, and this, and some tamperings with the Papists in Ireland, increased the popular belief that the king leaned toward Roman Catholicism, and thus heightened the feelings against him, and embittered the religious as well as the political quarrel.

Toward the end of March commissioners from the Parliament, under the Earl of Northumberland, came to Oxford with propositions to treat. It is questionable whether the offers of the Commons were sincere. But Charles, by his vacillation and hesitation, by yielding one day and retracting the next, gave them the opportunity of asserting, with some show of reason, that he was wholly insincere, and could not be trusted; and so the commission was recalled, and the war went on again.

On the 15th of April Parliament formally declared the negotiations to be at an end, and on that day Essex marched with his army to the siege of Reading. The place was fortified, and had a resolute garrison; but by some gross oversight no provisions or stores had been collected, and after an unsuccessful attempt to relieve the town, when the Royalist forces failed to carry the bridge at Caversham, they fell back upon Wallingford, and Reading surrendered. Meanwhile skirmishes were going on all over the country. Sir William Waller was successful against the Royalists in the south and west. In the north Lord Newcastle was opposed to Fairfax, and the result was doubtful; while in Cornwall the Royalists had gained a battle over the Parliament men under Lord Stamford.

Meanwhile, the king was endeavoring to create a party in the Parliament, and Lady Aubigny was intrusted with the negotiations. The plot was, however, discovered. Several members of Parliament were arrested, and two executed by orders of the Parliament.

Early in June Colonel Furness and his troop were called into Oxford, as it was considered probable that some expeditions would be undertaken, and on the 17th of that month Prince Rupert formed up his horse and sallied out against the outlying pickets and small troops of the Parliament. Several of these he surprised and cut up, and on the morning of the 19th reached Chalgrove Field, near Thame. Hampden was in command of a detachment of Parliamentary troops in this neighborhood, and sending word to Essex, who lay near, to come up to his assistance, attacked Prince Rupert's force. His men, however, could not stand against the charge of the Royalists. They were completely defeated, and Hampden, one of the noblest characters of his age, was shot through the shoulder. He managed to keep his horse, and ride across country to Thame, where he hoped to obtain medical assistance. After six days of pain he died there, and thus England lost the only man who could, in the days that were to come, have moderated, and perhaps defeated, the ambition of Cromwell.

Essex arrived upon the scene of battle a few minutes after the defeat of Hampden's force, and Prince Rupert fell back, and crossing the Thames returned to Oxford, having inflicted much damage upon the enemy.

Shortly after this event, one of the serving men rushed in to Harry with the news that a strong band of Parliament horse were within three or four miles of the place, and were approaching. Harry at once sent for the steward, and a dozen men were summoned in all haste. On their arrival they set to work to strip the hall of its most valued furniture. The pictures were taken down from the walls, the silver and plate tumbled into chests, the arms and armor worn by generations of the Furnesses removed from the armory, the choicest articles of furniture of a portable character put into carts, together with some twenty casks of the choicest wine in the cellars, and in four hours only the heavier furniture, the chairs and tables, buffets and heavy sideboards remained in their places.

Just as the carts were filled news came that the enemy had ridden into Abingdon. Night was now coming on, and the carts at once started with their contents for distant farms, where the plate and wine were to be buried in holes dug in copses, and other places little likely to be searched by the Puritans. The pictures and furniture were stowed away in lofts and covered deeply with hay.

Having seen the furniture sent off, Harry awaited the arrival of the Parliament bands, which he doubted not would be dispatched by the Puritans among the townspeople to the hall. The stables were already empty except for Rollo, Harry's own horse. This he had at once, the alarm being given, sent off to a farm a mile distant from the hall, and with it its saddle, bridle, and his arms, a brace of rare pistols, breast and back pieces, a steel cap with plumes, and his sword. It cost him an effort to part with the last, for he now carried it habitually. But he thought that it might be taken from him, and, moreover, he feared that he might be driven into drawing it, when the consequences might be serious, not only for himself, but for the mansion of which his father had left him in charge.

At nine a servitor came in to say that a party of men were riding up the drive. Harry seated himself in the colonel's armchair, and repeated to himself the determination at which he had arrived of being perfectly calm and collected, and of bearing himself with patience and dignity. Presently he heard the clatter of horses' hoofs in the courtyard, and two minutes later, the tramp of feet in the passage. The door opened, and an officer entered, followed by five or six soldiers.

This man was one of the worst types of Roundhead officers. He was a London draper, whose violent harangues had brought him into notice, and secured for him a commission in the raw levies when they were first raised. Harry rose as he entered.

"You are the son of the man who is master of this house?" the officer said roughly.

"I am his son and representative," Harry said calmly.

"I hear that he is a malignant fighting in the ranks of King Charles."

"My father is a colonel in the army of his gracious majesty the king," Harry said.

"You are an insolent young dog!" the captain exclaimed. "We will teach you manners," and rising from the seat into which he had thrown himself on entering the hall, he struck Harry heavily in the face.

The boy staggered back against the wall; then with a bound he snatched a sword from the hand of one of the troopers, and before the officer had time to recoil or throw up his hands, he smote him with all his force across the face. With a terrible cry the officer fell back, and Harry, throwing down the sword, leaped through the open window into the garden and dashed into the shrubberies, as half a dozen balls from the pistols of the astonished troopers whizzed about his head.

For a few minutes he ran at the top of his speed, as he heard shouts and pistol shots behind him. But he knew that in the darkness strangers would have no chance whatever of overtaking him, and he slackened his pace into a trot. As he ran he took himself to task for not having acted up to his resolution. But the reflection that his father would not disapprove of his having cut down the man who had struck him consoled him, and he kept on his way to the farm where he had left his horse. In other respects, he felt a wild delight at what had happened. There was nothing for him now but to join the Royal army, and his father could hardly object to his taking his place with the regiment.

"I wish I had fifty of them here," he thought to himself; "we would surround the hall, and pay these traitors dearly. As for their captain, I would hang him over the door with my own hands. The cowardly ruffian, to strike an unarmed boy! At any rate I have spoiled his beauty for him, for I pretty nearly cut his face in two, I shall know him by the scar if I ever meet him in battle, and then we will finish the quarrel.

"I shall not be able to see out of my right eye in the morning," he grumbled; "and shall be a nice figure when I ride into Oxford."

As he approached the farm he slackened his speed to a walk; and neared the house very carefully, for he thought it possible that one of the parties of the enemy might already have taken up his quarters there. The silence that reigned, broken by the loud barking of dogs as he came close, proved that no stranger had yet arrived, and he knocked loudly at the door. Presently an upper window was opened, and a woman's voice inquired who he was, and what he wanted.

"I am Harry Furness, Dame Arden," he said. "The Roundheads are at the hall, and I have sliced their captain's face; so I must be away with all speed. Please get the men up, and lose not a moment; I want my arms and horse."

The farmer's wife lost no time in arousing the house, and in a very few minutes all was ready. One man saddled the horse, while another buckled on Harry's breast and back pieces; and with a hearty good-by, and amid many prayers for his safety and speedy return with the king's troops, Harry rode off into the darkness. For awhile he rode cautiously, listening intently lest he might fall into the hands of some of the Roundhead bands. But all was quiet, and after placing another mile or two between himself and Abingdon, he concluded that he was safe, drew Rollo's reins tighter, pressed him with his knees, and started at full gallop for Oxford.



Chapter V.

A Mission Of State.


When Harry rode into Oxford with the news that the Roundheads had made a raid as far as Abingdon, no time was lost in sounding to boot and saddle, and in half an hour the Cavalier horse were trotting briskly in that direction. They entered Abingdon unopposed, and found to their disgust that the Roundheads had departed an hour after their arrival. A party went up to Furness Hall, and found it also deserted. The Roundheads, in fact, had made but a flying raid, had carried off one or two of the leading Royalists in the town, and had, on their retirement, been accompanied by several of the party favorable to the Commons, among others, Master Rippinghall and the greater portion of his men, who had, it was suspected, been already enrolled for the service of the Parliament. Some of the Royalists would fain have sacked the house of the wool-stapler; but Colonel Furness, who had accompanied the force with his troop, opposed this vehemently.

"As long as we can," he said, "let private houses be respected. If the Puritans commence, it will be time for us to retort. There are gentlemen's mansions all over the country, many of them in the heart of Roundhead neighborhoods, and if they had once an excuse in our proceedings not one of these would be safe for a minute."

Leaving a strong force of horse in Abingdon, Prince Rupert returned to Oxford, and Colonel Furness again settled down in his residence, his troop dispersing to their farms until required, a small body only remaining at Furness Hall as a guard, and in readiness to call the others to arms if necessary. The colonel warmly approved of the steps that Harry had taken to save the valuables, and determined that until the war was at an end these should remain hidden, as it was probable enough that the chances of the strife might again lead the Roundheads thither.

"I hope, father," Harry Furness said the following day, "that you will now permit me to join the troop. I am getting on for sixteen, and could surely bear myself as a man in the fray."

"If the time should come, Harry, when the fortune of war may compel the king to retire from Oxford -- which I trust may never be -- I would then grant your request, for after your encounter with the officer who commanded the Roundheads here, it would not be safe for you to remain behind. But although you are too young to take part in the war, I may find you employment. After a council that was held yesterday at Oxford, I learned, from one in the king's secrets, that it was designed to send a messenger to London with papers of importance, and to keep up the communication with the king's friends in that city. There was some debate as to who should be chosen. In London, at the present time, all strangers are closely scrutinized. Every man is suspicious of his neighbor, and it is difficult to find one of sufficient trust whose person is unknown. Then I have thought that maybe you could well fulfill this important mission. A boy would be unsuspected, where a man's every movement would be watched. There is, of course, some danger attending the mission, and sharpness and readiness will be needed. You have shown that you possess these, by the manner in which you made your escape from London, and methinks that, did you offer, your services would be accepted. You would have, of course, to go in disguise, and to accept any situation which might appear conformable to your character and add to your safety."

Harry at once gladly assented to the proposal. He was at the age when lads are most eager for adventure, and he thought that it would be great fun to be living in London, watching the doings of the Commons, and, so far as was in his power, endeavoring to thwart them. Accordingly in the afternoon he rode over with Sir Henry to Oxford. They dismounted in the courtyard of the building which served as the king's court, and entering, Sir Henry left Harry in an antechamber, and, craving an audience with his majesty, was at once ushered into the king's cabinet. A few minutes later he returned, and motioned to Harry to follow him. The latter did so, and the next moment found himself in the presence of the king. The latter held out his hand for the boy to kiss, and Harry, falling on one knee, and greatly abashed at the presence in which he found himself, pressed his lips to King Charles' hand.

"I hear from your father, my trusty Sir Henry Furness, that you are willing to adventure your life in our cause, and to go as our messenger to London, and act there as our intermediary with our friends. You seem young for so delicate a work; but your father has told me somewhat of the manner in which you escaped from the hands of the traitors at Westminster, and also how you bore yourself in the affair with the rebels at his residence. It seems to me, then, that we must not judge your wisdom by your years, and that we can safely confide our interests in your hands. Your looks are frank and boyish, and will, therefore, excite far less suspicion than that which would attend upon an older and graver-looking personage. The letters will be prepared for you to-morrow, and, believe me, should success finally crown our efforts against these enemies of the crown, your loyalty and devotion will not be forgotten by your king."

He again held out his hand to Harry, and the boy left the cabinet with his heart burning with loyalty toward his monarch, and resolved that life itself should be held cheap if it could be spent in the service of so gracious and majestic a king.

The next morning a royal messenger brought out a packet of letters to Furness Hall, and Harry, mounting with his father and the little body of horse at the hall, rode toward London. His attire was that of a country peasant boy. The letters were concealed in the hollow of a stout ashen stick which he carried, and which had been slightly weighted with lead, so that, should it be taken up by any but its owner, its lightness would not attract attention. Sir Henry rode with him as far as it was prudent to do toward the outposts of the Parliament troops. Then, bidding him a tender farewell, and impressing upon him the necessity for the utmost caution, both for his own sake and for that of the king, he left him.

It was not upon the highroad that they parted, but near a village some little distance therefrom. In his pocket Harry had two or three pieces of silver, and between the soles of his boots were sewn several gold coins. These he did not anticipate having to use; but the necessity might arise when such a deposit would prove of use. Harry walked quietly through the village, where his appearance was unnoticed, and then along the road toward Reading. He soon met a troop of Parliament horsemen; but as he was sauntering along quietly, as if merely going from one village to another, no attention whatever was paid to him, and he reached Reading without the slightest difficulty. There he took up his abode for the night at a small hostelry, mentioning to the host that his master had wanted him to join the king's forces, but that he had no stomach for fighting, and intended to get work in the town. The following morning he again started, and proceeded as far as Windsor, where he slept. The next day, walking through Hounslow and Brentford, he stopped for the night at the village of Kensington, and the following morning entered the city. Harry had never before been in the streets of London, for in his flight from his prison he had at once issued into the country, and the bustle and confusion which prevailed excited great surprise in his mind. Even Oxford, busy as it was at the time, and full of the troops of the king and of the noblemen and gentlemen who had rallied to his cause, was yet quiet when compared with London. The booths along the main streets were filled with goods, and at these the apprentices shouted loudly to all passer-by, "What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack?" Here was a mercer exhibiting dark cloths to a grave-looking citizen; there an armorer was showing the temper of his wares to an officer. Citizens' wives were shopping and gossiping; groups of men, in high steeple hats and dark cloak, were moving along the streets. Pack horses carried goods from the ships at the wharves below the bridge to the merchants, and Harry was jostled hither and thither by the moving crowd. Ascending the hill of Ludgate to the great cathedral of St. Paul's, he saw a crowd gathered round a person on an elevated stand in the yard, and approaching to see what was going on, found that a preacher was pouring forth anathemas against the king and the Royal party, and inciting the citizens to throw themselves heart and soul into the cause. Especially severe was he upon waverers, who, he said, were worse than downright enemies, as, while the one withstood the Parliament openly in fair fight, the others were shifted to and fro with each breeze, and none could say whether they were friends or enemies. Passing through the cathedral, where regular services were no longer held, but where, in different corners, preachers were holding forth against the king, and where groups of men strolled up and down, talking of the troubles of the times, he issued at the eastern door, and entering Cheapside, saw the sign of the merchant to whom he had been directed.

This was Nicholas Fleming, a man of Dutch descent, and well spoken of among his fellows. He dealt in silks and velvets from Genoa. His shop presented less outward appearance than did those of his neighbors, the goods being too rich and rare to be exposed to the weather, and he himself dealing rather with smaller traders than with the general public. The merchant -- a grave-looking man -- was sitting at his desk when Harry entered. A clerk was in the shop, engaged in writing, and an apprentice was rolling up a piece of silk. Harry removed his hat, and went up to the merchant's table, and laying a letter upon it, said:

"I have come, sir, from Dame Marjory, my aunt, who was your honor's nurse, with a letter from her, praying you to take me as an apprentice."

The merchant glanced for a moment at the boy. He was expecting a message from the Royalist camp, and his keen wit at once led him to suspect that the bearer stood before him, although his appearance in nowise justified such a thought, for Harry had assumed with his peasant clothes a look of stolid stupidity which certainly gave no warrant for the thought that a keen spirit lay behind it. Without a word the merchant opened the letter, which, in truth, contained nearly the same words which Harry had spoken, but whose signature was sufficient to the merchant to indicate that his suspicions were correct.

"Sit down," he said to the lad. "I am busy now; but will talk with you anon."

Harry took his seat on a low stool, while the merchant continued his writing as before, as if the incident were too unimportant to arrest his attention for a moment. Harry amused himself by looking round the shop, and was specially attracted by the movements of the apprentice, a sharp-looking lad, rather younger than himself, and who, having heard what had passed, seized every opportunity, when he was so placed that neither the merchant nor his clerk could observe his face to make grimaces at Harry, indicative of contempt and derision. Harry was sorely tempted to laugh; but, with an effort, he kept his countenance, assuming only a grim of wonder which greatly gratified Jacob, who thought that he had obtained as companion a butt who would afford him infinite amusement.

After the merchant had continued his writing for an hour, he laid down his pen, and saying to Harry "Follow me; I will speak to Dame Alice, my wife, concerning thee," left the shop and entered the inner portion of the house, followed by Harry. The merchant led him into a sitting-room on the floor above, where his wife, a comely dame, was occupied with her needle.

"Dame," he said, "this is a new apprentice whom my nurse, Marjory, has sent me. A promising-looking youth, is he not?"

His wife looked at him in surprise.

"I have never heard thee speak of thy nurse, Nicholas, and surely the lad looks not apt to learning the mysteries of a trade like thine."

The merchant smiled gravely.

"He must be more apt than he looks, dame, or he would never have been chosen for the service upon which he is engaged. Men do not send fools to risk their lives; and I have been watching him for the last hour, and have observed how he bore himself under the tricks of that jackanapes, Jacob, and verily the wonder which I at first felt when he presented himself to me has passed away, and what appeared to me at first sight a strange imprudence, seems now to be a piece of wisdom. But enough of riddles," he said, seeing that his wife's astonishment increased as he went on. "This lad is a messenger from Oxford, and bears, I doubt not, important documents. What is thy true name, boy?"

"I am Harry Furness, the son of Sir Henry Furness, one of the king's officers," Harry said; "and my papers are concealed within this staff."

Thereupon he lifted his stick and showed that at the bottom a piece of wood had been artfully fitted into a hollow, and then, by being rubbed upon the ground, so worn as to appear part of a solid whole. Taking his knife from his pocket, he cut off an inch from the lower end of the stick, and then shook out on to the table a number of slips of paper tightly rolled together.

"I will examine these at my leisure," the merchant said; "and now as to thyself. What instructions have you?"

"I am told, sir, to take up my abode with you, if it so pleases you; to assume the garb and habits of an apprentice; and, moreover, to do such messages as you may give me, and which, perhaps, I may perform with less risk of observation, and with more fidelity than any ordinary messenger."

"The proposal is a good one," the trader said. "I am often puzzled how to send notes to those of my neighbors with whom I am in correspondence, for the lad Jacob is sharp -- too sharp, indeed, for my purpose, and might suspect the purport of his goings and comings. I believe him to be faithful, though overapt to mischief. But in these days one cares not to risk one's neck unless on a surety. The first thing will be, then, to procure for thee a suit of clothes, suitable to thy new position. Under the plea that at present work is but slack -- for indeed the troubles of the times have well-nigh ruined the trade in such goods as mine, throwing it all into the hands of the smiths -- I shall be able to grant thee some license, and to allow thee to go about and see the city and acquaint thyself with its ways. Master Jacob may feel, perhaps, a little jealous; but this matters not. I somewhat misdoubt the boy, though perhaps unjustly. But I know not how his opinions may go toward matters politic. He believes me, I think, as do other men, to be attached to the present state of things; but even did his thoughts jump otherwise, he would not have opened his lips before me. It would be well, therefore, for you to be cautious in the extreme with him, and to find out of a verity what be his nature and disposition. Doubtless, in time, he will unbosom to you and you may see whether he has any suspicions, and how far he is to be trusted. He was recommended to me by a friend at Poole, and I know not the opinions of his people. I will come forth with you now and order the clothes without delay, and we will return in time for dinner, which will be at twelve, of which time it now lacks half an hour."

Putting on his high hat, the merchant sallied out with Harry into the Cheap, and going to a clothier's was able to purchase ready-made garments suitable to his new position as a 'prentice boy. Returning with these, he bade the lad mount to the room which he was to share Jacob, to change with all speed, and to come down to dinner, which was now nearly ready.

The meal was to Harry a curious one. The merchant sat at one end of the table, his wife at the other. The scrivener occupied a place on one side, and his fellow-apprentice and himself on the other. The merchant spoke to his wife on the troubles of the times in a grave, oracular voice, which appeared to be intended chiefly for the edification of his three assistants, who ate their dinner in silence, only saying a word or two in answer to any question addressed to them. Harry, who was accustomed to dine with his father, was somewhat nice in his ways of eating. But, observing a sudden look of interest and suspicion upon the face of the sharp boy beside him at his manner of eating, he, without making so sudden a change as to be perceptible, gradually fell into the way of eating of his companion, mentally blaming himself severely for having for a moment forgotten his assumed part.

"I shall not need you this afternoon, Roger," the merchant said; "and you can go out and view the sights of the city. Avoid getting into any quarrels or broils, and especially observe the names writ up on the corner of the houses, in order that you may learn the streets and so be able to find your way about should I send you with messages or goods."

Harry spent the afternoon as directed, and was mightily amused and entertained by the sights which he witnessed. Especially was he interested in London Bridge, which, covered closely with houses, stretched across the river, and at the great fleet of vessels which lay moored to the wharves below. Here Harry spent the greater portion of the afternoon, watching the numerous boats as they shot the bridge, and the barges receiving merchandise from the vessels.

At five o'clock the shop was shut, and at six supper was served in the same order as dinner had been. At eight they retired to bed.

"Well, Master Roger," said Jacob, when they were done, "and what is thy father?"

"He farms a piece of land of his own," Harry said. "Sometimes I live with him; but more often with my uncle, who is a trader in Bristol -- a man of some wealth, and much respected by the citizens."

"Ah! it is there that thou hast learnt thy tricks of eating," Jacob said. "I wondered to see thee handle thy knife and fork so daintily, and in a manner which assuredly smacked of the city rather than of the farm."

"My uncle," Harry said, "is a particular man as to his habits, and as many leading citizens of the town often take their meals at his house, he was ever worrying me to behave, as he said, more like a Christian than a hog. What a town is this London! What heaps of people, and what wonderful sights!"

"Yes," the apprentice said carelessly. "But you have as yet seen nothing. You should see the giant with eight heads, at the Guildhall."

"A giant with eight heads?" Henry exclaimed wonderingly. "Why, he have five more than the giant whom my mother told me of when I was little, that was killed by Jack, the Giant Killer. I must go and see him of a surety.'"

"You must mind," the apprentice said; "for a boy is served up for him every morning for breakfast."

"Now you are trying to fool me," Harry said. "My mother warned me that the boys of London were wickedly disposed, and given to mock at strangers. But I tell thee, Master Jacob, that I have a heavy fist, and was considered a fighter in the village. Therefore, mind how thou triest to fool me. Mother always said I was not such a fool as I looked."

"You may well be that," Jacob said, "and yet a very big fool. But at present I do not know whether your folly is more than skin deep, and methinks that the respectable trader, your uncle, has taught you more than how to eat like a Christian."

Harry felt at once that in this sharp boy he had a critic far more dangerous than any he was likely to meet elsewhere. Others would pass him unnoticed; but his fellow-apprentice would criticise every act and word, and he felt somewhat disquieted to find that he had fallen under such supervision. It was now, he felt, all-important for him to discover what were the real sentiments of the boy, and whether he was trustworthy to his master, and to be relied upon to keep the secret which had fallen into his possession.

"I have been," he said, "in the big church at the end of this street. What a pother the preachers do surely keep up there. I should be sorely worried to hear them long, and would rather thrash out a load of corn than listen long to the clacking of their tongues."

"Thou wilt be sicker still of them before thou hast done with them. It is one of the duties of us apprentices to listen to the teachers, and if I had my way, we would have an apprentices' riot, and demand to be kept to the terms of our indentures, which say nothing about preachers. What is the way of thinking of this uncle of yours?"

"He is a prudent man," Roger said, "and says but little. For myself, I care nothing either way, and cannot understand what they are making this pother about. So far as I can see, folks only want to be quiet, and do their work. But even in our village at home there is no quiet now. Some are one way, some t'other. There are the Church folk, and the meeting-house folk, and it is as much as they can do to keep themselves from going at each other's throats. I hear so much about it that my brain gets stupid with it all, and I hate Parliament and king worse than the schoolmaster who used to whack me for never knowing the difference between one letter and another."

"But you can read and write, I suppose?" Jacob said; "or you would be of little use as an apprentice."

"Yes, I can read and write," Roger said; "but I cannot say that I love these things. I doubt me that I am not fitter for the plow than for a trade. But my Aunt Marjory was forever going on about my coming to London, and entering the shop of Master Nicholas Fleming, and as it seemed an easy thing to sell yards of silks and velvets, I did not stand against her wishes, especially as she promised that if in a year's time I did not like the life, she would ask Master Nicholas to cancel my indentures, and let me go back again to the farm."

"Ah, well," Jacob said, "it is useful to have an aunt who has been nurse to a city merchant. The life is not a bad one, though our master is strict with all. But Dame Alice is a good housewife, and has a light hand at confections, and when there are good things on the table she does not, as do most of the wives of the traders, keep them for herself and her husband, but lets us have a share also."

"I am fond of confections,", Harry said; "and my Aunt Marjory is famous at them; and now, as I am very sleepy, I will go off. But methinks, Jacob, that you take up hugely more than your share of the bed."

After a little grumbling on both sides the boys disposed themselves to sleep, each wondering somewhat over the character of the other, and determining to make a better acquaintance shortly.



Chapter VI.

A Narrow Escape.


During the next few days Harry was kept hard at work delivering the various minute documents which he had brought in the hollow of his stick. Sometimes of an evening he attended his master to the houses where he had taken such messages, and once or twice was called in to be present at discussions, and asked to explain various matters connected with the position of the king. During this time he saw but little of the apprentice Jacob, except at his meals, and as the boy did not touch upon his frequent absence, or make any allusion to political matters, when in their bedroom alone at night, Harry hoped that his suspicions had been allayed.

One morning, however, on waking up, he saw the boy sitting upright in bed, staring fixedly at him.

"What is the matter; Jacob, and what are you doing?"

"I am wondering who and what you are!" the boy said.

"I am Roger, your fellow apprentice," Harry replied, laughing.

"I am not sure that you are Roger; I am not sure that you are an apprentice," the boy said. "But if you were, that would not tell me who you are. If you were merely Roger the apprentice, Dame Alice would not pick out all the tit-bits at dinner, and put them on your plate, while I and Master Hardwood have to put up with any scraps which may come. Nor do I think that, even for the purpose of carrying his cloak, our master would take you with him constantly of an evening. He seems mighty anxious too, for you to learn your way about London. I do not remember that he showed any such care as to my geographical knowledge. But, of course, there is a mystery, and I want to get to the bottom of it, and mean to do so if I can."

"Even supposing that there was a mystery," Harry said, "what good would it do to you to learn it, and what use would you make of your knowledge?"

"I do not know," the boy said carelessly. "But knowledge is power."

"You see," Harry said, "that supposing there were, as you say, a mystery, the secret would not be mine to tell, and even were it so before I told it, I should want to know whether you desired to know it for the sake of aiding your master, if possible, or of doing him an injury.

"I would do him no injury, assuredly," Jacob said. "Master Fleming is as good a master as there is in London. I want to find out, because it is my nature to find out. The mere fact that there is a mystery excites my curiosity, and compels me to do all in my power to get to the bottom of it. Methinks that if you have aught that you do not want known, it would be better to take Jacob Plummer into your confidence. Many a man's head has been lost before now because he did not know whom to trust."

"There is no question of losing heads in the matter," Harry said, smiling.

"Well, you know best," Jacob replied, shrugging his shoulders; "but heads do not seem very firmly on at present."

When he went out with Master Fleming that evening Harry related to him the conversation which he had had with Jacob.

"What think you, Master Furness? Is this malapert boy to be trusted, or not?"

"It were difficult to say, sir," Harry answered. "His suspicions are surely roused, and as it seemed to me that his professions of affection and duty toward yourself were earnest, methinks that you might enlist him in your cause, and would find him serviceable hereafter, did you allow me frankly to speak to him. He has friends among the apprentice boys, and might, should he be mischievously inclined, set one to follow us of a night, and learn whither you go; he might even now do much mischief. I think that it is his nature to love plotting for its own sake. He would rather plot on your side than against it; but if you will not have him, he may go against you."

"I have a good mind to send him home to his friends," the merchant said. "He can know nothing as yet."

"He might denounce me as a Royalist," Harry said; "and you for harboring me. I will sound him again to-night, and see further into his intentions. But methinks it would be best to trust him."

That night the conversation was again renewed.

"You see, Jacob," Harry said, "that it would be a serious matter, supposing what you think to be true, to intrust you with the secret. I know not whether you are disposed toward king or Parliament, and to put the lives of many honorable gentlemen into the hands of one of whose real disposition I know little would be but a fool's trick."

"You speak fairly, Roger," the boy said. "Indeed, What I said to you was true. I trouble my head in no way as to the politics and squabbles of the present day; but I mean to rise some day, and there is no better way to rise than to be mixed up in a plot. It is true that the rise may be to the gallows; but if one plays for high stakes, one must risk one's purse. I love excitement, and believe that I am no fool. I can at least be true to the side that I engage upon, and of the two, would rather take that of the king than of the Parliament, because it seems to me that there are more fools on his side than on the other, and therefore more chance for a wise head to prosper."

Harry laughed.

"You have no small opinion of yourself, Master Jacob."

"No," the boy said; "I always found myself able to hold my own. My father, who is a scrivener, predicted me that I should either come to wealth or be hanged, and I am of the same opinion myself."

After further conversation next day with the merchant, Harry frankly confided to Jacob that evening that he was the bearer of letters from the king. Of their contents he said that he knew nothing; but had reason to believe that another movement was on foot for bringing about the overthrow of the party of Puritans who were in possession of the government of London.

"I deemed that such was your errand," the boy said. "You played your part well; but not well enough. You might have deceived grown-up people; but you would hardly take in a boy of your own age. Now that you have told me frankly, I will, if I can, do anything to aid. I care nothing for the opinions of one side or the other; but as I have to go to the cathedral three times on Sunday, and to sit each time for two hours listening to the harangues of Master Ezekiel Proudfoot, I would gladly join in anything which would be likely to end by silencing that fellow and his gang. It is monstrous that, upon the only day in the week we have to ourselves, we should be compelled to undergo the punishment of listening to these long-winded divines."

When Harry was not engaged in taking notes, backward and forward, between the merchant and those with whom he was negotiating, he was occupied in the shop. There the merchant kept up appearances before the scrivener and any customers who might come in, by instructing him in the mysteries of his trade; by showing him the value of the different velvets and silks; and by teaching him his private marks, by which, in case of the absence of the merchant or his apprentice, he could state the price of any article to a trader who might come in. Harry judged, by the conversations which he had with his host, that the latter was not sanguine as to the success of the negotiations which he was carrying on.

"If," he said, "the king could obtain one single victory, his friends would raise their heads, and would assuredly be supported by the great majority of the population, who wish only for peace; but so long as the armies stood facing each other, and the Puritans are all powerful in the Parliament and Council of the city, men are afraid to be the first to move, not being sure how popular support would be given."

One evening after work was over Harry and Jacob walked together up the Cheap, and took their place among a crowd listening to a preacher at Paul's Cross. He was evidently a popular character, and a large number of grave men, of the straitest Puritan appearance, were gathered round him.

"I wish we could play some trick with these somber-looking knaves," Jacob whispered.

"Yes," Harry said; "I would give much to be able to do so; but at the present moment I scarcely wish to draw attention upon myself."

"Let us get out of this, then," Jacob said, "if there is no fun to be had. I am sick of these long-winded orations."

They turned to go, and as they made their way through the crowd, Harry trod upon the toe of a small man in a high steeple hat and black coat.

"I beg your pardon," Harry said, as there burst from the lips of the little man an exclamation which was somewhat less decorous than would have been expected from a personage so gravely clad. The little man stared Harry in the face, and uttered another exclamation, this time of surprise. Harry, to his dismay, saw that the man with whom he had come in contact was the preacher whom he had left gagged on the guardroom bed at Westminster.

"A traitor! A spy!" shouted the preacher, at the top of his voice, seizing Harry by the doublet. The latter shook himself free just as Jacob, jumping in the air, brought his hand down with all his force on the top of the steeple hat, wedging it over the eyes of the little man. Before any further effort could be made to seize them, the two lads dived through the crowd, and dashed down a lane leading toward the river.

This sudden interruption to the service caused considerable excitement, and the little preacher, on being extricated from his hat, furiously proclaimed that the lad he had seized, dressed as an apprentice, was a malignant, who had been taken prisoner at Brentford, and who had foully ill-treated him in a cell in the guardroom at Finsbury. Instantly a number of men set off in pursuit.

"What had we best do, Jacob?" Harry said, as he heard the clattering of feet behind them.

"We had best jump into a boat," Jacob said, "and row for it. It is dark now, and we shall soon be out of their sight."

At the bottom of the lane were some stairs, and at these a number of boats. As it was late in the evening, and the night a foul one, the watermen, not anticipating fares, had left, and the boys, leaping into a boat, put out the sculls, and rowed into the stream, just as their pursuers were heard coming down the lane.

"Which way shall we go?" Harry said.

"We had better shoot the bridge," Jacob replied. "Canst row well?"

"Yes," Harry said; "I have practiced at Abingdon with an oar."

"Then take the sculls," Jacob said, "and I will steer. It is a risky matter going through the bridge, I tell you, at half tide. Sit steady, whatever you do. Here they come in pursuit, Roger. Bend to the sculls," and in a couple of minutes they reached the bridge.

"Steady, steady," shouted Jacob, as the boat shot a fall, some eight feet in depth, with the rapidity of an arrow. For a moment it was tossed and whirled about in the seething waves below, and then, thanks to Jacob's presence of mind and Harry's obedience to his orders, it emerged safely into the smooth water below the bridge. Harry now gave up one of the sculls to Jacob, and the two boys rowed hard down the stream.

"Will they follow, think you?" Harry said.

"I don't think," Jacob laughed, "that any of those black-coated gentry will care for shooting the bridge. They will run down below, and take boat there; and as there are sure to be hands waiting to carry fares out to the ships in the pool, they will gain fast upon us when once they are under way."

The wind was blowing briskly with them, and the tide running strong, and at a great pace they passed the ships lying at anchor.

"There is the Tower," Jacob said; "with whose inside we may chance to make acquaintance, if we are caught. Look," he said, "there is a boat behind us, rowed by four oars! I fear that it is our pursuers."

"Had we not better land, and take our chance?" Harry said.

"We might have done so at first," Jacob said; "it is too late now. We must row for it. Look," he continued, "there is a bark coming along after the boat. She has got her sails up already, and the wind is bringing her along grandly. She sails faster than they row, and if she comes up to us before they overtake us, it may be that the captain will take us in tow. These sea-dogs are always kindly."

The boat that the boys had seized was, fortunately, a very light and fast one, while that in pursuit was large and heavy, and the four watermen had to carry six sitters. Consequently, they gained but very slowly upon the fugitives. Presently a shot from a pistol whizzed over the boys' heads.

"I did not bargain for this, friend Roger," Jacob said. "My head is made rather for plots and conspiracies than for withstanding the contact of lead."

"Row away!" Harry said. "Here is the ship just alongside now."

As the vessel, which was a coaster, came along, the crew looked over the side, their attention, being called by the sound of the pistol and the shouts of those in chase.

"Throw us a rope, sir," Jacob shouted. "We are not malefactors, but have been up to a boyish freak, and shall be heavily punished if we are caught."

Again the pistol rang out behind, and one of the Sailors threw a rope to the boys. It was caught, and in a minute the boat was gliding rapidly along in the wake of the ship. She was then pulled up alongside, the boys clambered on board, and the boat was sent adrift, The pursuers continued the chase for a few minutes longer, but seeing the ship gradually drawing away from them, they desisted, and turned in toward shore.

"And who are you?" the captain of the brig said.

"We are apprentices, as you see," Jacob said. "We were listening to some preaching at Paul's Cross. In trying to get out from the throng -- being at length weary of the long-winded talk of the preacher -- we trod upon the feet of a worthy divine. He, refusing to receive our apologies, took the matter roughly, and seeing that the crowd of Puritans around were going to treat us as malignant roisterers, we took the liberty of driving the hat of our assailant over his eyes, and bolting. Assuredly, had we been caught, we should have been put in the stocks and whipped, even if worse pains and penalties had not befallen us, for ill-treatment of one of those who are now the masters of London."

"It was a foolish freak," the captain said, "and in these days such freaks are treated as crimes. It is well that I came along. What do you purpose to do now?"

"We would fain be put ashore, sir, somewhere in Kent, so that we may make our way back again. Our figures could not have been observed beyond that we were apprentices, and we can enter the city quietly, without fear of detection."

The wind dropped in the evening, and, the tide turning, the captain brought to anchor. In the morning he sailed forward again. When he neared Gravesend he saw a vessel lying in the stream.

"That is a Parliament ship," he said.

At that moment another vessel of about the same size as that in which they were was passing her. She fired a gun, and the ship at once dropped her sails and brought up.

"What can she be doing now, arresting the passage of ships on their way down? If your crime had been a serious one, I should have thought that a message must have been brought down in the night for her to search vessels coming down stream for the persons of fugitives. What say you, lads? Have you told me the truth?"

"We have told you the truth, sir," Harry said; "but not the whole truth. The circumstances are exactly as my friend related them. But he omitted to say that the preacher recognized in me one of a Cavalier family, and that they may suspect that I was in London on business of the king's."

"Is that so?" the captain said. "In that case, your position is a perilous one. It is clear that they do not know the name of the ship in which you are embarked, or they would not have stopped the one which we see far ahead. If they search the ship, they are sure to find you."

"Can you swim, Jacob?" Harry asked the other.

He nodded.

"There is a point," Harry said, "between this and the vessel of war, and if you sail close to that you will for a minute or two be hidden from the view of those on her deck. If you will take your ship close to that corner we will jump overboard and swim on shore. If then your vessel is stopped you can well say that you have no fugitives on board, and let them search."

The captain thought the plan a good one, and at once the vessel's head was steered over toward the side to which Harry had pointed. As they neared the corner they for a minute lost sight of the hull of the man-of-war, and the boys, with a word of thanks and farewell to the captain, plunged over and swam to the bank, which was but some thirty yards away. Climbing it, they lay down among the grass, and watched the progress of the vessel. She, like the one before, was brought up by a gun from the man-of-war, and a boat from the latter put out and remained by her side for half an hour. Then they saw the boat return, the vessel hoist her sails again, and go on her way.

"This is a nice position into which you have brought me, Master Roger," Jacob said. "My first step in taking part in plots and conspiracies does not appear to me to lead to the end which I looked for. However, I am sick of the shop, and shall be glad of a turn of freedom. Now let us make our way across the marshes to the high land. It is but twenty miles to walk to London, if that be really your intent."

"I shall not return to London myself," Harry said; "but shall make my way back to Oxford. It would be dangerous now for me to appear, and I doubt not that a sharp hue and cry will be kept up. In your case it is different, for as you have been long an apprentice, and as your face will be entirely unknown to any of them, there will be little chance of your being detected."

"I would much rather go with you to Oxford," the lad said. "I am weary of velvets and silks, and though I do not know that wars and battles will be more to my taste, I would fain try them also. You are a gentleman, and high in the trust of the king and those around him. If you will take me with you as your servant I will be a faithful knave to you, and doubt not that as you profit by your advantages, some of the good will fall to my share also."

"In faith," Harry said, "I should hardly like you to be my servant, Jacob, although I have no other office to bestow at present. But if you come with me you shall be rather in the light of a major-domo, though I have no establishment of which you can be the head. In these days, however, the distinctions of master and servant are less broad than before, and in the field we shall be companions rather than master and follower. So, if you like to cast in your fortunes with mine, here is my hand on it. You have already proved your friendship to me as well as your quickness and courage, and believe me, you will not find me or my father ungrateful. But for you, I should now be in the cells, and your old master in no slight danger of finding himself in prison, to say nothing of the upset of the negotiations for which I came to London. Therefore, you have deserved well, not only of me, but of the king, and the adventure may not turn out so badly as it has begun. We had best strike south, and go round by Tunbridge, and thence keeping west, into Berkshire, and so to Oxford. In this way we shall miss the Parliament men lying round London, and those facing the Royalists between Reading and Oxford."

This order was carried out. The lads met with but few questioners, and replying always that they were London apprentices upon their way home to visit their friends for a short time, passed unsuspected. At first the want of funds had troubled them, for Harry had forgotten the money sewn up in his shoe. But presently, remembering this, and taking two gold pieces out of their hiding-place, they went merrily along the road and in five days from starting arrived at Oxford.



Chapter VII.

In A Hot Place.


Making inquiries, Harry found that his father was living at a house in the college of Brazenose, and thither he made his way. Not a little surprised was the trooper, who was on guard before the door, to recognize his master's son in one of the two lads who, in the clothes of apprentices shrunk with water and stained with mud and travel, presented themselves before him. Harry ascended at once to Sir Henry's room, and the latter was delighted to see him again, for he had often feared that be had acted rashly in sending him to London. Harry briefly told his adventures, and introduced his friend Jacob to his father.

Sir Henry immediately sent for a clothier, and Harry was again made presentable; while a suit of serviceable clothes adapted to the position of a young gentleman of moderate means was obtained for Jacob. Then, accompanied by his son, Sir Henry went to the king's chambers, and informed his majesty of all that had happened. As, from the reports which had reached the king of the temper of the people of London, he had but small hope that anything would come of the attempt that was being made, he felt but little disappointed at hearing of the sudden return of his emissary. Harry was again asked in, and his majesty in a few words expressed to him his satisfaction at the zeal and prudence which he had shown, and at his safe return to court.

On leaving the king Harry awaited anxiously what his father would determine concerning his future, and was delighted when Sir Henry said, "It is now a year once these troubles began, Harry, and you have so far embarked upon them, that I fear you would find it difficult to return to your studies. You have proved yourself possessed of qualities which will enable you to make your way in the world, and I therefore think the time has come when you can take your place in the ranks. I shall ask of the king a commission for you as captain in my regiment, and as one of my officers has been killed you will take his place, and will have the command of a troop."

Harry was delighted at this intimation; and the following day received the king's commission.

A few days afterward he had again to ride over to Furness Hall, which was now shut up, to collect some rents, and as he returned through Abingdon he saw Lucy Rippinghall walking in the streets. Rather proud of his attire as a young cavalier in full arms, Harry dismounted and courteously saluted her.

"I should hardly have known you, Master Furness," she said. "You look so fierce in your iron harness, and so gay with your plumes and ribands. My brother would be glad to see you. My father as you know, is away. Will you not come in for a few minutes?"

Harry, after a few moments' hesitation, assented. He longed to see his old friend, and as the latter was still residing at Abingdon, while he himself had already made his mark in the royal cause, he did not fear that any misconstruction could be placed upon his visit to the Puritan's abode. Herbert received him with a glad smile of welcome.

"Ah, Harry," he said, "so you have fairly taken to man's estate. Of course, I think you have done wrong; but we need not argue on that now. I am glad indeed to see you. Lucy," he said, "let supper be served at once."

It was a pleasant meal, and the old friends chatted of their schooldays and boyish pastimes, no allusion being made to the events of the day, save that Herbert said, "I suppose that you know that my father is now a captain in the force of the Commons, and that I am doing my best to keep his business going during his absence."

"I had heard as much," Harry answered. "It is a heavy weight to be placed on your shoulders, Herbert."

"Yes," he said, "I am growing learned in wools, and happily the business is not falling off in my hands."

It was characteristic of the civil war in England that during the whole time of its existence the affairs of the country went on as usual. Business was conducted, life and property were safe, and the laws were enforced just as before. The judges went their circuits undisturbed by the turmoil of the times, acting under the authority alike of the Great Seals of the King and Parliament. Thus evildoers were repressed, crime put down, and the laws of the land administered just as usual, and as if no hostile armies were marching and fighting on the fair fields of England. In most countries during such troubled times, all laws have been at an end, bands of robbers and disbanded soldiers have pillaged and ruined the country, person and property alike have been unsafe, private broils and enmities have broken forth, and each man has carried his life in his hand. Thus, even in Abingdon, standing as it did halfway between the stronghold of the crown at Oxford, and the Parliament army at Reading, things remained quiet and tranquil. Its fairs and markets were held as usual, and the course of business went on unchecked.

On his return to Oxford Harry learned that the king, with a portion of the army, was to set out at once for Gloucester, to compel that city, which had declared for the Commons, to open its gates. With a force of thirteen thousand men the king moved upon Gloucester. When he arrived outside its walls, on the 10th of August, he sent a summons to the town to surrender, offering pardon to the inhabitants, and demanding an answer within two hours. Clarendon has described how the answer was returned. "Within less than the time described, together with a trumpeter, returned two citizens from the town with lean, pale, sharp, and bad visages, indeed, faces so strange and unusual, and in such a garb and posture, that at once made the most severe countenances merry, and the most cheerful heart sad, for it was impossible such ambassadors could bring less than a defiance. The men, without any circumstance of duty or good manners, in a pert, shrill, undismayed accent, said that they brought an answer from the godly city of Gloucester to the king, and were so ready to give insolent and seditious answers to any questions, as if their business were chiefly to provoke the king to violate his own safe-conduct." The answers which these strange messengers brought was that the inhabitants and soldiers kept the city for the use of his majesty, but conceived themselves "only bound to obey the commands of his majesty signified by both houses of Parliament." Setting fire to the houses outside their walls, the men of Gloucester prepared for a resolute resistance. The walls were strong and well defended, and the king did not possess artillery sufficient to make breaches therein, and dreading the great loss which an assault upon the walls would inflict upon his army, he determined to starve the city into submission. The inhabitants, although reduced to sore straits, yet relying upon assistance coming to them, held out, and their hopes were not disappointed, as Essex, at the head of a great army, was sent from London to relieve the place. Upon his approach, the king and his councilors, deciding that a battle could not be fought with advantage, drew off from the town, and gave up the siege.

Both armies now moved in the direction of London; but Prince Rupert, hearing that a small body of Parliament horse were besieging the house of Sir James Strangford, an adherent of the crown, took with him fifty horse, and rode away to raise the siege, being ever fond of dashing exploits in the fashion of the knights of old. The body which he chose to accompany him was the troop commanded by Harry Furness, whose gayety of manner and lightness of heart had rendered him a favorite with the prince. The besieged house was situated near Hereford; and at the end of a long day's march Prince Rupert, coming in sight of the Roundheads, charged them with such fury that they were overthrown with scarce any resistance, and fled in all directions. Having effected his object, the prince now rode to Worcester, where he slept, and thence by a long day's march to a village where he again halted for the night.

An hour after his arrival, a messenger came in from Lady Sidmouth, the wife of Sir Henry Sidmouth, asking him to ride over and take up his abode for the night at her house. Bidding Harry accompany him, the prince rode off, leaving the troop under the charge of Harry's lieutenant, Jacob, who had proved himself an active soldier, and had been appointed to that rank at Gloucester. The house was a massive structure of the reign of Henry VIII.; but being built at a time when the castellated abodes were going out of fashion, was not capable of standing a siege, and had not indeed been put in any posture of defense. Sir Henry was with the king, and only a few retainers remained in the house. Prince Rupert was received at the entrance by Lady Sidmouth, who had at her side her daughter, a girl of fourteen, whom Harry thought the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The prince alighted, and doffing his broad plumed hat, kissed the lady's hand, and conducted her into the house again, Harry doing the same to her daughter.

"You must pardon a rough reception," the lady said to the prince. "Had I had notice of your coming, I would have endeavored to receive you in a manner more befitting; but hearing from one of my retainers, who happened to be in the village when you arrived, of your coming, I thought that the accommodation -- poor as it is -- would be better than that which you could obtain there."

Prince Rupert replied gayly, and in a few minutes they were seated at supper. The conversation was lightly kept up, when suddenly a tremendous crash was heard, shouts of alarm were raised, and a retainer rushed into the hall, saying that the place was attacked by a force of Roundheads.

"Defense is hopeless," the lady said, as Prince Rupert and Harry drew their swords. "There are but five or six old men here, and the door appears to be already yielding. There is a secret chamber here where you can defy their search."

Prince Rupert, dreading above all things to be taken prisoner, and seeing that resistance would be, as their hostess said, vain, followed her into an adjoining room hung with arras. Lifting this, she showed a large stone. Beneath it, on the floor was a tile, in no way differing from the others. She pressed it, and the stone, which was but slight, turned on a hinge, and disclosed an iron door. This she opened with a spring, showing a small room within, with a ladder leading to another above.

"Mount that," she said. "You will find in the chamber above a large stone. Pull the ladder up with you and lower the stone, which exactly fits into the opening. Even should they discover this chamber, they will not suspect that another lies above it."

Prince Rupert, taking a light from her hands, hastily mounted, followed by Harry, and pulled the steps after him, just as they heard the iron door close. It needed the united strength of the prince and Harry to lift the stone, which was a large one, with an iron ring in the center, and to place it in the cavity. Having done this, they looked round. The room was about eight feet long by six wide, and lighted by a long narrow loophole extending from the ground to the roof. They deemed from its appearance that it was built in one of the turrets of the building.

"That was a narrow escape, Master Harry," the prince said. "It would have been right bad news for my royal uncle if I had been caught here like a rat in a trap. I wonder we heard nothing of a Roundhead force in this neighborhood. I suppose that they must have been stationed at some place further north, and that the news of our passing reached them. I trust that they have no suspicion that we are in the house; but I fear, from this sudden attack upon an undefended building, that some spy from the village must have taken word to them."

Lady Sidmouth had just time to return to the hall when the doors gave way, and a body of Roundheads burst into the room. They had drawn swords in their hands, and evidently expected an attack. They looked round with surprise at seeing only Lady Sidmouth and her daughter.

"Where is the malignant Rupert?" the leader exclaimed. "We have sure news that he rode, attended by an officer only, hither, and that he was seen to enter your house."

"If you want Prince Rupert, you must find him," the lady said calmly. "I say not that he has not been here; but I tell you that he is now beyond your reach."

"He has not escaped," the officer said, "for the house is surrounded. Now, madam, I insist upon your telling me where you have hidden him."

"I have already told you, sir, that he is beyond your reach, and nothing that you can do will wring any further explanation from me."

The officer hesitated. For a moment he advanced a step toward her, with a menacing gesture. But, heated as the passions of men were, no violence was done to women, and with a fierce exclamation he ordered his troopers to search the house. For a quarter of an hour they ransacked it high and low, overturned every article of furniture, pulling down the arras, and tapping the walls with the hilts of their swords.

"Take these two ladies away," he said to his lieutenant, "and ride with them at once to Storton. They will have to answer for having harbored the prince."

The ladies were immediately taken off, placed on pillions behind two troopers, and carried away to Storton. In the meantime the search went on, and presently the hollow sound given by the slab in the wall was noticed. The spring could not be discovered, but crowbars and hammers being brought, the slab of stone was presently shivered. The discovery of the iron door behind it further heightened their suspicion that the place of concealment was found. The door, after a prolonged resistance, was battered in. But the Roundheads were filled with fury, on entering, to discover only a small, bare cell, with no signs of occupation whatever. The search was now prolonged in other directions; but, becoming convinced that it was useless, and that the place of concealment was too cunningly devised to admit of discovery, the captain ordered the furniture to be piled together, and setting light to it and the arras in several places, withdrew his men from the house, saying that if a rat would not come out of his hole, he must be smoked in it.

The prince and Harry from their place of concealment had heard the sound of blows against the doors below.

"They have found the way we have gone," the prince said, "but I think not that their scent is keen enough to trace us up here. If they do so, we will sell our lives dearly, for I will not be taken prisoner, and sooner or later our troop will hear of the Roundheads' attack, and will come to our rescue."

They heard the fall of the iron door, and the exclamations and cries with which the Roundheads broke into the room below. Then faintly they heard the sound of voices, and muffled knocks, as they tried the walls. Then all was silent again.

"The hounds are thrown off the scent," the prince said. "It will need a clever huntsman to put them on it. What will they do next, I wonder?"

Some time passed, and then Harry exclaimed:

"I perceive a smell of something burning, your royal highness."

"Peste! methinks I do also," the prince said. "I had not thought of that. If these rascals have set fire to the place we shall be roasted alive here."

A slight wreath of smoke was seen curling up through the crevice of the tightly-fitting stone.

"We will leap out, and die sword in hand," the prince said; and seizing the ring, he and Harry pulled at it. Ere they raised the stone an inch, a volume of dense smoke poured up, and they at once dropped it into its place again, feeling that their retreat was cut off. The prince put his sword in its scabbard.

"We must die, my lad," he said. "A strange death, too, to be roasted in a trap. But after all, whether by that or the thrust of a Roundhead sword makes little difference in the end. I would fain have fallen in the field, though."

"Perhaps," Harry suggested, "the fire may not reach us here. The walls are very thick, and the chamber below is empty."

The prince shook his head.

"The heat of the fire in a house like this will crack stone walls," he said.

He then took off his cloak and threw it over the stone, dressing it down tightly to prevent the smoke from curling in. Through the loophole they could now hear a roar, and crackling sounds, and a sudden glow lit up the country.

"The flames are bursting through the windows," Harry said. "They will bring our troop down ere long."

"The troop will do us no good," Prince Rupert replied. "All the king's army could not rescue us. But at least it would be a satisfaction before we die to see these crop-eared knaves defeated."

Minute after minute passed, and a broad glare of light illumined the whole country round. Through the slit they could see the Roundheads keeping guard round the house in readiness to cut off any one who might seek to make his escape, while at a short distance off they had drawn up the main body of the force. Presently, coming along the road at a rapid trot, they saw a body of horse.

"There are our men," the prince exclaimed.

The Roundheads had seen them too. A trumpet was sounded, and the men on guard round the house leaped to their horses, and joined the main body, just as the Cavaliers charged upon them. The Roundheads fought stoutly; but the charge of the Cavaliers was irresistible. Furious at the sight of the house in flames, and ignorant of the fate which had befallen their prince and their master's son, they burst upon the Roundheads with a force which the latter were unable to withstand. For four or five minutes the fight continued, and then such of the Roundheads as were able clapped spurs to their horses and galloped off, hotly pursued by the Cavaliers. The pursuit was a short one. Several of the Cavaliers were gathered at the spot where the conflict had taken place, and were, apparently, questioning a wounded man. Then the trumpeter who was with them sounded the recall, and in a few minutes the Royalist troops came riding back. They could see Jacob pointing to the burning building and gesticulating with his arms. Then a party dashed up to the house, and were lost to sight.

The prince and Harry both shouted at the top of their voices, but the roar of the flames and the crash of falling beams deadened the sound. The heat had by this time become intense. They had gradually divested themselves of their clothing, and were bathed in perspiration.

"This heat is terrific," Prince Rupert said. "I did not think the human frame could stand so great a heat. Methinks that water would boil were it placed here."

This was indeed the case -- the human frame, as is now well known, being capable of sustaining a heat considerably above that of boiling water. The walls were now so hot that the hand could not be borne upon them for an instant.

"My feet are burning!" the prince exclaimed, "Reach down that ladder from the wall."

They laid the ladder on the ground and stood upon it, thus avoiding any contact with the hot stone.

"If this goes on," Prince Rupert said, with a laugh; "there will be nothing but our swords left. We are melting away fast, like candles before a fire. Truly I do not think that there was so much water in a man as has floated down from me during the last half-hour."

Harry was so placed that he could command a sight through the loophole, and he exclaimed, "They are riding away!"

This was indeed the case. The whole building was now one vast furnace, and having from the first no hope that their friends, if there, could have survived, they had, hearing that Lady Sidmouth and her daughter had been taken to Storton, determined to ride thither to take them from the hands of the Roundheads, and to learn from them the fate of their leaders.

Another two hours passed. The heat was still tremendous, but they could not feel that it was increasing. Once or twice they heard terrific crashes, as portions of the wall fell. They would long since have been roasted, were it not for the cool air which flowed in through the long loophole, and keeping up a circulation in the chamber, lowered the temperature of the air within it. At the end of the two hours Harry gave a shout.

"They are coming back."

The light had now sunk to a quiet red glow, so that beyond the fact that a party was approaching, nothing could be seen. They rode, however, directly toward the turret, and then, when they halted, Harry saw the figures of two ladies who were pointing toward the loophole. Harry now stepped from the ladder on to the door and shouted at the top of his voice through the loophole. The reply came back in a joyous shout.

"We are being roasted alive," Harry cried. "Get ladders as quickly as possible, with crowbars, and break down the wall."

Men were seen to ride off in several directions instantly, and for the first time a ray of hope illumined, the minds of the prince and Harry that they might be saved. Half an hour later long ladders tied together were placed against the wall, and Jacob speedily made his appearance at the loophole.

"All access is impossible from the other side," he said, "for the place where the house stood is a red-hot furnace, Most of the walls have fallen. We had no hope of finding you alive."

"We are roasting slowly," Harry cried. "In Heaven's name bring us some water."

Soon a bottle of water was passed in through the loophole, and then three or four ladders being placed in position, the men outside began with crowbars and pickaxes to enlarge the loophole sufficiently for the prisoners to escape. It took three hours' hard work, at the end of which time the aperture was sufficiently wide to allow them to emerge, and utterly exhausted and feeling, as the prince said, "baked to a turn," they made their way down the ladder, being helped on either side by the men, for they themselves were too exhausted to maintain their feet.



Chapter VIII.

The Defense Of An Outpost.


The effect of the fresh air and of cordials poured down their throats soon restored the vigor to Prince Rupert and Harry Furness. They were still weak, for the great effort which nature had made to resist the force of the heat during those long hours had taxed their constitutions to the utmost.

Lady Sidmouth was rejoiced indeed to find them alive, for she had made sure that they were lost. It was not until she had been placed in a room strongly barred, and under a guard at Storton, that she perceived the light arising from her residence, and guessed that the men of the Commons, unable to find the hiding-place of Prince Rupert, had set it on fire. Then she had knocked loudly at the door; but the sentry had given no answer either to that or to her entreaties for a hearing. She soon, indeed, desisted from her efforts, for the fire which blazed up speedily convinced her that all hope was gone. When Jacob and the Royalists arrived, driving out the small remnant of the Roundheads who remained in the village, he had found Lady Sidmouth and her daughter bathed in tears, under the belief that their guests had perished in the old house that they loved so well. It was with no hope that they had mounted on the instant, and ridden at full gallop to the castle, and it was not until they saw that that wall was still standing that even the slightest hope entered their minds. Even then it appeared incredible that any one could be alive, and the shout from the loophole had surprised almost as much as it had delighted them.

In the course of three or four hours, refreshed and strengthened by a hearty breakfast and draughts of burgundy, the prince and Harry mounted their horses. Lady Sidmouth determined to remain for a few days at one of her tenant's houses, and then to go quietly on to Oxford -- for by this time the main army of Essex was rapidly moving east, and the country would soon be secure for her passage. The prince and Harry rode at full speed to rejoin the army. That night, by riding late, they reached it. They found that Essex had, in his retreat, surprised Cirencester and had passed Farringdon.

The prince, with five thousand horse, started, and marching with great rapidity, got between Reading and the enemy, and, near Newbury, fell upon the Parliament horse. For several hours sharp skirmishing went on, and Essex was forced to halt his army at Hungerford. This gave time for the king, who was marching at the head of his infantry, to come up. The royal army occupied Newbury, and by the position they had taken up, were now between the Roundheads and London.

On the morning of the 20th of September the outpost of each force became engaged, and the battle soon raged along the whole line. It was to some extent a repetition of the battle of Edgehill. Prince Rupert, with his Cavaliers, swept away the horse of the enemy; but the pikemen of London, who now first were tried in combat, forced back the infantry of the king. Prince Rupert, returning from the pursuit, charged them with all his cavalry; but so sharply did they shoot, and so steadily did the line of pikes hold together, that the horse could make no impression upon them.

The night fell upon an undecided battle, and the next morning the Roundheads, as at Edgehill, drew off from the field, leaving to the Royalists the honor of a nominal success, a success, however, which was in both cases tantamount to a repulse.

Three leading men upon the king's side fell -- Lords Falkland, Carnarvon, and Sunderland. The former, one of the finest characters of the times, may be said to have thrown away his life. He was utterly weary of the terrible dissensions and war in which England was plunged. He saw the bitterness increasing on both sides daily -- the hopes of peace growing less and less; and as he had left the Parliamentary party, because he saw that their ambition was boundless, and that they purposed to set up a despotic tyranny, so he must have bitterly grieved at seeing upon the side of the king a duplicity beyond all bounds, and want of faith which seemed to forbid all hope of a satisfactory issue. Thus, then, when the day of Newbury came, Falkland, whose duties in nowise led him into the fight, charged recklessly and found the death which there can be little doubt he sought.

Although the Cavaliers claimed Newbury as a great victory, instead of advancing upon London they fell back as usual to Oxford.

During the skirmishes Harry had an opportunity of doing a service to an old friend. The Parliament horse, although valiant and better trained than that of the Royalists, were yet unable to withstand the impetuosity with which the latter always attacked, the men seeming, indeed, to be seized with a veritable panic at the sight of the gay plumes of Rupert's gentlemen. In a fierce skirmish between Harry's troop and a party of Parliament horse of about equal strength, the latter were defeated, and Harry, returning with the main body, found a Puritan officer dismounted, with his back against a tree, defending himself from the attacks of three of his men. Harry rode hastily up and demanded his surrender. The officer looked up, and to his surprise Harry saw his friend Herbert.

"I am your prisoner, Harry," Herbert said, as he lowered the point of his sword.

"Not at all!" Harry exclaimed. "It would indeed be a strange thing, Herbert, were I to make you a prisoner. I thought you settled at Abingdon?"

Ordering one of his troopers to catch a riderless horse which was galloping near, he spoke for a moment or two with his friend, and then, as the horse was brought up, he told him to mount and ride.

"But you may get into trouble for releasing me," Herbert said.

"I care not if I do," Harry replied. "But you need not be uneasy about me, for Prince Rupert will stand my friend, and hold me clear of any complaint that may be made. I will ride forward with you a little, till you can join your friends."

As Harry rode on by the side of Herbert a Royalist officer, one Sir Ralph Willoughby, dashed up.

"What means this?" he exclaimed. "Do I see an officer of his majesty riding with one of the Roundheads? This is treason and treachery!"

"I will answer to the king, if need be," Harry said, "for my conduct. I am not under your orders, Sir Ralph, and shall use my discretion in this matter. This gentleman is as a brother to me."

"And I would cut down my brother," Sir Ralph said furiously, "if I found him in the ranks of the enemy!"

"Then, sir, we differ," Harry replied, "for that would not I. There are your friends," he said to Herbert, pointing to a body of Roundheads at a short distance, "Give me your word, however, that you will not draw sword again to-day."

Herbert readily gave the required promise, and riding off, was soon with his friends. Sir Ralph and Harry came to high words after he had left; and the matter might then and there have been decided by the sword, had not a party of Roundheads, seeing two cavalry officers so near to them, charged down, and compelled them to ride for their lives.

The following day Sir Ralph reported the circumstance to the general, and he to Prince Rupert. The prince laughed at the charge.

"Harry Furness," he said, "is as loyal a gentleman as draws sword in our ranks, and as he and I have been well-nigh roasted together, it were vain indeed that any complaint were made to me touching his honor. I will speak to him, however, and doubt not that his explanation will be satisfactory."

The prince accordingly spoke to Harry, who explained the circumstances of his relations with the young Roundhead.

"Had he been a great captain, sir," Harry said, "I might have deemed it my duty to hold him in durance, however near his relationship to myself. But as a few weeks since he was but a schoolboy, methought that the addition of his sword to the Roundhead cause would make no great difference in our chances of victory that afternoon. Moreover, I had received his pledge that he would not draw sword again in the battle."

As even yet, although the bitterness was quickly increasing, it was far from having reached that point which it subsequently attained, and prisoners on both sides were treated with respect, no more was said regarding Harry's conduct in allowing his friend to escape. But from that moment, between himself and Sir Ralph Willoughby there grew up a strong feeling of animosity, which only needed some fitting pretext to break out.

It was, indeed, an unfortunate point in the royal cause, that there was very far from being unity among those who fought side by side. There were intrigues and jealousies. There were the king's men, who would have supported his majesty in all lengths to which he might have gone, and who were ever advising him to resist all attempts at pacification, and to be content with nothing less than a complete defeat of his enemies. Upon the other hand, there were the grave, serious men, who had drawn the sword with intense reluctance, and who desired nothing so much as peace -- a peace which would secure alike the rights of the crown and the rights of the people.

They were shocked, too, by the riotous and profligate ways of some of the wilder spirits, and deemed that their cause was sullied by the reckless conduct and wild ways of many of their party. Sir Henry Furness belonged to this section of the king's adherents, and Harry, who had naturally imbibed his father's opinions, held himself a good deal aloof from the wild young spirits of the king's party.

Skirmishes took place daily between the cavalry outposts of the two armies. Sir Henry was asked by the prince to send some of his troops across the river to watch the enemy, and he chose that commanded by Harry, rather for the sake of getting the lad away from the temptations and dissipation of Oxford than to give him an opportunity of distinguishing himself. The troop commanded by Sir Ralph Willoughby was also on outpost duty, and lay at no great distance from the village in which Harry quartered his men after crossing the river. The Roundhead cavalry were known to be but three or four miles away, and the utmost vigilance was necessary.

Harry gave orders that the troops should be distributed through the village -- five men to a house. Straw was to be brought in at night, and laid on the floor of the kitchens, and the men were there to sleep, with their arms by their sides, ready for instant service. One of each party was to stand sentry over the five horses which were to be picketed to the palings in front of the house. At the first alarm he was at once to awake his comrades, who were to mount instantly, and form in column in the street. Two pickets were placed three hundred yards from the village, and two others a quarter of a mile further in advance. Harry and Jacob took up their residence in the village inn, and arranged alternately to visit the pickets and sentries every two hours.

"They shall not catch us napping, Jacob. This is my first command on detached duty. You and I have often remarked upon the reckless ways of our leaders. We have an opportunity now of carrying our own ideas into effect."

At three o'clock Jacob visited the outposts. All was still, and nothing had occurred to give rise to any suspicion of the vicinity of an enemy. Half an hour later one of the advanced pickets galloped in. They heard, he said, a noise as of a large body of horse, away to the right, and it seemed as if it was proceeding toward Chalcombe, the village where Sir Ralph Willoughby's troop was quartered. Two minutes later, thanks to Harry's arrangements, the troop were mounted and in readiness for action.

The first faint dawn of day had begun. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of pistol shots and shouts from the direction of Chalcombe, which lay a mile away.

"It is likely," Harry said, "that Sir Ralph has been caught napping. He is brave, but he is reckless, and the discipline of his troop is of the slackest. Let us ride to his rescue."

The troop filed out from the village, and turned down the side road leading to Chalcombe. Harry set spurs to his horse and led the column at a gallop. The sound of shots continued without intermission, and presently a bright light shot up.

"Methinks," Harry said to Jacob, "the Roundheads have caught our men asleep, and it is an attack upon the houses rather than a cavalry fight."

It was scarcely five minutes from the time they started when they approached the village. By the light of a house which had been set on fire, Harry saw that his conjecture was well founded. The Roundheads were dismounted, and were attacking the houses.

Halting just outside the village, Harry formed his men with a front across the whole road, and directed the lines to advance, twenty yards apart. Then, placing himself at their head, he gave the word, and charged down the street upon the Roundheads. The latter, occupied by their attack upon the houses, were unconscious of the presence of their foe until he was close upon them, and were taken utterly by surprise. The force of the charge was irresistible, and the Roundheads, dispersed and on foot, were cut down in all directions. Groups of twos and threes stood together and attempted resistance, but the main body thought only of regaining their horses. In three minutes after the Royalists entered the village the surviving Roundheads were in full flight, hotly pursued by the victorious Cavaliers. These, being for the most part better mounted, overtook and slew many of the Roundheads, and not more than half the force which had set out returned to their quarters at Didcot. The pursuit continued to within half a mile of that place, and then Harry, knowing that there was a force of Roundhead infantry there, drew off from the pursuit, and returned to Chalcombe. He found that more than half of Sir Ralph Willoughy's men had been killed, many having been cut down before they could betake themselves to their arms, those quartered in the inn, and at two or three of the larger houses, having alone maintained a successful resistance until the arrival of succor.

Sir Ralph Willoughby was furious. The disaster was due to his own carelessness in having contented himself with placing two pickets in advance of the village, and permitting the whole remainder of his force to retire to bed. Consequently the picket, on riding in upon the approach of the enemy, were unable to awake and call them to arms before the Roundheads were upon them. In his anger he turned upon Harry, and fiercely demanded why he had not sent him news of the approach of the enemy.

"You must have known it," he said. "Your men were all mounted and in readiness, or they could not have arrived here so soon. You must have been close at hand, and only holding off in order that you might boast of having come to my relief."

Harry, indignant at these words, turned on heel without deigning to give an answer to the angry man, and at once rode back to his own quarters. Two hours later Prince Rupert rode up. The firing had been reported, and Prince Rupert had ridden with a body of horse to Chalcombe. Here he had heard Sir Ralph Willoughby's version of the story, and had requested that officer to ride with him to Harry's quarters. The prince, with several of his principal officers, alighted at the inn, outside which Harry received him. Prince Rupert led the way into the house.

"Master Furness," he said, "Sir Ralph Willoughby accuses you of having played him false, and left his party to be destroyed on account of the quarrel existing between you, touching that affair at Newbury. What have you to say to this? He alleges that you must have been close at hand, and moved not a finger to save him until half his troop was destroyed."

"It is wholly false, sir," Harry said. "Seeing that the enemy were so close, I had placed my pickets well in advance, and ordered my men to lie down in their clothes, with their arms beside them, on straw in the kitchens, ready to mount at a moment's warning. I quartered five in each house, having their horses fastened in front, and one of each party stationed at the door, where he could observe the horses and wake the men on the instant. Thus, when my pickets came in with the news that troops were heard moving toward Chalcombe, my troop was in less than two minutes in the saddle. As we rode out of the village we heard the first shot, and five minutes later charged the Roundheads in the streets of the village. Had we not hastened, methinks that neither Sir Ralph Willoughby nor any of his troops would have been alive now to tell the tale. You can question, sir, my lieutenant, or any of my troopers, and you will hear that matters went precisely as I have told you."

"You have done well indeed, Master Furness," Prince Rupert said warmly, "and I would that many of my other officers showed the same circumspection and care as you have done. Now, Sir Ralph, let me hear what arrangements you made against surprise."

"I set pickets in front of the village," Sir Ralph said sulkily.

"And what besides?" the prince asked. "Having done that, did you and your officers and men go quietly to sleep, as if the enemy were a hundred miles away?"

Sir Ralph was silent.

"Fie, for shame, sir!" the prince said sternly. "Your own carelessness has brought disaster upon you, and instead of frankly owning your fault, and thanking Master Furness for having redeemed your error, saved the remnant of your troop, and defeated the Roundheads heavily, your jealousy and envy of the lad have wrought you to bring false accusations against him. Enough, sir," he said peremptorily, seeing the glance of hatred which Sir Ralph cast toward Harry. "Sufficient harm has been done already by your carelessness -- see that no more arises from your bad temper. I forbid this quarrel to go further; until the king's enemies are wholly defeated there must be no quarrels between his friends. And should I hear of any further dispute on your part with Master Furness, I shall bring it before the king, and obtain his warrant for your dismissal from this army."

The following day Harry and his troop moved further down the river, the enemy having fallen back from Didcot. He was placed at a village where there was a ford across the river. The post was of importance, as its position prevented the enemy from making raids into the country, where stores of provisions and cattle had been collected for the use of the army at Oxford. Harry's force was a small one for the defense of such a post; but there appeared little danger of an attack, as Prince Rupert, with a large force of cavalry, lay but a mile or two distant. A few days after their arrival, however, Prince Rupert started with his horse to drive back a party of the enemy whom he heard were lying some miles north of Reading.

"Prince Rupert never seems to have room for two ideas in his head at the same time," Jacob said. "The moment he hears of an enemy off he rides at full gallop, forgetting that he has left us alone here. It is well if the Roundheads at Reading do not sally out and attack us, seeing how useful this ford would be to them."

"I agree with you, Jacob, and we will forthwith set to work to render the place as defensible as we may."

"We had best defend the other side of the ford, if they advance," Jacob said. "We could make a far better stand there."

"That is true, Jacob; but though we could there bar them from entering our country, they, if they obtained the village, would shut the door to our entering theirs. No, it is clear that it our duty to defend the village as long as we can, if we should be attacked."

Harry now set his men to work to make loopholes in the cottages and inclosure walls, and to connect the latter by banks of earth, having thorn branches set on the top. Just at the ford itself stood a large water-mill, worked by a stream which here ran into the river. Harry placed sacks before all the windows, leaving only loopholes through which to fire. Some of the troop carried pistols only; others had carbines; and some, short, wide-mouthed guns, which carried large charges of buckshot. Pickets were sent forward a mile toward Reading.

Early in the afternoon these galloped in with the news that a heavy column of infantry and cavalry, with two pieces of artillery, were approaching along the road. Harry at once dispatched a messenger, with orders to ride until he found Prince Rupert, to tell him of the state he was in, and ask him to hurry to his assistance, giving assurance that he would hold the village as long as possible. All now labored vigorously at the works of defense. Half an hour after the alarm had been given the enemy were seen approaching.

"There must be over five hundred men, horse and foot," Jacob said, as from the upper story of the mill he watched with Harry the approach of the enemy. "With fifty men we shall never be able to defend the circuit of the village."

"Not if they attack all round at once," Harry agreed. "But probably they will fall upon us in column, and behind stone walls we can do much. We must keep them out as long as we can; then fall back here, and surround ourselves with a ring of fire."

As soon as it was known that the enemy were approaching Harry had given orders that all the inhabitants should evacuate their houses and cross the river, taking with them such valuables as they could carry. There were several horses and carts in the village, and these were at once put in requisition, and the people crossing and recrossing the river rapidly carried most of their linen and other valuables over in safety, the men continuing to labor for the preservation of their goods, even after the fight commenced.

The Roundheads halted about four hundred yards from the village. Just as they did so there was a trampling of horses, and Sir Ralph Willoughby, with his troop, now reduced to thirty strong, rode into the village. He drew up his horse before Harry.

"Master Furness," he said, "Prince Rupert has forbidden me to test your courage in the way gentlemen usually do so. But there is now a means open. Let us see which will ride furthest -- you or I -- into the ranks of yonder horsemen."

Harry hesitated a moment; then he said gravely:

"My life is not my own to throw away, Sir Ralph. My orders are to hold this place. That I can best do on foot, for even if our troops united were to rout the enemy's cavalry, their footmen would still remain, and would carry the village. No, sir, my duty is to fight here."

"I always thought you a coward!" Sir Ralph exclaimed; "now I know it," and, with a taunting laugh, he ordered his men to follow him, issued from the village, and prepared, with his little band, to charge the Roundhead horse, about a hundred and fifty strong.

Just as they formed line, however, the enemy's' guns opened, and a shot struck Sir Ralph full in the chest, hurling him, a shattered corpse, to the ground.

His men, dismayed at the fall of their leader, drew rein.

"Fall back, men," Harry shouted from behind, "fall back, and make a stand here. You must be cut to pieces if you advance."

The troop, who had no other officer with them, at once obeyed Harry's orders. They had heard the conversation between him and their leader, and although prepared to follow Sir Ralph, who was the landlord of most of them, they saw that Harry was right, and that to attack so numerous a body of horse and foot was but to invite destruction.



Chapter IX.

A Stubborn Defense.


A half-dozen or so of Sir Ralph Willoughby's troopers declared that now their lord was dead they would fight no further, and straightway rode off through the village and across the ford. The rest, however, seeing that a brave fight against odds was about to commence, declared their willingness to put themselves under Harry's orders. They were at once dismounted and scattered along the line of defenses. After the Roundhead cannon had fired a few shots their cavalry charged, thinking to ride into the village. But the moment Sir Ralph's troopers had re-entered it Harry had heaped up across the road a quantity of young trees and bushes which he had cut in readiness. Not a shot was fired until the horsemen reached this obstacle, and then so heavy a fire was poured upon them, as they dismounted and tried to pull it asunder, that, with a loss of many men, they were forced to retreat.

The infantry now advanced, and a severe fight began. Harry's eighty men, sheltered behind their walls, inflicted heavy damage upon the enemy, who, however, pressed on stoutly, one column reaching the obstruction across the road, and laboring to destroy it. All the horses, with the exception of twenty, had been sent across the ford, and when Harry saw that in spite of the efforts of his men the enemy were destroying the abattis, he mounted twenty men upon these horses, placing Jacob at their head. Then he drew off as many defenders from other points as he could, and bade these charge their pistols and blunderbusses to the mouth with balls. As the enemy effected a breach in the abattis and streamed in, Jacob with his horse galloped down upon them at full speed. The reserve poured the fire of their heavily loaded pieces upon the mass still outside, and then aided Jacob's horse by falling suddenly on those within. So great was the effect that the enemy were driven back, and the column retired, the breach in the abattis being hastily filled up, before the cavalry, who were waiting the opportunity, could charge down upon it.

In the meantime, however, the enemy were forcing their way in at other points, and Harry gave word for the outside line of houses to be fired. The thatched roofs speedily were in flames, and as the wind was blowing from the river dense clouds of smoke rolled down upon the assailants. It was now only the intervals between the houses which had to be defended, and for an hour the stubborn resistance continued, the Royalist troops defending each house with its inclosure to the last, and firing them as they retreated, their own loss being trifling in comparison with that which they inflicted upon their assailants.

At last the whole of the defenders were gathered in and round the mill. This was defended from attack by the mill stream, which separated it from the village, and which was crossed only by the road leading down to the ford. The bridge was a wooden one, and this had been already partly sawn away. As soon as the last of the defenders crossed the remainder of the bridge was chopped down. Along the line of the stream Harry had erected a defense, breast high, of sacks of wheat from the mill. The enemy, as they straggled out through the burning village, paused, on seeing the strong position which yet remained to be carried. The mill stream was rapid and deep, and the approaches swept by the fire from the mill. There was a pause, and then the cannon were brought up and fire opened upon the mill, the musketry keeping up an incessant rattle from every wall and clump of bushes.

The mill was built of wood, and the cannon shot went through and through it. But Harry directed his men to place rows of sacks along each floor facing the enemy, and lying down behind these to fire through holes pierced in the planks. For half an hour the cannonade continued, and then the enemy were seen advancing, carrying beams and the trunks of small trees, to make a bridge across the stream. Had Harry's men been armed with muskets it would have been next to impossible for the enemy to succeed in doing this in the face of their fire. But the fire of their short weapons was wild and uncertain, except at short distances. Very many of the Roundheads fell, but others pressed forward bravely, and succeeded in throwing their beams across the stream. By this time Harry had led out all his force from the mill, and a desperate fight took place at the bridge. The enemy lined the opposite bank in such force that none of the defenders could show their heads above the barricade of sacks, and Harry came to the conclusion that further resistance was vain. He ordered Jacob to take all the men with the exception of ten and to retire at once across the ford. He himself with the remainder would defend the bridge till they were fairly across, and would then rush over and join them as he might.

With a heavy heart Jacob was preparing to obey this order, when he heard a loud cheer, and saw Prince Rupert, heading a large body of horse, dash into the river on the other side. The enemy saw him too. There was an instant cessation of their fire, and before Prince Rupert had gained the bank the Roundheads were already in full retreat for Reading. The bridge was hastily repaired, and the prince pursued for some distance, chasing their cavalry well-nigh into Reading. Their infantry, however, held together, and regained that town in safety.

Upon his return Prince Rupert expressed his warm admiration at the prolonged and gallant defense which Harry had made, and said that the oldest soldier in the army could not have done better. At Harry's request he promised the villagers that the next day money should be sent out from the king's treasury to make good the losses which they had sustained. Then he left a strong body of horse to hold the village, and directed Harry to ride with him with his troop to Oxford.

"I have a mission for you, Master Furness," he said, as they rode along. "I have already told his majesty how coolly and courageously you conducted yourself in that sore strait in which we were placed together. The king has need of a messenger to Scotland. The mission is a difficult one, and full of danger. It demands coolness and judgment as well as courage. I have told his majesty that, in spite of your youth, you possess these qualities, but the king was inclined to doubt whether you were old enough to be intrusted with such a commission. After to-day's doings he need have no further hesitation. I spoke to your father but yesterday, and he has given consent that you shall go, the more readily, methinks, because the good Cavalier thinks that the morals and ways of many of our young officers to be in no wise edifying for you, and I cannot but say that he is right. What sayest thou?"

Harry expressed his willingness to undertake any mission with which he might be charged. He thought it probable that no great movements would be undertaken in the south for some time, and with a lad's natural love of adventure, was pleased at the thought of change and variety.

The Scots were at this time arranging for a close alliance with the Parliament, which had sent emissaries to Edinburgh to negotiate a Solemn League and Covenant. Sir Henry Vane, who was an Independent, had been forced to accede to the demand of the Scotch Parliament, that the Presbyterian religious system of Scotland should be adopted as that of England, and after much chaffering for terms on both sides, the document was signed, and was to bind those who subscribed it to endeavor, without respect of persons, to extirpate popery and prelacy.

On the 25th of September, nearly a week after the battle of Newbury, all the members of Parliament still remaining in London assembled in St. Margaret's Church, and signed the Solemn League and Covenant; but even at this moment of enthusiasm the parties were not true to each other. The Scotch expected that Presbyterianism would be introduced into England, and that Episcopacy would be entirely abolished. The English members, however, signed the declaration with the full intent of preserving their own religion, that of a form of Episcopacy, altered much indeed from that of the Church of England, but still differing widely from the Scotch system.

The king had many adherents in Scotland, chief of whom was the Earl of Montrose, a most gallant and loyal nobleman.

Upon the day after the fight in the village the king, on Prince Rupert's recommendation, appointed Harry Furness to bear dispatches to the earl, and as he was going north, Prince Rupert placed Lady Sidmouth and her daughter under his charge to convey to the army of the Earl of Newcastle, under whom her husband was at this time engaged.

Upon asking what force he should take with him the prince said that he had better proceed with his own troop, as an escort to the ladies, as far as the camp of Newcastle, filling up the places of those who had fallen in the skirmishes and fight of Newbury with other men, so as to preserve his full tale of fifty troopers. When he had fulfilled the first part of his mission he was to place his troop at the earl's service until his return, and to proceed in such manner and disguise as might seem best to him.

Harry started for the north in high spirits, feeling very proud of the charge confided to him. Lady Sidmouth and her daughter were placed in a light litter between two horses. Harry took his place beside it. Half the troop, under the command of the lieutenant, rode in front; the other half followed. So they started for the north. It was a long journey, as they were forced to avoid many towns occupied by Roundheads. Upon the fourth day of their journey they suddenly heard the explosion of pistols, and the shouts of men in conflict. Harry ordered his lieutenant to ride forward with half the troop to some rising ground just in front, and there they saw a combat going on between a party of Cavaliers and a force of Roundheads, much superior to them in numbers. Harry joined the lieutenant, and sending back a man with orders to the remaining half of the troop to form a guard round the litter, he headed the advance party, and the twenty-five men rode headlong down into the scene of conflict. It was a sharp fight for a few minutes, and then the accession of strength which the Cavaliers had gained gave them the superiority, and the Roundheads fell back, but in good order.

"You arrived just in time, sir," the leader of the party engaged said. "I am Master John Chillingworth, and am marching to Hardley House, which the Puritans are about to besiege. There is no time to delay, for see you not on yonder hill the gleam of pikes? That is the enemy's footmen. It is only an advanced party of their horse with which we have had this affair. You cannot go forward in this direction. There is a strong body of Roundheads lying a few miles to the north."

Harry rode back to Lady Sidmouth, and after a consultation with her and with Master Chillingworth, they decided to throw themselves into Hardley House, where the addition of strength which they brought might enable them to beat off the Roundheads, and then to proceed on their way. They learned indeed from a peasant that several bodies of Roundheads were advancing from various directions, and that Hardley House was strong and well defended. Of the choice of evils, therefore, they thought this to be the lightest, and, after an hour's hard riding, they arrived before its walls. It was an old castellated building, with bastions and walls capable of standing a siege. The party were gladly received by the master, Sir Francis Burdett, who had placed his castle in a posture of defense, but was short of men. Upon the news of the approach of the enemy he had hastily driven a number of cattle into the yard, and had stores of provisions sufficient to stand a siege for some time.

In a short time the Parliament force, consisting of five hundred footmen and two hundred horse, appeared before the castle, and summoned it to surrender. Sir Francis refused to do so, and fired a gun in token of defiance. Soon a train was seen approaching in the distance, and four guns were dragged by the enemy to a point of high ground near the castle. Here the Roundheads began to throw up a battery, but were mightily inconvenienced while doing so by the guns of the castle, which shot briskly against them. Working at night, however, in two days they completed the battery, which, on the third morning, opened fire upon the castle. The guns were much heavier than those upon the walls, and the shot, directed at a curtain between two towers, battered the stone sorely. The Parliament footmen were drawn back a space from the walls so as to avoid the fire of muskets from the defenders. There were in all in the castle about two hundred men, one hundred having been collected before the arrival of the troops of horse. These determined upon making a desperate resistance when the wall should give way, which would, they doubted not, be upon the following day. Everything that could be done was tried to hinder the destruction made by the enemy's shot. Numbers of sacks were filled with earth, and lowered from the walls above so as to hang in regular order before it, and so break the force of the shot. This had some effect, but gradually the wall crumbled beneath the blows of the missiles from the Roundhead guns.

"We are useless here, save as footmen," Harry said that night to his host. "There is a postern gate, is there not, behind the castle? Methinks that if we could get out in the dark unobserved, and form close to the walls, so that their pickets lying around might not suspect us of purposing to issue forth, we might, when daylight dawned, make an attack upon their guns, and if we could spike these the assault would probably cease."

The attempt was determined upon. The Roundhead infantry were disposed behind as well as in front of the castle, so as to prevent the escape of the besieged; but the camp was at a distance of some four hundred yards. The chains of the drawbridge across the moat were oiled, as were the bolts of the doors, and at three in the morning the gate was opened, and the drawbridge lowered across the moat. A thick layer of sacks was then placed upon the drawbridge. The horses' hoofs were also muffled with sacking, and then, one by one, the horses were led out, the drawbridge was drawn up again, and all was quiet. No sound or motion in the Puritan camp betrayed that their exit was observed, and they could hear the challenges of the circuit of sentries passed from man to man.

When the first streak of dawn was seen in the east the troop mounted their horses, and remained quiet until the light should be sufficient to enable them to see the nature of the ground over which they would have to pass. This they would be able to do before they themselves were observed, standing as they were close under the shadow of the walls of the castle. As soon as it was sufficiently light the trumpets sounded, and with a burst they dashed across the country. Heeding not the bugle calls in the camp of the Puritan infantry, they rode straight at the guns. These were six hundred yards distant, and before the artillerymen could awake to their danger, the Royalists were upon them. Those that stood were cut down, and in a minute the guns were spiked. Then the cavalry swept round, and as the Puritan horse hastily formed up, they charged them. Although but half their numbers, they had the superiority in the surprise at which they took their foes, and in the fact of the latter being but half armed, not having had time to put on their breastplates. The combat was a short one, and in a few minutes the Puritans were flying in all directions. The pikemen were now approaching on either side in compact bodies, and against these Harry knew that his horsemen could do nothing. He therefore drew them off from the castle, and during the day circled round and round the place, seizing several carts of provisions destined for the wants of the infantry, and holding them in a sort of leaguer.

That night, finding that their guns were disabled, their horse defeated, and themselves cut off, the rebel infantry drew off, and gave up the siege of the place. The next morning the cavalry re-entered the castle in triumph, and having received the hearty thanks of Sir Francis Burdett, and leaving with him the troop of Master Chillingworth, who intended to remain there, Harry proceeded on his way north, and reached York without further adventure.

During the ten days that they had journeyed together Lady Sidmouth had been greatly pleased with the attention and character of Harry Furness. He was always cheerful and courteous, without any of that light tone of flippancy which distinguished the young Cavaliers of the period, and her little daughter was charmed with her companion. Harry received the hearty thanks of Sir Henry Sidmouth for the care with which he had conducted his wife through the dangers of the journey, and then, having so far discharged his duty, he left his troop at York, and started for Scotland.

On the way he had discussed with Jacob the measures which he intended to take for his journey north. Jacob had begged earnestly to accompany him, and as Harry deemed that his shrewdness might be of great use, he determined to take him with him, as well as another of his troop. The latter was a merry fellow, named William Long. He was of grave and sober demeanor, and never smiled, even while causing his hearers to be convulsed with laughter. He had a keen sense of humor, was a ready-witted and courageous fellow, and had frequently distinguished himself in the various skirmishes. He was the son of a small tenant of Sir Henry Furness.

His farm was near the hall, and, although three or four years older than Harry, he had as a boy frequently accompanied him when out hawking, and in other amusements. Harry felt that, with two attached and faithful comrades like these, he should he able to make his way through many dangers. At York he had procured for himself and his followers suits of clothes of a grave and sober cut, such as would be worn by yeomen; and here they laid aside their Cavalier garments, and proceeded northward. They traveled quietly forward as far as Durham, and then went west, as Berwick was held for the Parliament. They carried weapons, for at that time none traveled unarmed, and the country through which they had to pass was greatly disturbed, the moss troopers having taken advantage of the disorders of the times to renew the habits of their forefathers, and to make raids upon their southern neighbors, and carry off cattle and horses. They carried with them but little money, a small quantity in their valises, and a few gold pieces concealed about their persons, each choosing a different receptacle, so that in case of pillage some at least might retain sufficient to carry them on their way. Avoiding the large towns, where alone they would be likely to be questioned, they crossed the border, and rode into Scotland.

Upon the day after their crossing the frontier they saw a body of horsemen approaching them. These drew up when they reached them, Harry having previously warned his comrades to offer no resistance, as the party were too strong for them, and his mission was too important to allow the king's cause to be hazarded by any foolish acts of pugnacity.

"Are you for the king or the kirk?" the leader asked.

"Neither for one nor the other," Harry said. "We are peaceable yeomen traveling north to buy cattle, and we meddle not in the disputes of the time."

"Have you any news from the south?"

"Nothing," Harry replied. "We come from Durham, and since the news of the battle of Newbury, no tidings have come of importance."

The man looked inquisitively at the horses and valises; but Harry had chosen three stout ponies sufficiently good to carry them, but offering no temptations to pillagers, and the size of the valises promised but little from their contents.

"Since you are riding north to buy cattle," the leader said, "you must have money with you, and money is short with us in these bad times."

"We have not," Harry said; "judging it possible that we might meet with gentlemen who felt the pressure of the times, we have provided ourselves with sufficient only to take us up to Kelso, where dwells our correspondent, who will, we trust, have purchased and collected sufficient cattle for us to take south when we shall learn that a convoy of troops is traveling in this direction, for we would not place temptation in the way of those whom we might meet."

"You are a fellow of some humor," the leader said grimly. "But it is evil jesting on this side of the border."

"I jest not," Harry said. "There is a proverb in Latin, with which doubtless your worship is acquainted, to the effect that an empty traveler may sing before robbers, and, although far from including you and your worshipful following in that category, yet we may be pardoned for feeling somewhat light-hearted, because we are not overburdened with money."

The leader looked savagely at the young man; but seeing that his demeanor and that of his followers was resolute, that they carried pistols at their holsters and heavy swords, and deeming that nothing but hard knocks would come of an attack upon them, he surlily bade his company follow him, and rode on his way again.



Chapter X.

The Commissioner Of The Convention.


At Kelso Harry procured changes of garments, attiring himself as a Lowland farmer, and his companions as two drovers. They were, as before, mounted; but the costume of English farmers could no longer have been supported by any plausible story. They learned that upon the direct road north they should find many bodies of Scotch troops, and therefore made for the coast. Two days' riding brought them to the little port of Ayton.

After taking their supper in the common room of the hostelry, there was a stir outside, and three men, attired as Puritan preachers, entered the room. Mine host received them with courtesy, but with none of the eager welcome usually displayed to guests; for these gentry, although feared -- for their power was very great at the time -- were by no means loved, and their orders at a hostelry were not likely to swell the purse of the host. Stalking to an unoccupied table next to that at which Harry and his party were sitting, they took their seats and called for supper.

Harry made a sign to his companions to continue talking together, while he listened attentively to the conversation of the men behind him. He gathered from their talk that they were commissioners proceeding from the Presbyterian Convention in London to discuss with that at Edinburgh upon the points upon which they could come to an agreement for a common basis of terms. Their talk turned principally upon doctrinal questions, upon which Harry's ignorance was entire and absolute; but he saw at once that it would do good service to the king if he could in some way prevent these men continuing upon their journey, and so for a time arrest the progress of the negotiations between the king's enemies in England and Scotland, for at this time the preachers were the paramount authorities in England. It was they who insisted upon terms, they who swayed the councils of the nation, and it was not until Cromwell, after overthrowing the king, overthrew the Parliament, which was for the main part composed of their creatures, that the power of the preachers came to an end. It would, of course, have been easy for Harry and his friends to attack these men during their next day's journey, but this would have involved the necessity of killing them -- from which he shrank -- for an assault upon three godly men traveling on the high business of the Convention to the Scottish capital would have caused such an outcry that Harry could not hope to continue on his way without the certainty of discovery and arrest.

Signing to his comrades to remain in their seats, he strolled off toward the port, and there entered a public house, which, by its aspect, was frequented by seafaring men. It was a small room that he entered, and contained three or four fishermen, and one whom a certain superiority in dress betokened to be the captain of a vessel. They were talking of the war, and of the probability of the Scottish army taking part in it. The fishermen were all of the popular party; but the captain, who seemed a jovial fellow, shrugged his shoulders over the religious squabbles, and said that, for his part, he wanted nothing but peace.

"Not," he said, "that the present times do not suit are rarely in purse. Men are too busy now to look after the doings of every lugger that passes along the coast, and never were French goods so plentiful or so cheap. Moreover," he said, "I find that not unfrequently passengers want to be carried to France or Holland. I ask no questions; I care not whether they go on missions from the Royalists or from the Convention; I take their money; I land them at their destination; no questions are asked. So the times suit me bravely; but for all that I do not like to think of Englishmen and Scotchmen arrayed against their fellows. I cannot see that it matters one jot whether we are predestinate or not predestinate, or whether it is a bishop who governs a certain church or a presbyter. I say let each worship in his own way, and not concern himself about his fellows. If men would but mind their own affairs in religion as they do in business it would be better for us all."

Harry, as he drank the glass of beer he had ordered, had joined occasionally in the conversation, not taking any part, but agreeing chiefly with the sea-captain in his desire for peace.

"I too," he said, "have nothing to grumble at. My beasts fetch good prices for the army, and save that there is a want of hands, I was never doing better. Still I would gladly see peace established."

Presently the fishermen, having finished their liquor, retired, and the captain, looking keenly at Harry, said, "Methinks, young sir, that you are not precisely what you seem!"

"That is so," Harry replied; "I am on business here, It matters not on which side, and it may be that we may strike a bargain together."

"Do you want to cross the channel?" the captain asked, laughing. "You seem young to have put your head in a noose already."

"No," Harry said, "I do not want to cross myself; but I want to send some others across. I suppose that if a passenger or two were placed on board your ship, to be landed in Holland, you would not deem it necessary to question them closely, or to ascertain whether they also were anxious to arrive at that destination?"

"By no means," the captain replied. "Goods consigned to me will be delivered at the port to which they are addressed, and I should consider that with passengers as with goods, I must carry them to the port for which their passage is taken."

"Good," Harry said; "if that is the case, methinks that when you sail -- and," he asked, breaking off, "when do you sail?"

"To-morrow morning, if the wind is fair," the captain answered. "But if it would pay me better to stop for a few hours, I might do so."

"To-morrow night, if you will wait till then," Harry said, "I will place three passengers on board, and will pay you your own sum to land them at Flushing, or any other place across the water to which you may be bound. I will take care that they will make no complaints whatever, or address any remonstrance to you, until after you have fairly put to sea. And then, naturally, you will feel yourself unable to alter the course of your ship."

"But," the captain observed, "I must be assured that these passengers who are so anxious to cross the water are not men whose absence might cause any great bother. I am a simple man, earning my living as honestly as the times will allow me to do, and I wish not to embroil myself with the great parties of the State."

"There may be an inquiry," Harry replied; "but methinks it will soon drop. They are three preachers of London, who are on their way to dispute concerning points of religion with the divines in Scotland. The result of their disputation may perchance be that an accord may be arrived at between the divines of London and Edinburgh; and in that case, I doubt not that the army now lying at Dundee would move south, and that the civil war would therefore become more extended and cruel than ever."

The captain laughed.

"I am not fond of blackbirds on board my ship," he said. "They are ever of ill omen on the sea. But I will risk it for so good a cause. It is their pestilent religious disputes which have stirred up the nations to war, and I doubt not that even should some time elapse before these gentlemen can again hold forth in England, there are plenty of others to supply their place."

An agreement was speedily arrived at as to the terms of passage, for Harry was well provided with money, having drawn at Kelso from an agent devoted to the Royal cause, upon whom he had letters of credit.

The next morning early Harry went to a carter in the town, and hired a cart for the day, leaving a deposit for its safe return at night. Then, mounting their horses, the three Royalists rode off just as the preachers were going forth from the inn. The latter continued their course at the grave pace suitable to their calling and occupation, conversing vigorously upon the points of doctrine which they intended to urge upon their fellows at Edinburgh. Suddenly, just where the road emerged from a wood on to a common, three men dashed out, and fell upon them. The preachers roared lustily for mercy, and invoked the vengeance of the Parliament upon those who ventured to interfere with them.

"We are charged," one said, "with a mission to the Convention at Edinburgh, and it is as much as your heads are worth to interfere with us."

"Natheless," Harry said, "we must even risk our heads. You must follow us into the wood, or we shall be under the necessity of 'blowing out your brains.'"

Much crestfallen, the preachers followed their captors into the wood. There they were despoiled of their hats and doublets, tied securely by cords, gagged, and placed, in spite of their remonstrances and struggles, in three huge sacks.

At midnight the Annette was lying alongside the wharf at Ayton, when a cart drove up. Three men alighted from it, and one hailed the captain, who was standing on deck.

"I have brought the three parcels thou wottest of," he said. "They will need each two strong men to carry them on board."

The captain, with two sailors, ascended to the quay.

"What have we here?" said one of the sailors; "there is some live creature in this sack."

"It is a young calf," Harry said; "when you are well out to sea you can give it air."

The men laughed, for having frequently had passengers to cross to the Continent, they shrewdly guessed at the truth; and the captain had already told them that the delay of a day would put some money into each of their pockets. Having seen the three sacks deposited on the deck of the ship, when the sails were immediately hoisted, and the Annette glided away on her course seaward, the cart was driven round to the house where it had been hired. The stipulated price was paid, the deposit returned, and the hirer then departed.

Riding toward Edinburgh, Harry agreed with his comrades that as he, as the apparent leader of the party, would be the more likely to be suspected and arrested, it would be better for the documents of which they were the carriers, as well as the papers found upon the persons of the Puritans, to be intrusted to the charge of Jacob and William Long. Harry charged them, in the event of anything happening to him, to pay no heed to him whatever, but to separate from him and mix with the crowd, and then to make their way, as best they might, to the Earl of Montrose.

"It matters nothing," he said, "my being arrested, They can prove nothing against me, as I shall have no papers on my body, while it is all-important that you should get off. The most that they can do to me is to send me to London, and a term of imprisonment as a malignant is the worst that will befall me."

The next day they entered the town by the Canongate, and were surprised and amused at the busy scene passing there. Riding to an inn, they put up their horses and dismounted. Harry purposed to remain there for three or four days to learn the temper of the people.

The next morning he strolled out into the streets, followed at some little distance by Jacob and William Long, He had not the least fear of being recognized, and for the time gave himself up thoroughly to the amusement of the moment. He had not proceeded far, however, when he ran full tilt against a man in a black garb, who, gazing at him, at once shouted out at the top of his voice, "Seize this man, he is a malignant and a spy," and to his horror Harry discovered the small preacher with whom he had twice already been at loggerheads, and who, it seems, had been dispatched as a member of a previous commission by his party in London.

In a moment a dozen sturdy hands seized him by his collar. Feeling the utter uselessness of resistance, and being afraid that should he attempt to struggle, his friends might be drawn into the matter, Harry quietly proceeded along the street until he reached the city guardhouse, in a cell of which he was thrust.

"One would think," he muttered to himself, "that little preacher is an emissary of Satan himself. Go where I will, this lantern-jawed knave is sure to crop up and I feel convinced that until I have split his skull I shall have no safety. I thought I had freed myself of him forever when I got out of London; and here, in the middle of the Scotch capital, he turns up as sharpsighted and as venomous as ever."

An hour or two later Harry was removed under a guard to the city prison, and in the evening the doors were opened and a guard appeared and briefly ordered him to follow. Under the escort of four men he was led through the streets to a large building, and then conducted to a room in which a number of persons, some of them evidently of high rank, were sitting. At the head of the table was a man of sinister aspect. He had red hair and eyebrows, and a foxy, cunning face, and Harry guessed at once that he was in the presence of the Earl of Argyll -- a man who, even more than the rest of his treacherous race, was hated and despised by loyal Scotchmen. In all their history, a great portion of the Scottish nobles were ever found ready to take English gold, and to plot against their country. But the Argylls had borne a bad pre-eminence even among these. They had hunted Wallace, had hounded down Bruce, and had ever been prominent in fomenting dissensions in their country; the present earl was probably the coldest and most treacherous of his race.

"We are told," he said sternly to the prisoner, "that you are a follower of the man Charles; that you have been already engaged in plottings among the good citizens of London, and we shrewdly suspect that your presence here bodes no good to the state. What hast thou to say in thy defense?"

"I do not know that I am charged with any offence," Harry said quietly. "I am an English gentleman, who, wishing to avoid the disorders in his own country, has traveled north for peace and quietness. If you have aught to urge against me or any evidence to give, I shall be prepared to confute it. As for the preacher, whose evidence has caused my arrest, he hath simply a grudge against me for a boyish freak, from which he suffered at the time when I made my escape from a guardroom in London, and his accusation against me is solely the result of prejudice."

Harry had already, upon his arrival at the jail, been searched thoroughly, having been stripped, and even the folds and linings of his garments ripped open, to see that they contained no correspondence. Knowing that nothing whatever could have been found against him, unless, indeed, his followers had also fallen into the hands of the Roundheads, Harry was able to assume a position of injured innocence.

"Your tone comports not with your condition," the Earl of Argyll said harshly. "We have found means here to make men of sterner mold than thine speak the truth, and in the interests of the state we shall not hesitate to use them against you also. The torturer here hath instruments which would tear you limb from limb, and, young sir, these will not be spared unless that malapert tongue of thine gives us the information we desire to learn."

"I decline to answer any questions beyond what I have already said," Harry replied firmly. "I tell you that I am an English gentleman traveling here on my own private business, and it were foul wrong for me to be seized and punished upon the suspicion of such a one as that man there;" and he pointed contemptuously to the preacher.

"You will be brought up again in two days," the earl said, "and if by that time you have not made up your mind to confess all, it will go hard with you. Think not that the life of a varlet like you will weigh for one moment in the scale with the safety of the nation, or that any regard for what you may consider in England the usages of war will prevail here."

He waved his hand, and Harry was conducted back to jail, feeling far more uneasy than he had done, for he knew that in Scotland very different manners prevailed to those which characterized the English. In England, throughout the war, no unnecessary bloodshed took place, and up to that time the only persons executed in cold blood had been the two gentlemen convicted of endeavoring to corrupt the Parliament in favor of the king. But in Scotland, where civil broils were constant, blood was ever shed recklessly on both sides; houses were given to the flames; men, women, and children slaughtered; lands laid waste; and all the atrocities which civil war, heightened by religious bigotry, could suggest, perpetrated.

Late that evening, the door of the prison opened, and a preacher was shown into the room.

"I have come," he said in a nasal tone, "misguided young man, to pray you to consider the wickedness of your ways. It is written that the ungodly shall perish, and I would fain lead you from the errors of your way before it is too late."

Harry had started as the speaker began; but he remained immovable until the jailer closed the door.

"Jacob," he exclaimed, "how mad, how imprudent of you! I ordered you specially, if I was arrested, to pay no heed, but to make your way north."

"I know that you did," Jacob said. "But you see you yourself talked of remaining for three days in Edinburgh. Therefore, I knew that there could be no pressing need of my journey north; and hearing some whispers of the intention of the lord president to extract from a certain prisoner the news of a plot with which he was supposed to be connected, I thought it even best to come and see you."

"But how have you obtained this garb?" Harry asked; "and how, above all, have you managed to penetrate hither?"

"Truly," Jacob said, "I have undertaken a difficult task in thy behalf, for I have to-night to enter into a disputation with many learned divines, and I dread that more than running the risk of meeting the Earl of Argyll, who, they say, has the face of a fox, and the heart of a devil."

"What mean you?" Harry asked.

"After we saw you dragged off by the townsmen, on being denounced by that little preacher whose hat I spoiled in St. Paul's churchyard, we followed your orders, and made back to our hostelry. There William Long and myself talked the matter over. In the first place, we took all the papers and documents which were concealed about us, and lifting a board in the room, hid them beneath it, so that in case of our arrest they would be safe. As we took out the documents, the commission which we borrowed from the preachers met our eyes, and it struck me that, armed with this, we might be enabled to do you service. I therefore at once purchased cloaks and hats fitting for us as worthy divines from London, and then, riding a mile or two into the country, we changed our garments, and entered the good city of Edinburgh as English divines. We proceeded direct to the house of the chief presbyter, to whom the letters of commission were addressed, and were received by him with open arms. I trust that we played our part rarely, and, in truth, the unctuousness and godliness of William Long passeth belief, and he plays his part well. Looking as he does far older than I -- although in these days of clean-shaven faces I can make up rarely for thirty -- he assumed the leading part. The presbyter would fain have summoned a number of his divines for a discussion this evening. But we, pleading fatigue, begged him to allow us two days of rest. He has, however, invited a few of his fellows, and we are to wrestle with them this evening in argument. How we shall get out of it I know not, for my head is altogether in ignorance of the points in issue. However, there was, among the documents of the preachers, one setting forth the points in which the practice of the sect in England and Scotland differed, with the heads of the arguments to be used. We have looked through these, and, as well as we could understand the jumble of hard words, have endeavored to master the points at issue, so we shall to-night confine ourselves to a bare exposition of facts, and shall put off answering the arguments of the other side until the drawn battle, which will be fixed for the day after to-morrow. By the way, we accounted for the absence of our colleague by saying that he fell sick on the way."

"But what is the use of all this risk?" Harry asked, laughing at the thought of his two followers discussing theology with the learned divines of the Scotch Church.

"That, in truth," Jacob said, "I do not yet exactly see; but I trust that to-morrow we shall have contrived some plan of getting you out of this prison. I shall return at the same time to-morrow evening."

"How did you get in here?" he asked.

"I had an order from the chief presbyter for entry. Saying that I believed I knew you, and that my words might have some effect in turning you from the evil of your ways, I volunteered to exhort you, and shall give such an account of my mission as will lead them to give me a pass to see you again to-morrow night."

The following evening Jacob again called, this time accompanied by William. They brought with them another dress similar to their own. Their visit was an hour later than upon the preceding evening.

"I learned," Jacob said, "that the guard was changed at eight o'clock, and it is upon this that the success of our scheme depends. William will immediately leave, and as he has been seen to enter by the guards without, and by those at the prison gate, he will pass out without questioning. In half an hour a fresh guard will be placed at both these points, and you and I will march out together, armed with permission for two preachers to pass."

The scheme appeared a hopeful one, and William took his departure after a few minutes, saying to the guards without that he went to fetch a book of reference which he needed to convince the hard-hearted reprobate within. He left the door partly ajar, and the guards without were edified by catching snatches of a discourse of exceeding godliness and unction, delivered by the preacher to the prisoner.

Presently a trampling without informed Harry and Jacob that the guard was being changed, and half an hour later they opened the door, and Jacob, standing for a moment as they went out, addressed a few words of earnest exhortation to the prisoner supposed to be within, adjuring him to bethink himself whether it was better to sacrifice his life in the cause of a wicked king than to purchase his freedom by forsaking the error of his ways, and turning to the true belief. Then, closing the door after him, Jacob strode along, accompanied by Harry, to the guardroom. They passed through the yard of the prison to the gate. There Jacob produced his pass for the entrance and exit of two divines, and the guard, suspecting no evil, at once suffered them to go forth. William had already been to the inn where they stopped, and had told the host that he was charged to examine the chamber where the persons who abode there upon the previous day had stopped. There he had taken the various documents from their hiding-place, and had made his way from the city. Outside the gates he was joined by the others, and all, at a speedy but still dignified pace, made their way to the spot where the horses were concealed, in a little wood in a retired valley. Here they changed their dress, and, making a bonfire of the garments which they had taken off, mounted their horses, and rode for the north.



Chapter XI.

Montrose.


They stopped for the night at a village fifteen miles away from Edinburgh, and after they had had their supper Harry inquired of Jacob how his dispute with the divines had passed off the evening before.

Jacob burst into a fit of laughter.

"It was the funniest thing you ever saw," he said, "Imagine a large room, with the chief presbyter sitting at a table, and eight other men, with sour countenances and large turned-down collars and bands, sitting round it. William Long and I faced them at the other end, looking as grave and sanctimonious as the rest of them. The proceedings were, of course, opened with a lengthy prayer, and then the old gentleman in the center introduced us as the commissioners from London. William rose, and having got up by heart the instructions to the commissioners, he said that he would first briefly introduce to his fellow divines the points as to which differences appeared to exist between the Presbyterians of the north and those of the south, and concerning which he was instructed to come to an agreement with them. First, he gave a list of the points at variance; then he said that he understood that these, quoting from his document, were the views of his Scotch brethren; and he then proceeded to give briefly the arguments with which he had been furnished. He said that his reverend brother and himself were much wearied with long travel, and that they would fain defer the debate for another two days, but that in the meantime they would be glad to hear the views of their friends. Then did one after another of these eight worthy men rise, and for six mortal hours they poured forth their views. I do not know whether it was most difficult to avoid laughter or yawning; but, indeed, Master Harry, it was a weary time. I dared not look at William, for he put such grave attention and worshipful reverence on his face that you would have thought he had been born and bred to the work. When the last of the eight had sat dawn he rose again, and expressed a marvelous admiration of the learning and eloquence which his brethren had displayed. Many of their arguments he said, were new to him -- and in this, indeed, I doubt not he spoke truth -- and he perceived that it would be hard to answer all that they had so learnedly adduced. Upon the other hand, he had much to say; but he was willing to allow that upon some points he should have difficulty in combating their views. He prayed them, therefore, to defer the meeting for two days, when he would willingly give them his views upon the subject, and his learned brother would also address them. He proposed that the party should be as small a one as that he saw before him, and that, after hearing him, they should, if possible, come to some arrangement upon a few, at least, of the points in dispute, so as to leave as small a number as might be open to for the public disputation which would follow. The worshipful party appeared mightily taken with the idea, and, after an hour's prayer from the chairman, we separated. I hardly slept all night for laughing, and I would give much to see the faces of that honorable council when they hear that they have been fooled."

"You have both shown great wisdom, Jacob," Harry said, "and have behaved in a sore strait with much judgment and discretion. It was lucky for you that your reverend friend did not, among his eight champions, think of inviting our little friend from London, for I fear that he would at once have denounced you as not being the divines whose credentials you presented."

"I was afraid of that," Jacob said, "and therefore begged him specially, on this our first conference, to have only ministers of his own circle present. He mentioned that one or two godly ministers from London were present in the capital. I replied that I was well aware of that, but that, as these men were not favored with the instructions of the convention, and knew not the exact turn which affairs had taken up to the period of my leaving, their presence might be an embarrassment -- which, indeed, was only the truth."

"We must make a circuit to-morrow," Harry said, "to avoid Stirling, and will go round by Doune, and thence make for the north. Once among the mountains we shall be safe from all pursuit, and from any interference by the Roundheads, for I believe that the clans of this part are all in favor of Montrose -- Argyll's power lying far to the west."

"It will be a comfort," Jacob said, "not to be obliged to talk through one's nose, and to cast one's eyes upward. I imagine that these Highlanders are little better than savages."

"That is so," Harry said. "They are, I believe, but little changed since the days when the Romans struggled with them, and could make no head north of the Forth."

The next day, by a long circuit, they traveled round Stirling, and reached the bridge of Doune, there crossing the Teith unquestioned. They soon left the main road, and struck into the hills. They had not traveled far when three strange figures suddenly presented themselves. These men were clad in a garb which to the lads was strange and wild indeed. The kilt, as worn by Highlanders on show occasions in the present day is a garment wholly unlike that worn by their ancestors, being, indeed, little more than a masquerade dress. The kilt of the old time resembled indeed the short petticoat now worn by savage peoples. It consisted of a great length of cloth wound round and round the loins, and falling like a loose petticoat to the knees, a portion being brought over one shoulder, and then wrapped round and round the body. It was generally of dark material; the tartans now supposed to be peculiar to the various clans being then unknown, or at least not worn by the common people, although the heads of the clans may have worn scarfs of those patterns. A Highland gentleman or chief, however, dressed in the same garb as Englishmen -- that is, in armor, with doublet and hose. His wild followers lived in huts of the most primitive description, understood no language but their own, obeyed the orders of their chiefs to the death, and knew nothing either of kings or of parliaments. For arms these men carried a broad target or shield made of bull's hide, and a broadsword of immense length hanging behind them, the hilt coming above the shoulder.

What they said the lads could not understand. But when Harry repeated the word "Montrose," the Highlanders nodded, and pointed to signify that the road they were pursuing was the right one, and two of them at once set out with them as escorts.

For several days they traveled north, stopping at little groups of cabins, where they were always received with rough hospitality, the assertion of their guides that they were going to the great earl being quite sufficient passport for them. Bannocks of oatmeal with collops, sometimes of venison, sometimes of mountain sheep, were always at their service, washed down by a drink new to the boys, and which at first brought the water into their eyes. This was called usquebaugh, and had a strange peaty flavor, which was at first very unpleasant to them, but to which before they left Scotland they became quite accustomed. The last two days they traveled upon broad roads again, and being now in a country devoted to the Earl of Montrose, were under no apprehension whatever of interference.

At last they reached the place where the earl was residing. His castle differed in no way from those of the nobility of England. It was surrounded by walls and towers, and had a moat and other means of defense. The gate was guarded by men similar in appearance to their guides, but dressed in better material, and with some attempt at uniformity. Large numbers of these were gathered in the courtyard, and among them were men-at-arms attired in southern fashion. The guides, having performed their duty of conducting these strangers from the borders of their country, now handed them over to an officer, and he, upon learning their errand, at once conducted them to the earl.

Montrose was a noble figure, dressed in the height of the fashion of the day. His face was oval, with a pointed mustache; long ringlets fell round his head; and his bearing was haughty and majestic. He rose from his chair and advanced a step toward them.

"Do I understand," he said, "that you are bearers of dispatches from his gracious majesty?"

"We are, sir," Harry said. "The king was pleased to commit to me various documents intended for your eye. We left him at Oxford, and have journeyed north with as little delay as might be in these times. The dispatches, I believe, will speak for themselves, I have no oral instructions committed to me."

So saying, Harry delivered the various documents with which they were charged. The earl instructed the officer to see that they were well lodged and cared for, and at once proceeded to his private cabinet to examine the instructions sent him by the king. These were in effect that, so soon as the army of the convention moved south from Dundee, he should endeavor to make a great raid with his followers upon the south, specially attacking the country of Argyll, so as to create a diversion, and, if possible, cause the recall of the Scotch army to defend their own capital.

For some weeks the lads stopped with Montrose. They had been furnished with garments suitable to their condition, and Harry was treated by the earl with the greatest kindness and courtesy. He often conversed with him as to the state of politics and of military affairs in England, and expressed himself as sanguine that he should be able to restore the authority of the king in Scotland.

"These sour men of the conventicles have ever been stiff-necked and rebellious," he said, "and have enforced their will upon our monarchs. I have not forgotten," he went on, striking the hilt of his sword angrily, "the insults which were put upon Queen Mary when she was preached to and lectured publicly by the sour fanatic Knox, and was treated, forsooth, as if she had been some trader's daughter who had ventured to laugh on a Sunday. Her son, too, was kept under the control of these men until he was summoned to England. It is time that Scotland were rid of the domination of these knaves, and if I live I will sweep them from the land. In courage my wild men are more than a match for the Lowlanders. It is true that in the old days the clans could never carry their forays southward, for, unaccustomed to discipline and unprovided with horses or even with firearms, they fared but badly when opposed to steel-clad men and knights in armor. But I trust it will be different this time. I cannot hope to infuse any great discipline among them. But they can at least be taught to charge in line, and their broad claymores may be trusted to hew a way for them through the lines of the Lowlanders. I trust, above all things, that the king will not be persuaded to negotiate with the traitors who are opposed to him. I know, Master Furness, that, from what you have said, your views run not there with mine, and that you think a compromise is desirable. But you do not know these fanatics as I do. While they clamor for toleration, they are the narrowest of bigots, and will themselves tolerate nothing. Already I have news that the convention between the Scotch conventicle and the English rebels is agreed to, and that an order has gone forth that the Presbyterian rites are to be observed in all the churches of England. They say that thousands of divines will be turned from their churches and their places filled with ignorant fanatics, and this they call religious liberty. Why, when Laud was in power his rule was as a silken thread compared to the hempen rope of these bigots, and should the king make terms with them, it will be only to rule henceforth at their bidding, and to be but an instrument in their hands for enforcing their will upon the people of these countries."

Much as Harry desired peace and leaned toward compromise, he saw that there was much in what the earl said. All the accounts that reached them from the youth told of the iron tyranny which was being exercised throughout England. Everywhere good and sincere men were being driven from their vicarages to live how best they might, for refusing to accept the terms of the convention. Everywhere their places were filled with men at once ignorant, bigoted, and intolerant; holy places were desecrated; the cavalry of the Commons was stabled in St. Paul's; the colored windows of the cathedrals and churches were everywhere destroyed; monuments were demolished; and fanaticism of the narrowest and most stringent kind was rampant.

During the time they spent at the castle the lads were greatly amused in watching the sports and exercises of the Highlanders. These consisted in throwing great stones and blocks of wood, in contests with blunted claymores, in foot races, and in dances executed to the wild and strange music of the bagpipes -- music which Jacob declared was worse than the caterwauling upon the housetops in Cheapside.

The lads had deferred their journey south owing to the troubled state of the country, and the fact that the whole of the south of Scotland was in the hands of the convention. They were therefore waiting an opportunity for taking ship and traveling by sea into Wales, where the followers of the king were in the ascendency. At length the earl told them that an occasion offered, and that although he would gladly keep them by him to accompany him when he moved south, if they considered that their duty compelled them to leave he would place them on board a ship bound for that destination. He did not furnish them with any documents, but bade Harry repeat to the king the sentiments which he had expressed, which, indeed, were but the repetition of loyal assurances which he had sent south by a trusty messenger immediately upon their arrival at the castle.

The boat in which they embarked was a small one, but was fast; which proved fortunate, for they were twice chased by ships of the Parliament. They landed, however, safely at Pembroke, and thence made their way through the mountains of Wales to Hereford, and joined the king, who was still at Oxford.

Events had traveled but slowly in England; the doings of the convention being at that time of greater importance than those of the armies. On the 19th of January the Scotch army had entered England, having marched from Edinburgh through the snow. The Marquis of Newcastle was in winter quarters at York. The town of Newcastle had held out successfully against the Scots. The English regiments in Ireland had been recalled; but had been defeated near Nantwich by Sir Thomas Fairfax. Negotiation after negotiation between the king and the Parliament had failed, and the king had issued writs for a Parliament to assemble at Oxford. This met on the 22d of January, and forty-three peers and a hundred and eighteen commoners had taken their place beside many absent with the army. Of the peers a large majority were with the Royalist Parliament at Oxford while at Westminster a majority of the members sent up by the towns assembled. The Royalist Parliament was sitting at Oxford when Harry arrived; but their proceedings had not upon the whole been satisfactory to the king. They had, indeed, passed votes for the raising of taxes and supplies; but had also insisted upon the king granting several reforms. Charles, untaught by adversity, was as obstinate as ever; and instead of using the opportunity for showing a fair disposition to redress the grievances which had led to the civil war, and to grant concessions which would have rallied all moderate persons to his cause, he betrayed much irritation at the opposition which he met with, and the convocation of Parliament, instead of bringing matters nearer to an issue, rather heightened the discontents of the times. The Parliament at Westminster, upon their side, formed a council, under the title of the committee of the two kingdoms, consisting of seven lords, fourteen members of the commons, and four Scottish commissioners, into whose hands the entire conduct of the war, the correspondence with foreign states, and indeed the whole executive power of the kingdom was given.

The king received Harry with great condescension and favor, and heard with satisfaction of the preparations which Montrose was making for an invasion of the Lowlands of Scotland, and promised Sir Henry to bestow the rank of knighthood upon his son as soon as he attained the age of twenty-one.

For some weeks Harry resided with his father at Furness Hall. He then fell back into Oxford upon the advance of an army from London destined to besiege that town. This force was far greater than any that the king could raise. It consisted of two separate forces, under the command of Essex and Waller. Presently the town was besieged, and although the walls were very strong, the attacking force was so numerous that resistance appeared to be hopeless. On the night of the 3d of June the king left the city secretly, attended only by two or three personal friends, and passed safely between the two armies. These, instead of acting in unison, in which case the besieging lines would have been complete, and the king unable to leave the place, were kept apart by the dissensions of their generals. A council of war took place, and Essex determined to march to the west. The committee in London ordered him to retrace his steps, and go in pursuit of the king, who had made for Worcester. But Essex replied to the committee that he could not carry on war in pursuance of directions from London, and that all military discipline would be subverted if they took upon themselves to direct his plans.

In the meantime, Waller, raising the siege of Oxford, had gone in pursuit of the king. Charles, seeing that his enemies were separated, returned to Oxford, where he was received with great enthusiasm, and the whole force there, marching out, fell upon Waller at Cropredy Bridge, near Banbury, and defeated him. Having scattered the rebels here, he turned his course west in pursuit of Essex, for his force was sufficient to cope with either of the armies separately, although he had been unable to meet them when united.

Harry and his father were not present at the battle of Cropredy Bridge, having with their troops left Oxford on the approach of the Roundheads, together with many other bodies of cavalry, as they could do no good in the case of a siege, and were wanted in the north, where Rupert was on his way to take the command. Joining his force, amounting in all to twenty thousand men, they advanced toward York. Leaving the greater portion of his army at a short distance away, Rupert entered York with two thousand men. Newcastle was in favor of prudent steps, knowing that dissensions existed in the Parliamentary army between the Scots and their English allies. Prince Rupert, however, insisted that he had the command of the king to fight at once, and so, with all the force he could collect, advanced against the Scots. Newcastle was much offended at the domineering manner and headstrong course of the prince and took no part in the forthcoming battle, in which his military genius and caution would have been of vast service to the royal cause.

On the 2d of July, having rested two days, the Royalist army marched out against the Roundheads. The contending parties met on Marston Moor, and it was late in the evening when the battle began. It was short but desperate, and when it ended four thousand one hundred and fifty men had been killed. Here, as in every other fight in which he was engaged, the impetuosity of Prince Rupert proved the ruin of the Royalists. With his cavaliers upon the right of the Royalist army, he charged the Scotch horse, scattered them in every direction and rode after them, chasing and slaying. The center of each army, composed of infantry, fought desperately, and without much advantage to either side. But upon the Royalist left the fate of the day was decided. There a new element was introduced into the struggle, for the right of the Roundhead force was commanded by Cromwell, who had raised and disciplined a body of cavalry called the Ironsides. These men were all fanatics in religion and fought with a sternness and vigor which carried all before them. In the eastern counties they had already done great service; but this was the first pitched battle at which they had been present. Their onslaught proved irresistible. The Royalist cavalry upon the left were completely broken, and the Roundhead horse then charged down upon the rear of the king's infantry. Had Rupert rallied his men and performed the same service upon the Parliament infantry, the battle might have been a drawn one; but, intoxicated with victory, he was chasing the Scottish horse far away, while Cromwell's Ironsides were deciding the fate of the battle. When he returned to the field all was over. Fifteen hundred prisoners, all the artillery, and more than a hundred banners had fallen into the hands of the cavalry; and with the remnants of his army Prince Rupert retired with all haste toward Chester, while Newcastle left York and embarked at Scarborough for the Continent.

Colonel Furness' troop had been with the wing under Prince Rupert, and deep indeed was their mortification when, upon returning to the field of battle, they found that all was lost.

"Unless a very different discipline is introduced upon our side," Colonel Furness said to his son that night in York, "it is clear that the king's cause is ruined. The Ironsides fight in a solid mass, and, after having given a charge, they are ready at order to wheel about and to deliver their attack wheresoever their general commands them. With us, no sooner do we defeat the enemy than we break into confusion, each man scatters in pursuit as if we were hunting a fox, and when at last we draw rein, miles away from the battle, we ever find that upon our return our footmen have been defeated. I fear much that Prince Rupert, with all his bravery, is a hindrance rather than an aid to the Royal cause. His counsels have always been on the side of resistance. He has supported the king in his too obstinate insistance upon what he deems his rights, while in the field his command is fatal to us. I fear, my boy, that the struggle will end badly, and I foresee bad times for England, and for all of us who have supported the cause of the king."

As the dispirited army marched back they received news which somewhat raised their hearts. The king had marched after Essex into Cornwall, and there had driven him into sore straits. He had endeavored to induce Essex to make a general treaty of peace; but the earl replied that he had no authority to treat, and that, even did he do so, the Parliament would not submit to be bound by it. With a considerable portion of his cavalry, he succeeded in passing through the Royal lines; but the whole of the infantry under General Skippon were forced to capitulate, the king giving them honorable terms, and requiring only the surrender of the artillery, arms, and ammunition. The whole of the army returned as scattered fugitives to London.

The king resolved again to march upon the capital. Montrose was now in arms in Scotland, and had gained two considerable victories over the Covenanters. The defeat at Marston had been outbalanced by the victories over Waller and Essex, and the Scotch, alarmed by the successes of Montrose, were ready to listen to terms, Steadily the king advanced eastward, and at Newbury the armies again met. As upon the previous occasion on that field, the battle led to no decisive results. Each side fought stoutly, and at nightfall separated without achieving substantial results. The king fell back upon Oxford, and the Parliament army upon Readings and negotiations were once again renewed between king and Parliament.



Chapter XII.

An Escape From Prison.


There was no sadder or more gloomy face among the officers of the Parliament than that of Herbert Rippinghall -- sad, not from the sour asceticism which distinguished the great portion of these officers, but from his regrets over the struggle in which he was taking a part. While Harry Furness saw much to find fault with in the conduct of many of his fellows, and in the obstinacy with which the king refused to grant concessions which might up to this time have restored peace to the land, Herbert, on his side, was shocked at the violence and excessive demands on the part of the Parliament, and at the rank hypocrisy which he saw everywhere around him. Both lads still considered that the balance of justice was on the side upon which they fought. But both, Herbert perhaps because more thoughtful, therefore more strongly, saw that the faults upon one side balanced those upon the other. Herbert had not taken up the sword willingly, as Harry had done. He was by disposition far less prone to adventure and more given to sober thought, and the violence of his father and the bigoted opinions which he held had repelled him from rather than attracted him toward the principles which he advocated. When, however, the summons came from his father to join him at Reading, with the rest of the hands employed in the business, he did not hesitate. He still hoped that the pacific party in Parliament would overcome the more violent, and that the tyranny of a small minority toward which the country appeared to be drifting would be nipped in the bud.

The divisions, indeed, in the Parliament were far greater than in the councils of the king. Between the Independents and the Presbyterians a wide gulf existed. The latter party, which was much the more numerous in Parliament, and which had moreover the countenance and alliance of the Scotch Presbyterians, viewed with the greatest jealousy the increasing arrogance of the Independents and of the military party. They became alarmed when they saw that they were rapidly drifting from the rule of the king to that of Cromwell, and that while they themselves would be satisfied with ample concessions and a certain amount of toleration, the Independents were working for much more than this. Upon the Presbyterian side, Lord Essex was regarded as their champion with the army, as against Cromwell, Fairfax, and Ireton. So strong did the feeling become that it was moved in the Commons "that no member of either House should, during the war, enjoy or execute any office or command, civil or military." A long and furious debate followed; but the ordinance was passed by the Lower House, and went up to the Lords, and was finally passed by them.

Now, however, occurred an episode which added greatly to the religious hatred prevailing between the two parties, and shocked many of the adherents of the Parliament by the wanton bigotry which it displayed. Archbishop Laud had now lain for four years in prison, and by an ordinance of Parliament, voted by only seven lords, he was condemned for high treason, and was beheaded on the 10th of January. This cruel and unnecessary murder showed only too plainly that the toleration which the Dissenters had clamored for meant only toleration for themselves, and intolerance toward all others; and a further example of this was given by the passing of an ordinance forbidding the use of the Liturgy of the Church of England in any place of worship in the country.

Rendered nervous by the increasing power of the Independents, the majority in Parliament now determined to open fresh negotiations with the king, and these offered a fairer prospect of peace than any which had hitherto preceded them. Commissioners were appointed by Parliament and by the king, and these met at Uxbridge, a truce being made for twenty days. Had the king been endowed with any sense of the danger of his position, or any desire to treat in a straightforward and honest manner with his opponents, peace might now have been secured. But the unfortunate monarch was seeking to cajole his foes rather than to treat with them, and his own papers, afterward discovered, show too plainly that the concessions which he offered were meant only to be kept so long as it might please him. The twenty precious days were frittered away in disputes. The king would grant one day concessions which he would revoke the next. The victories which Montrose was gaining in the north had roused his hopes, and the evil advice of his wife and Prince Rupert, and the earnest remontrances which he received from Montrose against surrendering to the demands of Parliament, overpowered the advice of his wiser counselors. At the end of twenty days the negotiations ceased, and the commissioners of Parliament returned to London, convinced that there was no hope of obtaining a permanent peace with a man so vacillating and insincere as the king.

Herbert had been with his father at Uxbridge, as the regiment of foot to which he belonged was on guard here, and it was with a heavy heart that he returned to London, convinced that the war must go on, but forboding as great a disaster to the country in the despotism which he saw the Independents would finally establish as in the despotism of King Charles.

There was a general gloom in the city when the news of the unsuccessful termination of the negotiations became known. The vast majority of the people were eagerly desirous of peace. The two years which the war had already lasted had brought nothing save ruin to trade and general disaster, and the great body of the public who were not tinged with the intense fanaticism of the Independents, and who did not view all pleasure and enjoyment in life as sinful, longed for the merry old days when Englishmen might smile without being accused of sin, and when life was not passed solely in prayer and exhortation. Several small riots had broken out in London; but these were promptly suppressed. Among the 'prentice boys, especially, did the spirit of revolt against the gloomy asceticism of the time prevail, and there can be little doubt that if at this period, or for a long time subsequent, the king could have appeared suddenly in the city at the head of a few score troops, he would have been welcomed with acclamation, and the great body of the citizens would have rallied round him.

When the Parliament commissioners reached London Fairfax received his commission as sole general of the army. The military services of Cromwell were of such importance that Fairfax and his officers urged that an exception should be made to the ordinance in his case, and that he should be temporarily appointed lieutenant-general and chief commander of horse. The moderate party yielded to the demand of the Independents. The Earls of Essex, Manchester, and Denbigh gave in their resignations. Many of the more moderate advisers of Charles also retired to their estates, despairing of a conflict in which the king's obstinacy admitted of no hope of a favorable termination. They, too, had, as much perhaps as the members of the recalcitrant Parliament, hoped for reforms; but it was clear that the king would never consent to reign except as an absolute monarch, and for this they were unprepared. The violent party among the Cavaliers now ruled supreme in the councils of Charles. For a short time the royal cause seemed in the ascendant. Leicester had been taken by storm, Taunton was besieged, Fairfax was surrounding Oxford, but was doing nothing against the town. On the 5th of June he was ordered to raise the siege, and to go to the Midland counties after the royal army. On the 13th Fairfax and Cromwell joined their forces, and pursued the king, whom they overtook the next day near Naseby.

Herbert had accompanied the army of Fairfax, and seeing the number and resolution of the troops, he hoped that a victory might be gained which would terminate for good and all this disastrous conflict. The ground round Naseby is chiefly moorland. The king's army was drawn up a mile from Market Harborough. Prince Rupert commanded the left wing, Sir Marmaduke Langdale the right, Lord Ashley the main body. Fairfax commanded the center of the Roundheads, with General Skippon under him. Cromwell commanded the right and Ireton the left. Rupert had hurried on with his horse in advance, and coming upon the Roundheads, at once engaged them. So sudden was the attack that neither party had formed its lines for battle, and the artillery was in the rear. Between the armies lay a wide level known as Broadmoor. It was across this that Rupert had ridden, and charging up the hill on the other side, fell upon the left wing of Fairfax. Cromwell, upon the other hand, from the extreme right charged down the hill upon Langdale's squadrons. Prince Rupert, as usual, carried all before him. Shouting his battle cry, "Queen Mary," he fell upon Ireton's left wing, and drove them from the field, chasing them back to Naseby, where, as usual, he lost time in capturing the enemy's baggage. Cromwell, with his Ironsides, upon the other hand, had broken Langdale's horse and driven them from the field. In the center the fight was hot. The king's foot had come up the hill and poured volley after volley into the parliament ranks. Hand to hand the infantry were fighting, and gradually the Roundheads were giving way. But now, as at Marston, Cromwell, keeping his Ironsides well in hand, returned from the defeat of Langdale's horse, and fell upon the rear of the Royalists. Fairfax rallied his men as he saw the horse coming up to his assistance. Rupert's troopers were far from the field, and a panic seizing the king's reserve of horse, who had they charged might have won the day, the Earl of Carnewarth, taking hold of King Charles' horse, forced him from the field, and the battle ended, with the complete defeat of the royal troops, before Rupert returned to the field of battle.

The Royalists lost in killed and prisoners five thousand men, their twelve guns, and all their baggage train, and what was of even greater importance, the king's private cabinet, which contained documents which did more to precipitate his ruin even than the defeat of his army. Here were found letters proving that while he had professed his desire to treat, he had no intention of giving way in the slightest degree. Here were copies of letters to foreign princes asking for aid, and to the Papists in Ireland, promising all kinds of concessions if they would rise in his favor. Not only did the publication of this correspondence and of the private letters between the king and queen add to the indignation of the Commons and to their determination to fight to the bitterest end, but it disgusted and alienated a vast number of Royalists who had hitherto believed in the king and trusted to his royal word.

Among the prisoners taken at Naseby was Harry Furness, whose troop had been with Langdale's horse, and who, his charger having been shot, had fallen upon the field, his head being cut by the sweep of the sword of a Roundhead soldier, who struck at him as he was lying on the ground. Soon after the battle, when it became known what prisoners had been taken, he was visited by his friend Herbert.

"We are changing sides, Herbert," Harry said, with a faint smile. "The last time we met you were nigh falling into the hands of the Royalists, now I have altogether fallen into yours."

"Yes, and unfortunately," Herbert said, "I cannot repeat your act of generosity. However, Harry, I trust that with this great battle the war is nearly over, and that all prisoners now taken will speedily be released. At any rate, I need not assure you that you will have my aid and assistance in any matter."

The Parliamentary leaders did not allow the grass to grow under their feet after Naseby. Prince Rupert, with considerable force, had marched to Bristol, and Fairfax and Cromwell followed him there. A considerable portion of the prisoners were sent to London, but some were retained with the army. Among these was Harry Furness, whom it was intended to confine with many others in some sure place in the south. Under a guard they were conducted to Reading, where they were for awhile to be kept. Essex and Cromwell advanced to Bristol, which they surrounded; and Prince Rupert, after a brave defense, was forced to capitulate, upon terms similar to those which had been granted by the king to the army of Lord Essex the year before. In his conduct of the siege the prince had certainly not failed. But this misfortune aroused the king's anger more than the faults which had done such evil service on the fields of Naseby and Marston, and he wrote to the prince, ordering him to leave the kingdom at once.

It would have been well had King Charles here ceased the struggle, for the cause of the Royalists was now hopeless. Infatuated to the last, however, and deeming ever that the increasing contentions and ill-will between the two parties in Parliament would finally end by one of them bidding for the Royal support, and agreeing to his terms, the king continued the contest. Here and there isolated affrays took place; risings in Kent and other counties occurring, but being defeated summarily by the vigor of Fairfax and his generals.

The time passed but slowly with Harry at Reading. He and his fellow-prisoners were assigned quarters in a large building, under the guard of a regiment of Parliament troops. Their imprisonment was not rigorous. They were fairly fed and allowed exercise in a large courtyard which adjoined the house. The more reckless spirits sang, jested, wrote scurrilous songs on the Roundheads, and passed the time as cheerfully as might be. Harry, however, with the restlessness of his age, longed for liberty. He knew that Prince Charles was in command of the army in the west, and he longed to join him and try once more the fortunes of battle. The guard set round the building was close and vigilant, and the chances of escape appeared small. Still, Harry thought that if he could escape from an upper window on a dark night he could surely make his way through the line of sentries. He had observed on moonlight nights the exact position which each of these occupied. The intervals were short between them; but it would be quite possible on a dark night for a person to pass noiselessly without being perceived. The watch would have been even more strict than it was, had not the Puritans regarded the struggle as virtually at an end, and were, therefore, less careful as to their prisoners than they would otherwise have been. Harry prepared for escape by tearing up the blankets of his bed and knotting them into ropes. A portion he wrapped round his shoes, so as to walk noiselessly, and taking advantage of a dark, moonless night, when the fog hung thick upon the low land round Reading, he opened his window, threw out his rope, and slipped down to the ground.

So dark was the fog that it was difficult for him to see two paces in advance, and he soon found that the careful observations which he had taken of the place of the sentries would be altogether useless. Still, in the darkness and thickness of the night, he thought that the chance of detection was small. Creeping quietly and noiselessly along, he could hear the constant challenges of the sentries round him. These, excited by the unusual darkness of the night, were unusually vigilant. Harry approached until he was within a few yards of the line, and the voices of the men as they challenged enabled him to ascertain exactly the position of those on the right and left of him. Passing between these, he could see neither, although they were but a few paces on either hand, and he would have got off unobserved had he not suddenly fallen into a deep stream running across his way, and which in the darkness he did not see until he fell into it. At the sound there was an instant challenge, and then a piece was discharged. Harry struggled across the stream, and clambered out on the opposite side. As he did so a number of muskets were fired in his direction by the men who came rushing up to the point of alarm. One ball struck him in the shoulder. The rest whizzed harmlessly by, and at the top of his speed he ran forward.

He was now safe from pursuit, for in the darkness of the night it would have been absolutely impossible to follow him. In a few minutes he ceased running, for when all became quiet behind him, he could no longer tell in what direction he was advancing. So long as he could hear the shouts of the sentries he continued his way, and then, all guidance being lost, he lay down under a hedge and waited for morning. It was still thick and foggy; but wandering aimlessly about for some time, he succeeded at last in striking upon a road, and judging from the side upon which he had entered it in which direction Reading must lie, he took the western way and went forward. The ball had passed only through the fleshy part of his shoulder, missing the bone; and although it caused him much pain, he was able, by wrapping his arm tightly to his body, to proceed. More than once he had to withdraw from the road into the fields beyond, when he heard troops of horse galloping along.

After a long day's walk he arrived near Abingdon, and there made for the hall. Instead of going to the door he made for the windows, and, looking in, saw a number of Roundhead soldiers in the hall, and knew that there was no safety for him. As he glanced in one of the soldiers happened to cast his eyes up, and gave a shout on seeing a figure looking in at the window. Instantly the rest sprang to their feet, and started out to secure the intruder. Harry fled along the road, and soon reached Abingdon. He had at first thought of making for one of his father's farms; but he felt sure that here also Roundhead troops would be quartered. After a moment's hesitation he determined to make for Mr. Rippinghall's. He knew the premises accurately, and thought that he might easily take refuge in the warehouses, in which large quantities of wool were wont to be stored. The streets were deserted, for it was now late at night, and he found his way without interruption to the wool-stapler's. Here he climbed over a wall, made his way into the warehouse, and clambering over a large number of bales, laid himself down next to the wall, secure from any casual observation. Here he went off to sleep, and it was late next day before he opened his eyes. He was nearly uttering an exclamation at the pain which his movement on waking gave to his wounded arm. He, however, repressed it, and it was well he did so, as he heard voices in the warehouse. Men were removing bales of wool, and for some hours this process went on. Harry, being well back, had little fear that he should be disturbed.

The hours passed wearily. He was parched and feverish from the pain of his wound, and was unable to deliberate as to his best course. Sometimes he dozed off into snatches of sleep, and after one of these he found that the warehouse was again silent, and that darkness had set in. He determined to wait at least for another day, and also that he would early in the morning look out from the window before the men entered, in hopes that he might catch sight of his old playfellow, Lucy, who would, he felt sure, bring him some water and refreshment if she were able. Accordingly, in the morning, he took his place so as to command a view of the garden, and presently to his great surprise he saw Herbert, whom he had believed with the army, come out together with Lucy. They had not taken four paces in the garden when their attention was attracted by a tap at the window, and looking up, they were astonished at beholding Harry's pale face there. With an exclamation of surprise they hurried into the warehouse.

"My dear Harry," Herbert exclaimed, "how did you get here? The troops have been searching for you high and low. Your escape from Reading was bruited abroad a few hours after it took place, and the party at the hall having reported seeing some one looking in at the window, there was no doubt felt that you had gained this neighborhood, and a close watch has been kept. All your father's farms have been carefully examined, and their occupants questioned, and the general belief is that you are still hidden somewhere near."

"I got a ball through my shoulder," Harry said, "in making my way through the sentries, and have felt myself unable to travel until I could obtain some food. I thought that I should be safer from search here, and believing you were away in the army, thought that your sister would perhaps be moved by compassion to aid her old playfellow."

"Yes, indeed," the girl said; "I would have done anything for you, Harry. To think of your being hidden so close to us, while we were sleeping quietly. I will at once get you some food, and then you and Herbert can talk over what is best to be done."

So saying she ran into the house, and returned in a few minutes with a bowl of milk and some freshly made cakes, which Harry drank and ate ravenously. In the meantime, he was discussing with Herbert what was the best course to pursue.

"It would not be safe," Herbert said, "for you to try and journey further at present. The search for you is very keen, and it happens, unfortunately, that the officer in command here is the very man whose face you sliced when he came to Furness Hall some two years back. It would be a bad thing for you were you to fall into his hands."

Lucy at first proposed that Harry should be taken into the house, and go at once to bed. She and Herbert would then give out that a friend had arrived from a distance, who was ill, and, waiting upon him themselves, should prevent suspicion being attracted. This, however, Herbert did not think would be safe. It would be asked when the inmate had arrived, and who he was, and why the servants should not, as usual, attend upon him.

"I think," he said, "that if to-night I go forth, having said at dinner in the hearing of the servant that I am expecting a friend from London, you can then join me outside, and return with me. You must crop off those long ringlets of yours, and turn Roundhead for the nonce. I can let you have a sober suit which was made for me when I was in London, and which has not yet been seen by my servants. I can say that you are in bad health, and this will enable you to remain at home, sleeping upon a couch to nurse your shoulder."

"The shoulder is of no consequence," Harry said. "A mere flesh wound like that would not detain me away from the saddle. It is only the fatigue and loss of blood, together with want of food, which has weakened me."

As no other course presented itself this was followed. Harry remained during the day in his place of concealment in the warehouse, and at nightfall went out, and, being joined by Herbert, returned with him to the house. The door was opened by Lucy and he entered unperceived by the domestics. The first operation was to cut off the whole of his hair close to his head. He was then attired in Herbert's clothes, and looked, as Lucy told him, a quiet and decent young gentleman. Then he took his place on a couch in the sitting-room, and Herbert rung for supper, which he had ordered to be prepared for a guest as well as for Lucy and himself.



Chapter XIII.

Public Events.


For some days Harry remained quietly with his friend. He did not stir beyond the door, although he had but little fear of any of his old friends recognizing him. The two years which had passed since he was at school had greatly changed his appearance, and his closely-cut hair, and the somber and Puritanical cut of his garments so completely altered him that it would have been a keen eye indeed which had recognized him when merely passing in the street. A portion of each day he spent out in the garden strolling with Lucy, or sitting quietly while she read to him. The stiffness in his arm was now abating, and as the search for him had to a great extent ceased, he intended in a short time to make for Oxford.

The news from the various points at which the conflict still continued was everywhere disastrous for the king. Montrose had been defeated. The king, endeavoring to make his way north to join him, had been smartly repulsed. The Royalists were everywhere disorganized and broken. Negotiations were once again proceeding, and as the Scottish army was marching south, and the affairs of the crown seemed desperate, there was every hope that the end of the long struggle was approaching. Harry's departure was hastened by a letter received by Herbert from his father, saying that he had obtained leave from his regiment, and should be down upon the following day.

"My father will not blame me," Herbert said, "for what I have done, when he comes to know it. But I am not sure that he would himself approve of your remaining here. His convictions are so earnest, and his sense of duty so strong, that I do not think he would harbor his nearest relative, did he believe him to be in favor of the king."

Harry next morning mounted a horse of Herbert's and started to ride from the town, after taking an affectionate farewell of his hosts. When two miles out of Abingdon he suddenly came upon a body of Parliament horse, in the leader of whom he recognized, by a great scar across his face, the officer with whom he had fallen out at Furness Hall. Relying upon his disguise, and upon the fact that it was only for a minute that the officer had seen him, he rode quietly on.

"Whom have we here?" the Roundhead said, reining in his horse.

"My name is Roger Copley, and I am making my way from London to my people, who reside in the west. There is no law, I believe, against my so doing."

"There is no law for much that is done or undone," the Roundhead said. "Malignants are going about the country in all sorts of disguises, stirring up men to ungodly enterprises, and we cannot be too particular whom we let pass. What hast thou been doing in London?"

"I have been serving my time as apprentice to Master Nicholas Fleming, the merchant in velvets and silks in the Chepe."

"Hast thou any papers to prove thy identity?"

"I have not," Harry said; "not knowing that such were needed. I have traveled thus far without interruption or question, and am surprised to find hindrance upon the part of an officer of the Commons."

"You must turn your horse, and ride back with me into Abingdon," the officer said. "I doubt me much that you are as you pretend to be. However, it is a matter which we can bring to the proof."

Harry wondered to himself of what proof the matter was capable. But without a word he turned his horse's head toward Abingdon. Scarcely a word was spoken on the way, and Harry was meditating whether he should say that he had been staying with his friend Herbert. But thinking that this might lead the latter into trouble, he determined to be silent on that head. They stopped at the door of the principal trader in the town and the captain roughly told his prisoner to alight and enter with him.

"Master Williamson," he said, "bring out some pieces of velvet. This man, whom I suspect to be a Cavalier in disguise, saith that he has been an apprentice to Master Nicholas Fleming, a velvet dealer of London. I would fain see how far his knowledge of these goods extends. Bring out five or six pieces of various qualities, and put them upon your table promiscuously, and not in order of value."

The mercer did as requested.

"These goods," he said, "were obtained from Master Fleming himself. I bought them last year, and have scarce sold a piece of such an article since."

Harry felt rather nervous at the thought of being obliged to distinguish between the velvets, for although he had received some hints and instructions from the merchant, he knew that the appearance of one kind of velvet differed but slightly from that of the inferior qualities. To his satisfaction, however, he saw at the end of the rolls the pieces of paper intact upon which Master Fleming's private marks were placed.

"I need not," he said, "look at the velvets, for I see my master's private marks upon them, and can of course tell you their value at once."

So saying, from the private marks he read off the value of each roll of velvet per yard, and as these tallied exactly with the amount which the mercer had paid for them, no further doubts remained upon the mind of the officer.

"These marks," he said to the mercer, "are, I suppose, private, and could not be read save by one in the merchant's confidence?"

"That is so," the mercer replied. "I myself am in ignorance of the meaning of these various symbols."

"You will forgive me," the Parliament officer said to Harry. "In these times one cannot be too suspicious, and even the best friends of the Commons need not grudge a little delay in their journeyings, in order that the doings of the malignants may be arrested."

Harry in a few words assured the officer that he bore him no malice for his arrest, and that, indeed, his zeal in the cause did him credit. Then again mounting his horse, he quietly rode out of Abingdon. This time he met with no difficulties, and an hour later entered Oxford.

Here he found his father and many of his acquaintances. A great change had come over the royal city. The tone of boastfulness and anticipated triumph which had pervaded it before the second battle of Newbury had now entirely disappeared. Gloom was written upon all faces, and few entertained any hopes of a favorable termination to their cause. Here a year passed slowly and heavily. The great proportion of Sir Henry Furness' troop were allowed to return to their farms, as at present there was no occasion for their services in the field.

All this time the king was negotiating and treating; the Parliament quarreling furiously among themselves. The war had languished everywhere. In the west a rising had been defeated by the Parliament troops. The Prince of Wales had retired to France; and there was now no force which could be called an army capable of taking the field.

The bitterness of the conflict had for a long time ceased; and in the general hope that peace was at hand, the rancor of Cavalier against Roundhead softened down, A great many of the adherents of Charles returned quietly to their homes, and here they were allowed to settle down without interruption.

The contrast between this state of things and that which prevailed in Scotland was very strong, and has been noted by more than one historian. In England men struggled for principle, and, having fought the battle out, appeared to bear but little animosity to each other, and returned each to his own pursuits unmolested and unharmed. In Scotland, upon the other hand, after the defeat of Montrose, large numbers of prisoners were executed in cold blood, and sanguinary persecutions took place.

In Parliament the disputes between the Independents and Presbyterians grew more and more bitter, the latter being strengthened by the presence of the Scotch army in England. They were greatly in the majority in point of numbers; but the Independents made up for their numerical weakness by the violence of their opinions, and by the support of the army, which was entirely officered by men of extreme views.

The king, instead of frankly dealing with the Commons, now that his hopes in the field were gone, unhappily continued his intrigues, hoping that an open breach would take place between the parties. On the 5th of December he wrote to the speaker of the House of Lords, offering to send a deputation to Westminster with propositions for the foundation of a happy and well-grounded peace. This offer was declined, and he again wrote, offering himself to proceed to Westminster to treat in person. The leaders of Parliament, and indeed with reason, suspected the sincerity of the king. Papers had been found in the carriage of the Catholic Archbishop of Tuam, who was killed in a skirmish in October, proving that the king had concluded an alliance with the Irish rebels, and that he had agreed, if they would land ten thousand men in England, that popery should be re-established in Ireland, and the Protestants brought under subjection. Letters which have since been discovered prove that in January, 1646, while urging upon the Parliament to come to terms, he was writing to the queen, saying that he was only deceiving them. In his letter he said:

"Now, as to points which I expected by my treaty at London. Knowing assuredly the great animosity which is betwixt the Independents and Presbyterians, I had great reason to hope that one of the factions would so address themselves to me that I might, without great difficulty, obtain my so just ends, and, questionless, it would have given me the fittest opportunity. For considering the Scots' treaty that would be besides, I might have found means to put distractions among them, though I had found none."

Such being the spirit that animated the king, there is little reason for surprise that the negotiations came to nothing. The last hope of the crown was destroyed when, on the 22d of March, Lord Astley, marching from Worcester to join the king at Oxford, was defeated at Stow, in the Wold, and the three thousand Cavaliers with him killed, captured, or dispersed. Again the king sent a message to Parliament, offering to come to Whitehall, and proposing terms similar to those which he had rejected when the negotiators met at Uxbridge. His real object, however, was to produce such an effect by his presence in London as would create a reaction in his favor. Three days after he had sent this message he wrote to Digby:

"I am endeavoring to get to London, so that the conditions may be such as a gentleman may own, and that the rebels may acknowledge me king, being not without hope that I shall be able so to draw either the Presbyterians or Independents to side with me for exterminating the one or the other, that I shall be really king again."

These offers were rejected by Parliament, and the army of Fairfax advanced toward Oxford. In the meanwhile, Montreuil, a special ambassador from France, had been negotiating with the Scottish commissioners in London to induce the Scots to take up the cause of the king. He then proceeded to Edinburgh, and afterward to the Scotch army. At first the Scotch were willing to receive him; but they perceived the danger which would be involved in a quarrel with the English Parliament. Already there were many causes of dispute. The army had not received the pay promised them when they marched south, and being without money had been obliged to live upon the country, creating great disorders and confusion, and rendering themselves bitterly hated by the people. Thus their answers continued to be ambiguous, making no absolute promise, but yet giving a sort of encouragement to the king to place himself in their hands.

Toward the end of April Fairfax was drawing so close around Oxford that the king felt that hesitation was no longer possible, and accompanied only by his chaplain, Dr. Michael Hudson, and by a groom of his bedchamber, named Jack Ashburnham, he left Oxford at night, and after many adventures arrived at the Scotch army, before Newark, where upon his arrival "many lords came instantly to wait on his majesty, with professions of joy to find that he had so far honored their army as to think it worthy his presence after so long an opposition." Lord Leven, however, who commanded the Scotch army, while receiving the king with professions of courtesy and honor, yet gave him to understand that he must in some way consider himself as a prisoner. The king, at the request of the Scotch, signed an order to his governor of Newark, who had been for months bravely holding out, to surrender the place, and this having been done, the Scottish army with the king marched to Newcastle.

After the king's surrender to the Scotch the civil war virtually ceased, although many places still held out. Oxford, closely invested, maintained itself until the 22d of June, when it capitulated to Fairfax, upon the terms that the garrison "should march out of the city of Oxford with their horses and complete arms that properly belong under them proportionable to their present or past commands, flying colors, trumpets sounding, drums beating, matches alight at both ends, bullets in their mouths, and every soldier to have twelve charges of powder, match and bullet proportionable." Those who desired to go to their houses or friends were to lay down their arms within fifteen miles of Oxford, and then to have passes, with the right of free quarter, and those who wished to go across the sea to serve any foreign power were to be allowed to do so. This surrender was honorable to both parties, and upon the city being given up, the garrison marched out, and then scattered to their various houses and counties, without let or molestation from the troops of the Commons.

Harry Furness and his father had not far to go. They were soon installed in their old house, where although some confusion prevailed owing to its having been frequently in the occupation of bodies of Parliament troops, yet the damage done was not serious, and in a short time it was restored to its former condition. Several of the more valuable articles were allowed to remain in the hiding-places in which they had been concealed, as none could yet say how events might finally turn out. A portion of the Parliamentary troops were also disbanded, and allowed to return to their homes; among these were Master Rippinghall and his son, and for some months matters went on at Abingdon as if the civil war had never been. Harry often saw his friend Herbert; but so long as the king remained in a doubtful position in the army of the Scots, no close intercourse could take place between members of parties so opposed to each other.

The time went slowly with Harry, for after the past three years of excitement it was difficult to settle down to a quiet life at Furness Hall. He was of course too old now for schooling, and the times were yet too disturbed for men to engage in the field sports which occupy so large a portion of country life. Colonel Furness, indeed, had determined that in no case would he again take up arms. He was discontented with the whole course of events, and foresaw that, with the unhappy temper of the king, no favorable issue could possibly be looked for. He had done his best, he said, for the crown and would do no more. He told his son, however, that he should place no rein upon his inclinations should he choose to meddle further in the matter. Harry would fain have gone abroad, whither so many of the leading Cavaliers had already betaken themselves, and entered the service of some foreign court for a few years. But his father dissuaded him from this, at any rate for the present.

"These delays and negotiations," he said, "cannot last forever. I care not whether Presbyterians or Independents get the power over our unhappy country. The Independents are perhaps the more bigoted; the Presbyterians the more intolerant. But as the latter would certainly respect the royal authority more than the former, whose rage appears to me to pass the bounds of all moderation, I would gladly see the Presbyterians obtain the upper hand."

For months the negotiations dragged wearily on, the king, as usual, maintaining an indecisive attitude between the two parties. At length, however, the negotiations ended in a manner which brought an eternal disgrace upon the Scotch, for they agreed, upon the receipt of a large sum of money as the deferred pay of the army, to deliver the king into the hands of the English Parliament. A great convoy of money was sent down from London, and the day that the cash was in the hands of the Scots they handed over the king to the Parliamentary commissioners sent down to receive him. The king was conducted to Holmby House, a fine mansion within six miles of Northampton, and there was at first treated with great honor. A large household and domestic servants were chosen for him, an excellent stable kept, and the king was allowed a large amount of personal liberty. The nobles and gentlemen of his court were permitted to see him, and in fact he was apparently restored to his rank and estate. The Presbyterian party were in power; but while they treated the king with the respect due to his exalted station, they had no more regard to the rights of his conscience than to those of the consciences of the people at large. He desired to have chaplains of the Episcopal church; but the Parliament refused this, and sent him two Presbyterian ministers, whom the king refused to receive.

While King Charles remained at Holmby Parliament quarreled furiously. The spirit of the Independents obtained a stronger and stronger hold upon the army. Cromwell himself, with a host of others, preached daily among them, and this general, although Fairfax was the commander-in-chief, came gradually to be regarded as the leader of the army. There can be no doubt that Cromwell was thoroughly sincere in his convictions, and the charges of hypocrisy which have been brought against him, are at least proved to be untrue. He was a man of convictions as earnest as those of the king himself, and as firmly resolved to override the authority of the Parliament, when the Parliament withstood him.

Three days after the king arrived at Holmby House the Commons voted that the army should be disbanded, with the exception of troops required for the suppression of rebellion in Ireland, and for the service of the garrisons. It was also voted that there should be no officers, except Fairfax, of higher rank than colonel, and that every officer should take the covenant and conform to the Presbyterian Church. A loan was raised in the city to pay off a portion of the arrears of pay due to the army. The sum, however, was insufficient, and there were great murmurings among the men and officers. Fourteen of the latter petitioned Parliament on the subject of arrears, asking that auditors should be appointed to report on what was due to them, and laying down some conditions with regard to their employment in Ireland. Five days afterward the House, on receipt of this petition, declared that whoever had a hand in promoting it, or any other such petition, was an enemy to the State, and a disturber of the public peace. The army were furious at this declaration. Deputations from them went to the House, and from the House to the army. The Presbyterian members were highly indignant at their pretensions, and Cromwell saw that the time was at hand when the army would take the affair entirely into their hands. The soldiers organized a council of delegates, called "Adjutators," to look after their rights. The Parliament voted eight weeks' pay, and a committee went to the army to see it disbanded. The army declined to disband, and said that eight times eight weeks' pay was due. The feeling grew hotter and hotter, and the majority in Parliament came to the conclusion that Cromwell should be arrested. Cromwell, however, obtained word of what was intended, and left London.

Upon the same day a party of soldiers went down to Holmby, and forcibly carried off King Charles from the Parliamentary commissioners, the troops stationed at Holmby fraternizing with their comrades. The king, under the charge of these new guards, arrived at Royston on the 7th of June, and Fairfax and Cromwell met him there. He asked if they had commissioned Joyce, who was at the head of the party of men who had carried him off, to remove him. They denied that they had done so.

"I shall not believe you," said the king, "unless you hang him."

And his majesty had good ground for his disbelief.

Cromwell returned to London and took his place in the House, and there blamed the soldiers, protesting that he would stick to the Parliament; but the same night he went away again down to the army, and there declared to them the actions and designs of Parliament. Commissioners came down on the 10th from the Commons; but the army formed up, and when the votes were read, refused to obey them. The same afternoon a letter, signed by Fairfax, Cromwell, Ireton, and ten other officers, was sent to the city, stating that they were about to advance upon London, and declaring that if the city did not take part against them "in their just desires to resist that wicked party which would embroil us and the kingdom, neither we nor our soldiers shall give you the least offense." The army marched to St. Albans, and thence demanded the impeachment of eleven members of the Commons, all leading Presbyterians. The city and Parliament were in a state of consternation. The army advanced to Uxbridge. It demanded a month's pay, and received it; but it continued to advance. On the 26th of April Parliament gave way. The eleven members retired from the House, the Commons passed a vote approving of the proceedings of the army, and commissioners were appointed.

All this time the king was treated as honorably as he had been when at Holmby House. He was always lodged at great houses in the neighborhood of the army -- at the Earl of Salisbury's, at Hatfield, when the troops were at St. Albans, and at the Earl of Craven's, at Caversham, when the army moved further back. And at both of these places he was allowed to receive the visits of his friends, and to spend his time as he desired.

More critical times were now, however, at hand.



Chapter XIV.

Last Attempt To Rescue The King.


The king, after London had been overawed by the army, was lodged in Hampton Court. At this time the feeling throughout England was growing stronger and stronger in favor of the re-establishment of the monarchy, It was now a year since, with the fall of Oxford, the civil war had virtually concluded, and people yearned for a settled government and a return to ancient usages and manners. The great majority of that very Parliament which had withstood and conquered Charles were of one mind with the people in general; but England was no longer free to choose for itself. The army had won the victory for the Commons, and was determined to impose its will upon the nation. At this time Cromwell, Ireton, and Fairfax were disposed to an arrangement, but their authority was overshadowed by that of the preachers, who, in their harangues to the troops, denounced these generals as traitors, and then finding that they were likely to lose their influence, and to become obnoxious to both parties, henceforth threw their lot in with the army, and headed it in its struggle with the Parliament. Even yet the long misfortunes which Charles had suffered were insufficient to teach him wisdom. Had he now heartily thrown himself into the hands of the moderate majority in Parliament he might -- aided by them and by the Scots, who, seeing that the Independents were ignoring all the obligations which had been undertaken by the Solemn League and government, were now almost openly hostile to the party of the army -- have again mounted the throne, amid the joyful acclamations of the whole country. The army would have fought, but Charles, with England at his back, would assuredly have conquered. Unfortunately, the king could not be honest. His sole idea of policy was to set one section of his opponents against the other. He intrigued at once with the generals and with the Parliament, and had the imprudence to write continually to the queen and others, avowing that he was deceiving both. Several of these letters were intercepted, and although desirous of playing off the king against the army, the Commons felt that they could place no trust in him whatever; while the preachers and the army clamored more and more loudly that he should be brought to trial as a traitor.

Harry Furness had, after the fall of Oxford, remained quietly with his father at Furness Hall. Once or twice only had he gone up to London, returning with reports that the people there were becoming more and more desirous of the restoration of the king to his rights. The great majority were heartily sick of the rule of the preachers, with their lengthy exhortations, their sad faces, and their abhorrence of amusement of all kinds. There had been several popular tumults, in which the old cry of "God save the king," had again been raised. The apprentices were ready to join in any movement which might bring back the pleasant times of old. Cavaliers now openly showed themselves in the streets, and London was indeed ripe for an insurrection against the sovereignty which the army had established over the nation. Had the king at this time escaped from Hampton Court, and ridden into London at the head of only twenty gentlemen, and issued a proclamation appealing to the loyalty of the citizens, and promising faithfully to preserve the rights of the people, and to govern constitutionally, he would have been received with acclamation. The majority of Parliament would have declared for him, England would have received the news with delight, and the army alone would not have sufficed to turn the tide against him. Unhappily for Charles, he had no more idea now than at the commencement of the war of governing constitutionally, and instead thinking of trusting himself to the loyalty and affection of his subjects, he was meditating an escape to France. Harry received a letter from one of the king's most attached adherents, who was in waiting upon him at Hampton, begging him to repair there at once, as his majesty desired the aid of a few of those upon whom he could best rely, for an enterprise which he was about to undertake. Harry showed the letter to his father.

"You must do as you will, Harry," the colonel said. "For myself, I stick to my determination to meddle no more in the broils of this kingdom. Could I trust his Majesty, I would lay down my life for him willingly; but I cannot trust him. All the misfortunes which have befallen him, all the blood which has been poured out by loyal men in his cause, all the advice which his best councilors have given him, have been thrown away upon him. He is as lavish with his promises as ever, but all the time he is intending to break them as soon as he gets ample chance. Were he seated upon the throne again to-morrow, he would be as arbitrary as he was upon the day he ascended it. I do not say that I would not far rather see England under the tyranny of one man than under that of an army of ambitious knaves; but the latter cannot last. The king's authority, once riveted again on the necks of the people, might enslave them for generations, but England will never submit long to the yoke of military dictators. The evil is great, but it will right itself in time. But do you do as you like, Harry. You have, I hope, a long life before you, and 'twere best that you chose your own path in it. But think it over, my son. Decide nothing to-night, and in the morning let me know what you have determined."

Harry slept but little that night. When he met his father at breakfast he said:

"I have decided, father. You know that my opinions run with yours as to the folly of the king, and the wrongfulness and unwisdom of his policy. Still he is alone, surrounded by traitors to whose ambition he is an obstacle, and who clamor for his blood. I know not upon what enterprise he may now be bent, but methinks that it must be that he thinks of an escape from the hands of his jailers. If so, he must meditate a flight to France. There he will need faithful followers, who will do their best to make him feel that he is still a king who will cheer his exile and sustain his hopes. It may be that years will pass before England shakes off the iron yoke which Cromwell and his army are placing upon her neck. But, as you say, I am young and can wait. There are countries in Europe where a gentleman can take service in the army, and should aught happen to King Charles there I will enroll myself until these evil days be all passed. I would rather never see England again than live here to be ruled by King Cromwell and his canting Ironsides."

"So be it, my son," the colonel said. "I do not strive to dissuade you, for methinks had I been of your age I should have chosen the same. Should your fortunes lead you abroad, as they likely will, I shall send you a third of my income here. The rest will be ample for me. There will be little feasting or merriment at Furness Hall until the cloud which overshadows England be passed away, and you be again by my side. There is little fear of my being disturbed. Those who laid down their arms when the war ceased were assured of the possession of their property, and as I shall draw sword no more there will be no excuse for the Roundheads to lay hands on Furness Hall. And now, my boy, here are a hundred gold pieces. Use them in the king's service. When I hear that you are abroad I will write to Master Fleming to arrange with his correspondents, whether in France or Holland, as you may chance to be, to pay the money regularly into your hands. You will, I suppose, take Jacob with you?"

"Assuredly I will," Harry said. "He is attached and faithful, and although he cares not very greatly for the King's cause, I know he will follow my fortunes. He is sick to death of the post which I obtained for him after the war, with a scrivener at Oxford. I will also take William Long with me, if he will go. He is a merry fellow, and has a wise head. He and Jacob did marvelously at Edinburgh, when they cozened the preachers, and got me out of the clutches of Argyll. With two such trusty followers I could go through Europe. I will ride over to Oxford at once."

As Harry anticipated, Jacob was delighted at the prospect of abandoning his scrivener's desk.

"I don't believe," he said, when he had learned from Harry that they were going to the king at Hampton, "that aught will come of these plottings. As I told you when we were apprentices together, I love plots, but there are men with whom it is fatal to plot. Such a one, assuredly, is his gracious majesty. For a plot to be successful, all to be concerned in it must know their own minds, and be true as steel to each other. The King never knows his own mind for half an hour together, and, unfortunately, he seems unable to be true to any one. So let it be understood, Master Harry, that I go into this business partly from love of you, who have been truly a most kind friend to me, partly because I love adventure, and hate this scrivener's desk, partly because there is a chance that I may benefit by the change."

Harry bade him procure apparel as a sober retainer in a Puritan family, and join him that night at Furness Hall, as he purposed to set out at daybreak. William Long also agreed at once to follow Harry's fortunes. The old farmer, his father, offered no objection.

"It is right that my son should ride with the heir of Furness Hall," he said. "We have been Furness tenants for centuries, and have ever fought by our lords in battle. Besides, Master Harry, I doubt me whether William will ever settle down here in peace. His elder brother will have the farm after me, so it matters not greatly, but your wars and journeyings have turned his head, and he thinks of arms and steel caps more than of fat beeves or well-tilled fields."

The next morning, soon after daybreak, Harry and his followers left Furness Hall, and arrived the same night at Hampton. Here they put up at a hostelry, and Harry sent a messenger to Lord Ashburnham, who had summoned him, and was in attendance upon the king, to say that he had arrived.

An hour later Lord Ashburnham joined him. "I am glad you have come, Master Furness," he said. "The king needs faithful servants; and it's well that you have come to-day, as I have been ordered by those in power to remove from the king's person. His majesty has lost all hope of coming to an agreement with either party here. At one time it seemed that Cromwell and Ireton were like to have joined him, but a letter of the king's, in which he spoke of them somewhat discourteously, fell into their hands, and they have now given themselves wholly over to the party most furious against the king. Therefore he has resolved to fly. Do you move from hence and take up your quarters at Kingston, where no curious questions are likely to be asked you. I shall take lodgings at Ditton, and shall there await orders from the king. It may be that he will change his mind, but of this Major Legg, who attends him in his bedchamber, will notify us. Our design is to ride to the coast near Southampton and there take ship, and embark for France. It is not likely that we shall be attacked by the way, but as the king may be recognized in any town through which we may pass, it is as well to have half a dozen good swords on which we can rely."

"I have with me," Harry said, "my friend Jacob, who was lieutenant in my troop, and who can wield a sword well, and one of my old troopers, a stout and active lad. You can rely upon them as on me."

Lord Ashburnham stayed but a few minutes with Harry, and then mounted and rode to Ditton, while Harry the same afternoon journeyed on into Kingston, and there took up his lodgings. On the 11th of November, three days after their arrival, Harry received a message from Lord Ashburnham, asking him to ride over to Ditton. At his lodgings there he found Sir John Berkeley. Major Legg shortly after arrived, and told them that the king had determined, when he went into his private room for evening prayer, to slip away, and make for the river side, where they were to be in readiness for him with horses. Harry had brought his followers with him, and had left them at an inn while he visited Lord Ashburnham. William Long at once rode back to Kingston, and there purchased two good horses, with saddles, for the king and Major Legg. At seven in the evening the party mounted, William Long and Jacob each leading a spare horse. Lord Ashburnham and Sir John Berkeley joined them outside the village, and they rode together until, crossing the bridge at Hampton, they stopped on the river bank, at the point arranged, near the palace. Half an hour passed, and then footsteps were heard, and two figures approached. Not a word was spoken until they were near enough to discern their faces.

"Thank God you are here, my Lord Ashburnham," the king said. "Fortune is always so against me that I feared something might occur to detain you. Ha! Master Furness, I am glad to see so faithful a friend."

The king and Major Legg now mounted, and the little party rode off. Their road led through Windsor Forest, then of far greater extent than at present. Through this the king acted as guide. The night was wild and stormy, but the king was well acquainted with the forest, and at daybreak the party, weary and drenched, arrived at Sutton, in Hampshire. Here they found six horses, which Lord Ashburnham had on the previous day sent forward, and mounting these, they again rode on. As the sun rose their spirits revived, and the king entered into conversation with Ashburnham, Berkeley, and Harry as to his plans. The latter was surprised and disappointed to find that so hurriedly had the king finally made up his mind to fly that no ship had been prepared to take him from the coast, and that it was determined that for the time the king should go to the Isle of Wight. The governor of the Isle of Wight was Colonel Hammond, who was connected with both parties. His uncle was chaplain to the king, and he was himself married to a daughter of Hampden. It was arranged that the king and Major Legg should proceed to a house of Lord Southampton at Titchfield, and that Berkeley and Lord Ashburnham should go to the Isle of Wight to Colonel Hammond, to find if he would receive the king. Harry, with his followers, was to proceed to Southampton, and there to procure a ship, which was to be in readiness to embark the king when a message was received from him. Agents of the king had already received orders to have a ship in readiness, and should this be done, it was at once to be brought round to Titchfield.

"This seems to me," Jacob said, as, after separating from the king, they rode to Southampton, "to be but poor plotting. Here has the king been for three months at Hampton Court, and could, had he so chosen, have fixed his flight for any day at his will. A vessel might have been standing on and off the coast, ready to receive him, and he could have ridden down, and embarked immediately he reached the coast. As it is, there is no ship and no arrangement, and for aught he knows he may be a closer prisoner in the Isle of Wight than he was at Hampton, while both parties with whom he has been negotiating will be more furious than ever at finding that he has fooled them. If I could not plot better than this I would stick to a scrivener's desk all my life."

It was late in the afternoon when they rode into Southampton. They found the city in a state of excitement. A messenger had, an hour before, ridden in from London with the news of the king's escape, and with orders from Parliament that no vessel should be allowed to leave the port. Harry then rode to Portsmouth, but there also he was unable to do anything. He heard that in the afternoon the king had crossed over onto the Isle of Wight, and that he had been received by the governor with marks of respect. They, therefore, again returned to Southampton, and there took a boat for Cowes. Leaving his followers there, Harry rode to Newport, and saw the king. The latter said that for the present he had altogether changed his mind about escaping to France, and that Sir John Berkeley would start at once to negotiate with the heads of the army. He begged Harry to go to London, and to send him from time to time sure news of the state of feeling of the populace.

Taking his followers with him, Harry rode to London, disguised as a country trader. He held communication with many leading citizens, as well as with apprentices and others with whom he could get into conversation in the streets and public resorts. He found that the vast majority of the people of London were longing for the overthrow of the rule of the Independents, and for the restoration of the king. The preachers were as busy as ever haranguing people in the streets, and especially at Paul's Cross. In the cathedral of St. Paul's the Independent soldiers had stabled their horses, to the great anger of many moderate people, who were shocked at the manner in which those who had first begun to fight for liberty of conscience now tyrannized over the consciences and insulted the feelings of all others. Harry and his followers mixed among the groups, and aided in inflaming the temper of the people by passing jeering remarks, and loudly questioning the statements of the preachers. These, unaccustomed to interruption, would rapidly lose temper, and they and their partisans would make a rush through the crowd to seize their interrogators. Then the apprentices would interfere, blows would be exchanged, and not unfrequently the fanatics were driven in to take refuge with the troops in St. Paul's. Harry found a small printer of Royalist opinions, and with the assistance of Jacob, strung together many doggerel verses, making a scoff of the sour-faced rulers of England, and calling upon the people not to submit to be tyrannized over by their own paid servants, the army. These verses were then set in type by the printer, and in the evening, taking different ways, they distributed them in the streets to passers-by.

Day by day the feeling in the city rose higher, as the quarrels at Westminster between the Independents, backed by the army and the Presbyterian majority, waxed higher and higher. All this time the king was negotiating with commissioners from the army, and with others sent by the Scots, one day inclining to one party, the next to the other, making promises to both, but intending to observe none, as soon as he could gain his ends.

On Sunday, the 9th of April, Harry and his friends strolled up to Moor Fields to look at the apprentices playing bowls there. Presently from the barracks of the militia hard by a party of soldiers came out, and ordered them to desist, some of the soldiers seizing upon the bowls.

"Now, lads," Harry shouted, "you will not stand that, will you? The London apprentices were not wont to submit to be ridden rough-shod over by troops. Has all spirit been taken out of you by the long-winded sermons of these knaves in steeple hats?"

Some of the soldiers made a rush at Harry. His two friends closed in by him. The two first of the soldiers who arrived were knocked down. Others, however, seized the young men, but the apprentices crowded up, pelted the soldiers with stones, and, by sheer weight, overthrew those who had taken Harry and carried him off. The soldiers soon came pouring out of their barracks, but fleet-footed lads had, at the commencement of the quarrel, run down into the streets, raising the shout of "clubs," and swarms of apprentices came running up. Led by Harry and his followers, who carried heavy sticks, they charged the militia with such fury that these, in spite of their superior arms, were driven back fighting into their barracks. When the gates were shut Harry mounted on a stone and harangued the apprentices -- he recalled to them the ancient rights of the city, rights which the most absolute monarchs who had sat upon the throne had not ventured to infringe, that no troops should pass through the streets or be quartered there to restrict the liberties of the citizens. "No king would have ventured so to insult the people of London; why should the crop-haired knaves at Westminster dare to do so? If you had the spirit of your fathers you would not bear it for a moment."

"We will not, we will not," shouted the crowd. "Down with the soldiers!"

At this moment a lad approached at full run to say that the cavalry were coming from St. Paul's. In their enthusiasm the apprentices prepared to resist, but Harry shouted to them:

"Not here in the fields. Scatter now and assemble in the streets. With the chains up, we can beat them there."

The apprentices gave a cheer, and, scattering, made their way from the fields just as the cavalry issued into the open space. Hurrying in all directions, the apprentices carried the news, and soon the streets swarmed with their fellows. They were quickly joined by the watermen -- in those days a numerous and powerful body. These were armed with oars and boat-stretchers. The chains which were fastened at night across the ends of the streets were quickly placed in position, and all was prepared to resist the attack of the troops.



Chapter XV.

A Riot In The City.


So quickly were the preparations made that by the time the cavalry came riding back from Moor Fields they found the way barred to them. The commander of the cavalry ordered his men to charge. Harry, who had now taken the command of the crowd, ordered a few of the apprentices to stand before the first line of chains, so that these would not be visible until the horses were close upon them. Behind the chains he placed a strong body of watermen with their oars, while behind these, and at the windows of the houses, were the apprentices, each armed with a quantity of stones and broken bricks. The cavalry charged down upon the defense. When they reached within a few yards of the apprentices in front, these slipped under the chain. The leading troopers halted, but were pressed by those behind them gainst the chain. Then a ram of stones and brickbats opened upon them, and the watermen struck down men and horses with their heavy oars. In vain the troopers tried with their swords to reach their opponents. In vain they fired their pistols into the mass. They were knocked down by the stones and brickbats in numbers, and at last, their commander having been struck senseless, the rest drew off, a tremendous cheer greeting their retreat, from the crowd.

"Now," Harry shouted, taking his position on a doorstep, whence he could be seen, "attend to me. The battle has only begun yet, and they will bring up their infantry now. Next time we will let them enter the street, and defend the chains at the other end -- a party must hold these -- do some of you fill each lane which comes down on either side, and do ten of you enter each house and take post at the upper windows, with a good store of ammunition. Do not show yourselves until the head of their column reaches the chain. Then fling open the windows and pour volleys of stones and bricks upon them. Then let those in the side streets, each headed by parties of watermen, fall upon their flanks. Never fear their musketry. They can only give fire once before you are upon them. The oars will beat down the pikes, and your clubs will do the rest. Now let the apprentices of each street form themselves into parties, each under their captain. Let all be regular and orderly, and we will show them what the Londoners can do."

With a cheer the crowd separated, and soon took post as Harry had directed. He stationed himself at the barricade at the head of the street. A quarter of an hour later the militia were seen approaching in close column followed by the cavalry. On arriving at the end of the street the assailants removed the chain, and again advanced. The street was silent until they neared its end. The watermen had, under Harry's direction, torn up the paving stones, and formed a barricade breast high, behind which, remaining crouched, they awaited the assault.

The fight began by a volley of stones from the apprentices behind the barricade. The leading rank of the column discharged their muskets, and rushed at the barricade; the watermen sprang to oppose them. At the sound of the first shot every window in the street opened, and a rain of bricks and heavy stones poured down on all sides upon the column, while at the same time dense masses flung themselves upon its flanks, from every lane leading into it. Confused and broken by the sudden onslaught in the narrow street, the column halted, and endeavored to open a fire upon the upper windows. This, however, effected but little harm, while every brick from above told upon their crowded mass. The column was instantly in confusion, and Harry and his followers, leaping over the barricade, and followed by the watermen and apprentices behind, fell upon it with fury. In vain did the Roundheads strive to repulse the attack. Their numbers melted away as they fell, killed or senseless, from the rain of missiles from above. Already the column was rent by their assailants on the flanks, and in less than five minutes from the commencement of the assault those who remained on their legs were driven headlong out into Moor Fields.

Loud rose the triumphant cry of the defenders, "God and King Charles." Some hours elapsed before any attempt was made to renew the assault. Then toward evening fresh troops were brought up from Westminster, and the attack was renewed on two sides. Still the apprentices held their own. Attack after attack was repulsed. All night the fight continued, and when morning dawned the Royalists were still triumphant.

"How will it go, think you, Jacob?" Harry asked.

"They will beat us in the long run," Jacob said. "They have not been properly led yet. When they are, guns and swords must prevail against clubs and stones."

At eleven o'clock in the morning a heavy body of cavalry were seen approaching from Westminster. The Roundheads had brought up Cromwell's Ironsides, the victors in many a hard-fought field, against the apprentice boys of London. The Roundhead infantry advanced with their horse. As they approached the first barricade the cavalry halted, and the infantry advanced alone to within thirty yards of it. Then, just as its defenders thought they were going to charge, they halted, divided into bodies, and entered the houses on either side, and appeared at the windows. Then, as the Ironsides came down at a gallop, they opened a heavy fire on the defenders of the barricade. Harry saw at once that the tactics now adopted were irresistible, and that further attempts at defense would only lead to useless slaughter. He therefore shouted:

"Enough for to-day, lads. Every man back to his own house. We will begin again when we choose. We have given them a good lesson."

In an instant the crowd dispersed, and by the time the Ironsides had dismounted, broken the chains, and pulled down the barricade sufficiently to enable them to pass, Ludgate Hill was deserted, the apprentices were back in their masters' shops, and the watermen standing by their boats ready for a fare.

Seeing that their persons were known to so many of the citizens, and would be instantly pointed out to the troops by those siding with the army, who had, during the tumult, remained quietly in their houses, watching from the windows what was going on, Harry and his friends hurried straight to Aldersgate, where they passed out into the country beyond. Dressed in laborers' smocks, which they had, in preparation for any sudden flight, left at the house of a Royalist innkeeper, a mile or two in the fields, they walked to Kingston, crossed the river there, and made for Southampton.

The king was now closely confined in Carisbrook Castle. For the first three months of his residence in the Isle of Wight he could have escaped with ease, had he chosen, and it is probable that Cromwell and the other leaders of the army would have been glad that he should go, and thus relieve the country from the inconvenience of his presence. They had become convinced that so long as he lived quiet could not be hoped for. While still pretending to negotiate with them, he had signed a treaty with the Scots, promising to establish Presbyterianism in England, and their army was already marching south. To the Irish Papists he had promised free exercise of their religion, and these were taking up arms and massacring all opposed to them, as was the custom in that barbarous country. In Wales a formidable insurrection had broken out. Essex and Kent were up in arms, and, indeed, all through the country the Royalists were stirring. The leaders had therefore determined upon bringing the king to trial.

At Southampton Harry found Sir John Berkeley concealed in a house where he had previously instructed Harry he might be looked for. He told him that the king was now a close prisoner, and would assuredly escape if means could be provided. Leaving Sir John, Harry joined his followers, and after telling them the circumstances, they walked down to the port. Here they entered into conversation with an old sailor. Seeing that he was an honest fellow, and in no way disposed toward the fanatics, Harry told him that he and those with him were Cavaliers, who sought to cross over into France.

"There is a boat, there," the sailor said, pointing to a lugger which was lying at anchor among some fishing boats, "that will carry you. The captain, Dick Wilson, is a friend of mine, and often makes a run across to France on dark nights, and brings back smuggled goods. I know where he can be found, and will lead you to him, if it so pleases you." Upon their gladly accepting the offer he led them to a small inn by the water side, and introduced them to the captain of the Moonlight, for so the lugger was called. Upon receiving a hint from the sailor that his companions wished to speak to him in private, Wilson led the way upstairs to the chamber he occupied. Here Harry at once unfolded to him the nature of the service he required. He was to lay with his boat off the bank of the island, making to sea before daylight, and returning after dusk, and was to take his station off a gap in the cliffs, known as Black Gang Chine, where a footpath from above descended to the beach. Upon a light being shown three times at the water's edge he was to send a boat immediately ashore, and embarking those whom he might find there, sail for France. If at the end of the week none should come, he would know that his services would not be required, and might sail away whither he listed. He was to receive fifty guineas at once for the service, and if he transported those who might come down to the shore, to France, he would, on arriving there, be paid two hundred and fifty more.

"It is the king, of course, who seeks to escape," the sailor said. "Well, young gentlemen, for such I doubt not that you are, I am ready to try it. We sailors are near all for the king, and the fleet last week declared for him, and sailed for Holland. So, once on board, there will be little danger. Pay me the fifty guineas at once, and you may rely upon the Moonlight being at the point named."

Harry handed over the money, and arranged that on the third night following the lugger should beat the post appointed, and that it should at once run them across and land them at Cowes. It was now the middle of May, and Harry and his friends, who were still in the disguise of countrymen, walked across to Newport. Their first step was to examine the castle. It lay a short distance from the town, was surrounded by a high wall with towers, and could offer a strong resistance to an attacking force. At the back of the castle was a small postern gate, at which they decided that his escape must, if possible, be made. Harry had been well supplied with money by Sir John Berkeley before leaving Southampton, Sir John himself, on account of his figure being so well known at Newport, during his stay there with the king, deeming it imprudent to take any personal part in the enterprise. After an examination of the exterior of the castle Harry bought a large basket of eggs, and some chickens, and with these proceeded to the castle. There was a guard at the gate, but persons could freely enter. As Harry's wares were exceedingly cheap in price, he speedily effected a sale of them to the soldiers and servants of the officers.

"I should like," he said to the man to whom he disposed of the last of the contents of his basket, "to catch a sight of the king. I ha' never seen him."

"That's easy enough," the man said. "Just mount these stairs with me to the wall. He is walking in the garden at the back of the castle."

Harry followed the man, and presently reached a spot where he could look down into the garden. The king was pacing up and down the walk, his head bent, his hands behind his back, apparently in deep thought. An attendant, a short distance behind him, followed his steps.

"Be that the king?" Harry asked. "He don't look like a king."

"That's him," the man said, "and he's not much of a king at present."

"Where does he live now?" Harry asked.

"That is his room," the man said, pointing to a window some ten feet from the ground. After a little further conversation Harry appeared to be satisfied, and returning to the courtyard, made his way from the castle. During that day and the next they remained quiet, except that Jacob walked over to Cowes, where he purchased two very fine and sharp saws, and a short length of strong rope, with a hook. The following night they hired a cart with a fast horse, and this they placed at a spot a quarter of a mile from the castle.

Leaving the man in charge of it there, Harry and his companions made for the back of the castle. They could tell by the calls upon the walls that the sentries were watchful, but the night was so dark that they had no fear whatever of being seen. Very quietly they crossed the moat, which was shallow, and with but little water in it. Then with an auger they cut four holes in a square two feet each way in the door, and, with a saw, speedily cut the piece inclosed by them out, and creeping through, entered the garden. The greater part of the lights were already extinguished, but that in the king's chamber was still burning. They made their way quietly until they stood beneath this window, and waited until the light here was also put out. Then Harry climbed on to the shoulders of his companions, which brought his face on a level with the window. He tapped at it. The king, who had been warned that his friends would attempt to open a means of escape, at once came to the window, and threw open the casement.

"Who is there?" he asked, in low tones.

"It is I, Harry Furness, your majesty. I have two trusty friends with me. We have cut a hole through the postern gate, a cart is waiting without, and a ship lies ready to receive you on the coast."

"I am ready," the king said. "Thanks, my faithful servant. But have you brought something to cut the bars?"

"The bars!" Henry exclaimed, aghast. "I did not know that there were bars!"

"There are, indeed, Master Furness," the king said, "and if you have no file the enterprise is ruined."

Harry put his hands on the stonework and pulled himself up, and felt the bars within the window.

"They are too strong for our united strength," he said, in a tone of deep disappointment. "But methinks it is possible to get between them." Putting his head between the bars he struggled though, but with great difficulty. "See, your majesty, I have got through."

"Ay, Master Furness, but you are slighter in figure than I, although you are changed indeed since first the colonel, your father, presented you to me at Oxford. However, I will try." The king tried, but in vain. He was stouter than Harry, although less broadly built, and had none of the lissomness which enabled the latter to wriggle through the bars. "It is useless," he said at last. "Providence is against me. It is the will of God that I should remain here. It may be the decree of Heaven that even yet I may sit again on the throne of my ancestors. Now go, Master Furness. It is too late to renew the attempt to-night. Should Charles Stuart ever reign again over England, he will not forget your faithful service."

Harry kissed the king's hand, and with a prayer for his welfare he again made his way through the bars and dropped from the window, by the side of his companions, the tears streaming down his cheeks with the disappointment and sorrow he felt at the failure of his enterprise. "It is all over," he said. "The king cannot force his way through the bars."

Without another word they made their way down to the postern, passed through it, and replaced the piece of wood in its position, in the faint hope that it might escape notice. Then they rejoined the driver with the cart, paid him handsomely, and told him that his services would not be required that night at least. They then returned to their lodgings in the town. The next morning early Jacob started for Cowes to buy some sharp files and aquafortis, but an hour later the news passed through Newport that an attempt had been made in the night to free the king, that a hole had been cut in the postern, and the marks of footsteps discovered under the king's window. Perceiving that it would be useless to renew the attempt now that the suspicions of the garrison were aroused, Harry and William Long, fearing that a search would be instituted, at once started for Cowes. They met Jacob close to that town, crossed in a boat to the mainland, and walked to Southampton. They hesitated whether they should join Lord Goring, who had risen in Kent, or Lord Capel and Sir Charles Lucas, who had collected a large force at Colchester. They determined upon the latter course, as the movement appeared to promise a better chance of success. Taking passage in a coaster, they sailed to the mouth of the Thames, and being landed near Tilbury, made their way to Colchester. Harry was, on his arrival, welcomed by the Royalist leaders, who were well acquainted with him. They proposed to march upon London, which would, they felt sure, declare for the king upon their approach. They had scarcely set their force in motion when they heard that Fairfax, at the head of an army, was marching against them. A debate was held among the leaders as to the best course to pursue. Some were for marching north, but the eastern counties had, from the commencement of the troubles, been wholly on the side of the Parliament. Others were for dispersing the bands, and awaiting a better opportunity for a rising. Sir Charles Lucas, however, urged that they should defend Colchester to the last.

"Here," he said, "we are doing good service to the Royal cause, and by detaining Fairfax here, we shall give time to our friends in Wales, Kent, and other parts to rise and organize. If it is seen that whenever we meet the Roundheads we disperse at once, hope and confidence will be lost."

The next day the town was invested by Fairfax, and shortly after the siege began in earnest. The Royalists fought with great bravery, and for two months every attempt of the Roundheads to storm the place was repulsed. At length, however, supplies ran short, several breaches had been made in the walls by the Roundhead artillery, and a council of war was held, at which it was decided that further resistance was useless, and would only inflict a great slaughter upon their followers, who, in the event of surrender, would for the most part be permitted to return to their homes. Harry Furness was present at the council and agreed to the decision. He said, however, that he would endeavor, with his two personal followers, to effect his escape, as, if he were taken a prisoner to London, he should be sure to be recognized there as the leader of the rising in May, in which case he doubted not that little mercy would be shown to him. The Royalist leaders agreed with him, but pointed out that his chances of escape were small, as the town was closely beleaguered. Harry, however, declared that he preferred the risk of being shot while endeavoring to escape, to the certainty of being executed if carried to London.

That night they procured some bladders, for although Jacob and Harry were able to swim, William Long could not do so, and in any case it was safer to float than to swim. The bladders were blown out and their necks securely fastened. The three adventurers were then lowered from the wall by ropes, and having fastened the bladders around them, noiselessly entered the water. A numerous flotilla of ships and boats of the Commons lay below the town; the tide was running out, however, and the night dark, and keeping hold of each other, so as not to be separated by the tide, they drifted through these unobserved. Once safely out of hearing, Jacob and Harry struck out and towed their companion to shore. While at Colchester they had been attired as Royalist officers, but they had left these garments behind them, and carried, strapped to their shoulders, above water, the countrymen's clothes in which they had entered the town. They walked as far as Brentwood, where they stopped for a few days, and learned the news of what was passing throughout the country.

Colchester surrendered on the 27th of August, the morning after they left it. Lord Capel was sent a prisoner to London to be tried for his life; but Fairfax caused Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle to be tried by court-martial, and shot. On the 10th of July the town and castle of Pembroke had surrendered to Cromwell, who immediately afterward marched north to meet the Scotch army, which six days before had entered England. The Duke of Hamilton, who commanded it, was at once joined by five thousand English Royalists under Sir Marmaduke Langdale. General Lambert, who commanded the Parliamentary troops in the north, fell back to avoid a battle until Cromwell could join him.

The Scotch army could not be called a national force. The Scotch Parliament, influenced by the Duke of Hamilton and others, had entered into an agreement with King Charles, and undertook to reinstate him on the throne. The more violent section, headed by Argyll, were bitterly hostile to the step. The Duke of Hamilton's army, therefore, consisted entirely of raw and undisciplined troops. Cromwell marched with great speed through Wales to Gloucester, and then on through Leicester and Nottingham, and joined Lambert at Barnet Castle on the 12th of August. Then he marched against the Scotch army, which, straggling widely and thinking Cromwell still at a distance, was advancing toward Manchester. On the 16th the duke with his advanced guard was at Preston, with Langdale on his left. Cromwell attacked Langdale with his whole force next morning, and the Royalists after fighting stoutly were entirely defeated. Then he fell upon the Duke of Hamilton and the force under him at Preston, and after four hours' sharp fighting in the inclosures round the place, defeated and drove them out of the town. That night the Scots determined to retreat, and at once began to scatter. General Baillie, after some hard fighting around Warrington, surrendered with his division. The duke with three thousand men went to Nantwich. The country was hostile, his own troops, wearied and dispirited, mutinied, and declared they would fight no longer; the Duke of Hamilton thereupon surrendered, the Scotch invasion of England came to an end.



Chapter XVI.

The Execution Of King Charles.


The news of the failure of the Welsh insurrection and the Scotch invasion, while the risings in Kent and Essex were crushed out, showed Harry Furness that, for the time at least, there was no further fighting to be done. Cromwell, after the defeat of the Scotch, marched with his army to Edinburgh, where he was received with enthusiasm by Argyll and the fanatic section, who were now again restored to power, and recommenced a cruel persecution of all suspected of Royalist opinions. Now that the Scotch had been beaten, and the Royalist rising everywhere crushed out, the Parliament were seized with fear as to the course which Cromwell and his victorious army might pursue. If they had been so arrogant and haughty before, what might not be expected now. Negotiations were at once opened with the king. He was removed from Carisbrook to a good house at Newport. Commissioners came down there, and forty days were spent in prolonged argument, and the commissioners returned to London on the 28th of November with a treaty signed. It was too late. The army stationed at St. Albans sent in a remonstrance to Parliament, calling upon them to bring the king to trial, and stating that if Parliament neglected its duty the army would take the matter into its own hands. This remonstrance caused great excitement in the Commons. No steps were taken upon it however, and the Commons proceeded to discuss the treaty, and voted that the king's concessions were sufficient. On the 29th a body of soldiers went across to the Isle of Wight, surrounded the king's house, seized him and carried him to Hurst Castle. The next day Parliament voted that they would not debate the remonstrance of the army, and in reply the army at Windsor marched on the 2d of December into London. On the 5th the Commons debated all day upon the treaty.

Prynne, formerly one of the stanchest opposers of King Charles, spoke with others strongly in his favor, and it was carried by a hundred and twenty-nine to thirty-eight. The same day some of the leaders of the army met, and determined to expel from the house all those opposed to their interests. On the 7th the Trained Bands of the city were withdrawn from around the House, and Colonel Pride with his regiment of foot surrounded it. As the members arrived forty-one of them were turned back. The same process was repeated on the two following days, until over a hundred members had been arrested. Thus the army performed a revolution such as no English sovereign has dared to carry out. After this it is idle to talk of the Parliament as in any way representing the English people. The representatives who supported the king had long since left it. The whole of the moderate portion of those who had opposed him, that is to say, those who had fought to support the liberties of Englishmen against encroachments by the king, and who formed the majority after the Royalists had retired, were now expelled; there remained only a small body of fanatics devoted to the interests of the army, and determined to crush out all liberties of England under its armed heel. This was the body before whom the king was ere long to undergo the mockery of a trial.

King Charles was taken to Hurst Castle on the 17th of December, and three days later carried to Windsor. On the 2d of January, 1649, the Commons voted that in making war against the Parliament the king had been guilty of treason, and should be tried by a court of a hundred and fifty commissioners. The Peers rejected the bill, and the Commons then voted that neither the assent of the Peers nor the king was necessary for a law passed by themselves.

All the encroachments of King Charles together were as nothing to this usurpation of despotic power.

In consequence of the conduct of the Peers, the number of commissioners was reduced to a hundred and thirty-five; but of these only sixty-nine assembled at the trial. Thus the court which was to try the king consisted only of those who were already pledged to destroy him. Before such a court as this there could be but one end to the trial. When, after deciding upon their sentence, the king was brought in to hear it, the chief commissioner told him that the charges were brought against him in the name of the people of England, when Lady Fairfax from the gallery cried out, "It's a lie! Not one-half of them." Had she said not one hundredth of them, she would have been within the mark.

On the 27th sentence was pronounced. On the 29th the court signed the sentence, which was to be carried out on the following day.

From the time when Harry Furness left Brentwood at the end of August until the king was brought to London, he had lived quietly at Southampton. He feared to return home, and chose this port as his residence, in order that he might, if necessary, cross into France at short notice. When the news came that the king had been brought up from Windsor, Harry and his friends at once rode to London, Every one was so absorbed in the great trial about to take place that Harry had little fear of attracting attention or of being molested should any one recognize in the young gentleman in sober attire the rustic who had led the rising in the spring. To London, too, came many other Cavaliers from all parts of the country, eager to see if something might not be attempted to rescue the king. Throughout London the consternation was great at the usurpation by the remnant of the Commons of all the rights of the Three Estates, and still more, at the trial of the king. The army, however, lay in and about London, and, with Cromwell at its head, it would, the people felt, easily crush out any attempt at a rising in the city. Within a few hours of his arrival in London, Harry saw that there was no hope from any effort in this direction, and that the only possible chance of saving the king was by his arranging for his escape. His majesty, on his arrival from Windsor, had been lodged in St. James' Palace, and as this was completely surrounded by the Roundhead troops, there was no chance of effecting an invasion thence. The only possible plan appeared to be a sudden attack upon his guards on his way to execution.

Harry gathered round him a party of thirty Cavaliers, all men ready like himself to sacrifice their lives for the king. Their plan was to gather near Whitehall, where the execution was to take place, to burst through the soldiers lining the way, to cut down the guards, and carry the king to a boat in readiness behind Whitehall, This was to convey him across to Lambeth, where fleet horses were to be stationed, which would take him down to the Essex coast.

The plan was a desperate one, but it might possibly have succeeded, could the Cavaliers have gained the position which they wished. The whole of the army was, however, placed in the streets and passages leading to Whitehall, and between that place and the city the cavalry were drawn up, preventing any from coming in or going out. When they found that this was the case, the Cavaliers in despair mounted their horses, and rode into the country, with their hearts filled with grief and rage.

On the 30th, an hour after the king's execution, proclamation was made that whoever should proclaim a new king would be deemed a traitor, and a week later, the Commons, now reduced to a hundred members, formally abolished the House of Peers. A little later Lord Capel, Lord Holland, and the Duke of Hamilton were executed.

Had the king effected his escape, Harry Furness had determined to return to Abingdon and live quietly at home, believing that now the army had grasped all power, and crushed all opposition, it was probable that they would abstain from exciting further popular animosity by the persecution of those who had fought against them. The fury, however, excited in his mind by the murder of the king after the mockery of a trial, determined him to fight to the last, wherever a rising might be offered, however hopeless a success that rising might appear. He would not, however, suffer Jacob and William Long any longer to follow his fortunes, although they earnestly pleaded to do so. "I have no hope of success," he said. "I am ready to die, but I will not bring you to that strait. I have written to my father begging him, Jacob, to receive you as his friend and companion, and to do what he can, William, to assist you in whatever mode of life your wishes may hereafter lead you to adopt. But come with me you shall not."

Not without tears did Harry's faithful companions yield themselves to his will, and set out for Abingdon, while he, with eight or ten comrades as determined as himself, kept on west until they arrived at Bristol, where they took ship and crossed to Ireland. They landed at Waterford, and journeyed north until they reached the army, with which the Marquis of Ormonde was besieging Dublin. Nothing that Harry had seen of war in England prepared him in any way for the horrors which he beheld in Ireland. The great mass of the people there were at that time but a few degrees advanced above savages, and they carried on their war with a brutal cruelty and bloodshed which could now only be rivaled in the center of Africa. Between the Protestants and the English and Scotch settlers on the one hand, and the wild peasantry on the other, a war of something like extermination went on. Wholesale massacres took place, at which men, women, and children were indiscriminately butchered, the ferocity shown being as great upon one side as the other. In fact, beyond the possession of a few large towns, Ireland had no claim whatever to be considered a civilized country. As Harry and his comrades rode from Waterford they beheld everywhere ruined fields and burned houses; and on joining the army of the Marquis of Ormonde, Harry felt even more strongly than before the hopelessness of the struggle on which he was engaged. These bands of wild, half-clad kernes, armed with pike and billhook, might be brave indeed, but could do nothing against the disciplined soldiers of the Parliament. There were with Ormonde, indeed, better troops than these. Some of the companies were formed of English and Welsh Royalists. Others had been raised by the Catholic gentry of the west, and into these some sort of order and discipline had been introduced. The army, moreover, was deficient in artillery, and not more than one-third of the footmen carried firearms. Harry was, a day or two after reaching the camp of Lord Ormonde, sent off to the West to drill some of the newly-raised levies there. It was now six years since he had begun to take an active part in the war, and he was between twenty-one and twenty-two. His life of active exertion had strengthened his muscles, broadened his frame, and given a strength and vigor to his tall and powerful figure.

Foreseeing that the siege of Dublin was not likely to be successful, Harry accepted his commission to the West with pleasure. He felt already that with all his devotion to the Royalist cause he could not wish that the siege of Dublin should be successful; for he saw that the vast proportion of the besieging army were animated by no sense of loyalty, by no interest in the constitutional question at stake, but simply with a blind hatred of the Protestant population of Dublin, and that the capture of the city would probably be followed by the indiscriminate slaughter of its inhabitants.

He set out on his journey, furnished with letters from Ormonde to several influential gentlemen in Galway. The roads at first were fairly good, but accustomed to the comfortable inns in England, Harry found the resting-places along the road execrable. He was amused of an evening by the eagerness with which the people came round and asked for news from Dublin. In all parts of England the little sheets which then did service as newspapers carried news of the events which were taking place. It is true that none of the country population could read or write; but the alehouses served as centers of news. The village clerk, or, perhaps, the squire's bailiff, could read, as could probably the landlord, and thus the news spread quickly round the country. In Ireland news traveled only from mouth to mouth, often becoming strangely distorted on the way.

Harry was greatly struck by the bareness of the fields and the poverty of the country; and as he journeyed further west the country became still wilder and more lonely. It was seldom now that he met any one who could speak English, and as the road was often little more than a track, he had great difficulty in keeping his way, and regretted that he had not hired a servant knowing the country before leaving the army. He generally, however, was able to obtain a guide from village to village. The loneliness of the way, the wretchedness of the people, the absence of the brightness and comfort so characteristic of English life, made the journey an oppressive one, and Harry was glad when, five days after leaving Dublin, he approached the end of his ride. Upon this day he had taken no guide, being told that the road was clear and unmistakable as far as Galway.

He had not traveled many hours when a heavy mist set in, accompanied by a keen and driving rain, in his face. With his head bent down, Harry rode along, paying less attention than usual to his way. The mist grew thicker and thicker. The horse no longer proceeded at a brisk pace, and presently came to a stop. Harry dismounted, and discovered that he had left the road, Turning his horse's head, and taking the reins over his arm, he tried to retrace his steps.

For an hour he walked along, the conviction growing every moment that he was hopelessly lost. The ground was now soft and miry and was covered with tussocks of coarse grass, between which the soil was black and oozy. The horse floundered on for some distance, but with such increasing difficulty that, upon reaching a space of comparatively solid ground, Harry decided to take him no further.

The cold rain chilled him to the bone, and after awhile he determined to try and make his way forward on foot, in hopes of finding, if not a human habitation, some walls or bushes where he could obtain shelter until the weather cleared. He fastened the reins to a small shrub, took off the saddle and laid it on the grass, spread the horse rug over the animal to protect it as far as possible, and then started on his way. He had heard of Irish bogs extending for many miles, and deep enough to engulf men and animals who might stray among them, and he felt that his position was a serious one.

He blamed himself now for not having halted immediately he perceived that he had missed the road. The only guide that he had as to the direction he should take was the wind. On his way it had been in his face, and he determined now to keep it at his back, not because that was probably the way to safety, but because he could see more easily where he was going, and he thought by continuing steadily in one direction he might at last gain firm ground. His view extended but a few yards round him, and he soon found that his plan of proceeding in a straight line was impracticable. Often quagmires of black ooze, or spaces covered with light grass, which were, he found, still more treacherous, barred his way, and he was compelled to make considerable detours to the right or left in order to pass them. Sometimes widths of sluggish water were met with. For a long time Harry continued his way, leaping lightly from tuft to tuft, where the grass grew thickest, sometimes wading knee-deep in the slush and feeling carefully every foot lest he should get to a depth whence he should be unable to extricate himself. Every now and then he shouted at the top of his voice, in hopes that he might be heard by some human being. For hours he struggled on. He was now exhausted with his efforts, and the thickening darkness told him that day was fading. From the time he had left his horse he had met with no bush of sufficient height to afford him the slightest shelter.

Just as he was thinking whether he had not better stop where he was, and sit down on the firmest tuft he could find and wait for morning, when perhaps the rainstorm might cease and enable him to see where he was, he heard, and at no very great distance, the sudden bray of a donkey. He turned at once in the direction of the sound, with renewed hopes, giving a loud shout as he did so. Again and again he raised his voice, and presently heard an answering shout. He called again, and in reply heard some shouts in Irish, probably questions, but to these he could give no answer. Shouting occasionally, he made his way toward the voice, but the bog seemed more difficult and treacherous than ever, and at last he reached a spot where further advance seemed absolutely impossible. It was now nearly dark, and Harry was about to sit down in despair, when suddenly a voice sounded close to him. He answered again, and immediately a barefooted boy sprang to his side from behind. The boy stood astonished at Harry's appearance. The latter was splashed and smeared from head to foot with black mire, for he had several times fallen. His broad hat drooped a sodden mass over his shoulders, the dripping feather adding to its forlorn appearance. His high riding boots were gone, having long since been abandoned in the tenacious ooze in which they had stuck; his ringlets fell in wisps on his shoulder.

After staring at him for a minute, the boy said something in Irish. Harry shook his head.

His guide then motioned him to follow him. For some time it seemed to Harry that he was retracing his steps. Then they turned, and by what seemed a long detour, at last reached firmer ground. A minute or two later they were walking along a path, and presently stopped before the door of a cabin, by which two men were standing. They exchanged a word or two with the boy, and then motioned to Harry to enter. A peat fire was burning on the hearth, and a woman, whose age Harry from her aspect thought must be enormous, was crouched on a low stool beside it. He threw off his riding cloak and knelt by her, and held his hands over the fire to restore the circulation. One of the men lighted a candle formed of rushes dipped in tallow. Harry paid no heed to them until he felt the warmth returning to his limbs. Then he rose to his feet and addressed them in English. They shook their heads. Perceiving how wet he was one of them drew a bottle from under the thatch, and pouring some of its contents into a wooden cup offered it to him. Harry put it to his lips. At first it seemed that he was drinking a mixture of liquid fire and smoke, and the first swallow nearly choked him. However he persevered, and soon felt the blood coursing more rapidly in his veins. Finding the impossibilty of conversing, he again sat down by the fire and waited the course of events. He had observed that as he entered his young guide had, in obedience probably to the orders of one of the men, darted away into the mist.

The minutes passed slowly, and not a word was spoken in the cottage. An hour went by, and then a tramp of feet was heard, and, accompanied by the boy, eight or ten men entered. All carried pikes. Between them and the men already in the hut an eager conversation took place. Harry felt far from easy. The aspect of the men was wild in the extreme. Their hair was long and unkempt, and fell in straggling masses over their shoulders. Presently one, who appeared to be the leader, approached Harry, who had now risen to his feet, and crossed himself on the forehead and breast. Harry understood by the action that he inquired if he was a Catholic, and in reply shook his head.

An angry murmur ran through the men. Harry repressed his inclination to place his hand on his pistols, which he had on alighting from his horse taken from the holsters and placed in his belt. He felt that even with these and his sword, he should be no match for the men around him. Then he bethought of the letters of which he was a bearer. Taking them from his pocket he held them out. "Ormonde," he said, looking at the men.

No gleam of intelligence brightened their faces at the word.

Then he said "Butler," the Irish family name of the earl. Two or three of the men spoke together, and Harry thought that there was some comprehension of his meaning. Then he read aloud the addresses of the letters, and the exclamations which followed each named showed that these were familiar to the men. A lively conversation took place between them, and the leader presently approached and held out his hand.

"Thomas Blake, Killicuddery," he said. This was the address of one of the letters, and Harry at once gave it him. It was handed to the boy, with a few words of instruction. The lad at once left the hut. The men seemed to think that for the time there was nothing more to be done, laid their pikes against the wall, and assumed, Harry thought, a more friendly aspect. He reciprocated their action, by unbuckling his belt and laying aside his sword and pistols. Fresh peats were piled on the fire, another candle was lit, and the party prepared to make themselves comfortable. The bottle and wooden cup were again produced, and the owner of the hut offered some black bread to his visitor.



Chapter XVII.

The Siege Of Drogheda.


Under the influence of the warm, close air of the hut, and the spirits he had taken, Harry soon felt drowsiness stealing over him, and the leader, perceiving this, pointed to a heap of dried fern lying in the corner of the hut. Harry at once threw himself on it, and in a very few minutes was sound asleep. When he awoke daylight was streaming in through the door of the hut. Its inmates were for the most part sitting as when he had last seen them, and Harry supposed that they had talked all night. The atmosphere of the hut was close and stifling, and Harry was glad to go to the door and breathe the fresh air outside.

The weather had changed, and the sun, which had just risen, was shining brightly. The hut stood at the foot of a long range of stony hills, while in front stretched, as far as the eye could see, an expanse of brown bog. A bridle path ran along at the foot of the hills. An hour later two figures were seen approaching along this. The one was a mounted horseman, the other running in front of him, at a long, easy trot, was Harry's guide of the preceding evening.

On reaching the cottage the gentleman on horseback alighted, and, advancing to Harry, said:

"Captain Furness, I am heartily sorry to hear that you have had what must have been a disagreeable adventure. The lad here who brought your letter told me that you were regarded as a prisoner, and considered to be a Protestant emissary. I am Tom Blake, and I live nearly twenty miles from here. That is the reason why I was not here sooner. I was keeping it up with some friends last night, and had just gone to bed when the messenger arrived, and my foolish servants pretended I was too drunk to be woke. However, when they did rouse me, I started at once."

"And has that boy gone forty miles on foot since last night?" Harry asked, in surprise.

"Oh, that's nothing," Mr. Blake said. "Give him half an hour's rest, and he'd keep up with us back to Killicuddery. But where is your horse, and how did you get into this mess? The boy tells me he found you in the bog."

Harry related his adventures.

"You have had a lucky escape indeed," Mr. Blake said. "There are places in that bog thirty feet deep. I would not try to cross it for a thousand pounds on a bright day, and how you managed to do so through the mist yesterday is more than I can imagine. Now, the first thing is to get your horse. I must apologize for not having brought one, but the fact is, my head was not exactly clear when I started, and I had not taken in the fact that you'd arrived on foot. My servant was more thoughtful. He had heard from the boy that an English gentleman was here, and judging that the larder was not likely to be stocked, he put a couple of bottles of claret, a cold chicken, and some bread into my wallet, so we can have breakfast while they are looking for your horse. The ride has sharpened my appetite."

Mr. Blake now addressed a few words in Irish to the men clustered round the door of the hut. One of them climbed to the top of the hill, and presently shouted down some instructions, and another at once started across the bog.

"They see your horse," Mr. Blake said, "but we shall have to wait for two or three hours. It is some four miles off, and they will have to make a long detour to bring it back."

Mr. Blake now distributed some silver among the men, and these, with the exception of the master of the house, soon afterward left. Harry heartily enjoyed his breakfast, and in cheery chat with his host the time passed pleasantly until the peasant returned with the horse and saddle. The horse was rubbed down with dry fern, and a lump of black bread given him to eat.

"What can I do for the boy?" Harry asked. "I owe him my life, for I was so thoroughly drenched and cold that I question whether I should have lived till morning out in that bog."

"The boy thinks nothing of it," Mr. Blake said. "A few hundred yards across the bog night or day is nothing to him."

Harry gave the lad a gold piece, which he looked at in wonder.

"He has never seen such a thing before," Mr. Blake laughed. "There, Mickey," he said in Irish, "that's enough to buy you a cow, and you've only got to build a cabin and take a wife to start life as a man."

The boy said something in Irish.

"I thought so," Mr. Blake laughed. "You haven't got rid of him yet. He wants to go as your servant."

Harry laughed too. The appearance of the lad in his tattered garments was in contrast indeed to the usual aspect of a gentleman's retainer.

"You'll find him useful," Mr. Blake said. "He will run errands for you and look after your horse. These lads can be faithful to death. You cannot do better than take him."

Mickey's joy when he was told that he might accompany the English gentleman was extreme. He handed the money he had received to his father, said a few words of adieu to him, and then started on ahead of the horses.

"He had better wait and come on later," Harry said. "He must be utterly tired now."

Mr. Blake shouted after the boy, who turned round, laughed, and shook his head, and again proceeded on his way.

"He can keep up with us," Mr. Blake said. "That horse of yours is more fagged than he is."

Harry soon found that this was the case, and it took them nearly four hours' riding before they reached Killicuddery. Here a dozen barefooted men and boys ran out at their approach, and took the horses. It was a large, straggling house, as good as that inhabited by the majority of English gentlemen, but Harry missed the well-kept lawn, the trim shrubberies, and the general air of neatness and order to which he was accustomed.

"Welcome to Killicuddery," Mr. Blake said, as he alighted. "Believe me, Captain Furness, you won't find the wild Irish, now you are fairly among them, such dreadful creatures as they have been described to you. Well, Norah," he continued, as a girl some sixteen years of age bounded down the steps to meet him, "how goes it with you this morning?"

"As well as could be expected, father, considering that you kept us awake half the night with your songs and choruses. None of the others are down yet, and it's past twelve o'clock. It's downright shameful."

"Norah, I'm surprised at you," Mr. Blake said, laughing. "What will Captain Furness think of Irish girls when he hears you speaking so disrespectfully to your father. This is my daughter Norah, Captain Furness, who is, I regret to say, a wild and troublesome girl. This, my dear, is Captain Furness, a king's officer, who has fought through all the battles of the war."

"And who has lately been engaged in a struggle with an Irish bog," the girl said, laughing, for Harry's gay dress was discolored and stained from head to foot.

Harry laughed also.

"I certainly got the worst of that encounter, Miss Norah, as indeed has been the case in most of those in which I have been engaged. I never felt much more hopeless, when I thought I should have to pass the night sitting on a tuft of grass with mud and mist all round me, except when I was once nearly baked to death in, company with Prince Rupert."

"It must have been a large oven," the girl laughed; "but come in now. I am sure you will both be ready for breakfast. But papa would keep you chattering here all day if I would let him."

Mr. Blake, Harry soon found, was a widower, and his house was presided over by his eldest daughter, Kathleen, to whom Harry was introduced on entering the house. As it was now some hours since they had eaten the food which Mr. Blake had brought, they were quite ready for another meal, at which they were soon joined by six or eight other gentlemen, who had been sleeping in the house. Breakfast over, Harry retired to his room, put on a fresh suit from his wallet, and rejoined his companions, when a sort of council of war was held. Harry learned that there was no difficulty as to men, as any number of these could be recruited among the peasantry. There was, however, an entire absence of any arms save pikes. Harry knew how good a weapon are these when used by steady and well-disciplined men. The matchlocks of those days were cumbrous arms, and it was at the point of the pike that battles were then always decided.

Mr. Blake begged Harry to make his house his headquarters during his stay in the West, and the invitation was gladly accepted. The letters of which he was the bearer were dispatched to their destinations, and a few days after his arrival the recipients called upon him, and he found himself overwhelmed with invitations and offers of hospitality. The time therefore passed very pleasantly.

A few men were found in Galway who had served in the wars. These were made sergeants of the newly raised regiment, which was five hundred strong. This was not embodied, but five central places were chosen at a distance from each other, and at these the peasants assembled for drill. Several of the sons of the squires received commissions as officers, and the work of drilling went on briskly, Harry superintending that at each center by turns. In the evenings there were generally dinner parties at the houses of one or other of the gentry, and Harry greatly enjoyed the life. So some months passed.

In July the news came that the Earl of Ormonde's force outside Dublin had been routed by the garrison, under General Jones, the governor, and shortly afterward Harry received orders to march with the regiment to join the earl, who, as the king's representative, forwarded him at the same time a commission as its colonel, and the order to command it.

It was on the 13th of August that Harry with his force joined the army of Ormonde, and the next day the news came that Cromwell had landed at Dublin, and had issued a bloodthirsty proclamation against the Irish. Harry was at once ordered to march with his regiment to Tredah, now called Drogheda, a seaport about forty miles north of Dublin. At this town Harry found in garrison twenty-five hundred English troops, under the command of Sir Arthur Ashton, an old Royalist officer, he had lost a leg in the king's service.

During the six months he had passed in the West Harry had found Mike an invaluable servant. He had, of course, furnished him with decent suits of clothes, but although willing to wear shoes in the house, nothing could persuade Mike to keep these on his feet when employed without. As a messenger he was of the greatest service, carrying Harry's missives to the various posts as quickly as they could have been taken by a horseman. During that time he had picked up a great deal of English, and his affection for his master was unbounded. He had, as a matter of course, accompanied Harry on his march east, and was ready to follow him to the end of the world if need be.

The garrison of Drogheda employed themselves busily in strengthening the town to the utmost, in readiness for the siege that Cromwell would, they doubted not, lay to it. In September Cromwell moved against the place. He was prepared to carry out the campaign in a very different spirit to that with which he had warred in England. For years Ireland had been desolated by the hordes of half-savage men, who had for that time been burning, plundering, and murdering on the pretext of fighting for or against the king. Cromwell was determined to strike so terrible a blow as would frighten Ireland into quietude. He knew that mildness would be thrown away upon this people, and he defended his course, which excited a thrill of horror in England, upon the grounds that it was the most merciful in the end. Certainly, nowhere else had Cromwell shown himself a cruel man. In England the executions in cold blood had not amounted to a dozen in all. The common men on both sides were, when taken prisoners, always allowed to depart to their homes, and even the officers were not treated with harshness. It may be assumed that his blood was fired by the tales of massacre and bloodshed which reached him when he landed. The times were stern, and the policy of conciliating rebels and murderers by weak concessions was not even dreamed of. Still, no excuses or pleas of public policy can palliate Cromwell's conduct at Drogheda and Wexford. He was a student and expounder of the Bible, but it was in the old Testament rather than the new that precedents for the massacre at Drogheda must be sought for. No doubt it had the effect at the time which Cromwell looked for, but it left an impression upon the Irish mind which the lapse of over two centuries has not obliterated. The wholesale massacres and murders perpetrated by Irishmen on Irishmen have long since been forgotten, but the terrible vengeance taken by Cromwell and his saints upon the hapless towns of Drogheda and Wexford will never be forgotten by the Irish, among whom the "curse of Cromwell" is still the deadliest malediction one man can hurl at another.

Cromwell's defenders who say that he warred mildly and mercifully in England, according to English ideas, and that he fought the Irish only as they fought each other, must be hard driven when they set up such a defense. The fact that Murrogh O'Brien, at the capture of Cashel, murdered the garrison who had laid down their arms, and three thousand of the defenseless citizens, including twenty priests who had fled to the cathedral for refuge, affords no excuse whatever for the perpetration of equal atrocities by Cromwell, and no impartial historian can deny that these massacres are a foul and hideous blot in the history of a great and, for the most part, a kind and merciful man.

Upon arriving before Drogheda on the 2d of September Cromwell at once began to throw up his batteries, and opened fire on the 10th. His artillery was abundant, and was so well served that early the same afternoon two practical breaches were made, the one in the east, in the wall of St. Mary's Churchyard, the other to the south, in the wall of the town. Sir Arthur Ashton had placed Harry in command at St. Mary's Churchyard, and seeing that the wall would soon give way under the fire of the enemy's artillery, he set his men to throw up an earthwork behind.

Seven hundred of the Roundheads advanced to the assault, but so heavy was the fire that Harry's troops poured upon them that they were forced to fall back with great slaughter. At the other breach they were also repulsed, but attacking again in great force they made their way in. Near this spot was an ancient tumulus, called the Hill Mount. The sides of this were defended by strong palisades, and here the Royalists, commanded by Sir Arthur Ashton himself, opposed a desperate resistance to the enemy. These, supported by the guns on the walls, which they turned against the Mount, made repeated attacks, but were as often repulsed. The loss, however, of the defenders was great, and seeing that fresh troops were constantly brought against them they at last lost heart and surrendered, on promise of their lives; a promise which was not kept, as all were immediately massacred.

Up to this time Harry had successfully repulsed every attack made upon the other breach, but at length the news of the Roundheads' success at the Mount reached both assailants and defenders.

With exulting shouts the Roundheads poured over the wall. The garrison, headed by Harry and the other officers, strove hard to drive them back, but it was useless. Cromwell and Ireton were in the van of their troops, and these, accustomed to victory, hewed their way through the ranks of the besieged. Many of them lost heart, and, throwing down their arms, cried for quarter. With shouts of "No quarter!" "Hew down the Amalakites!" "Strike, and spare not!" the Roundheads cut down their now defenseless foes. Maddened at the sight, the besieged made another desperate effort at resistance, and for awhile fought so stoutly that the Roundheads could gain no ground of them.

Presently, however, a party of the enemy who had forced their way over the wall at another point took them in rear. Then the garrison fled in all directions pursued by their victorious enemy, who slaughtered every man they overtook. Mike had kept close to Harry through the whole of the struggle. He had picked up a pike from a fallen man, and had more than once, when Harry was nearly surrounded by his foes, dashed forward and rid him of one of the most pressing. Seeing, by the general slaughter which was going on, that the Roundhead soldiers must have received orders from their general to give no quarter, Harry determined to sell his life dearly, and rushed into a church where a score of the English soldiers were taking refuge. The door was closed and barricaded with chairs and benches, and from the windows the men opened fire upon the Roundheads, who were engaged in slaying all -- men, women and children, without mercy. Soon, from every house around, a heavy fire was poured into the church, and several of those within fell dead under the fire. Under cover of this, the Roundheads attacked the door with axes. Many were killed by the fire of the defenders, but as the door yielded, Harry called these from their post, and with them ascended the belfry tower. Here they prepared to fight to the last.

Looking from a window, Harry beheld a sight which thrilled him with horror. Gathered round a cross, standing in an open space, were two hundred women on their knees. Even while Harry looked a body of Cromwell's saints fell upon them, hewing and cutting with their swords, and thrusting with their pikes, and did not desist while one remained alive. And these were the men who had the name of God ever on their lips! When the dreadful massacre began Harry turned shuddering from the window, and with white face and set teeth nerved himself to fight to the last. Already the door had been beaten down, and the assailants had streamed into the church. Then a rush of heavy feet was heard on the stairs. Assembled round its top stood Harry and the twelve men remaining. Each knew now that there was no hope of quarter, and fought with the desperation of men who cared only to sell their lives dearly. Fast as the Roundheads poured up the stairs, they fell, pierced by pike, or shot down by musket ball. For half an hour the efforts continued, and then the Roundheads, having lost over fifty men, fell back. Three times during the day the attack was renewed, and each time repulsed with the same terrible slaughter. Between the intervals the defenders could hear the never-ceasing sound of musket and pistol firing, as house after house, defended to the last by desperate men, was stormed; while loud, even above the firing, rose the thrilling shrieks of dying women and children.

In all the history of England, from its earliest times, there is no such black and ghastly page as that of the sack of Drogheda. Even supposing Cromwell's assertion that he wished only to terrify the Irish rebels to be true, no shadow of an excuse can be pleaded for the massacre of the women and children, or for that of the English Royalists who formed five-sixths of the garrison.

All through the night occasional shrieks and pistol shots could be heard, as the wretched people who had hidden themselves in closets and cellars were discovered and murdered. No further assault was made upon the church tower, nor was there any renewal of it next morning. As hour after hour passed on Harry concluded that, deterred by the great loss which his men had already sustained in endeavoring to capture the post, Cromwell had determined to reduce it by starvation.

Already the defenders were, from the effects of exertion and excitement, half-mad with thirst. As the day went on their sufferings became greater, but there was still no thought of surrender. The next day two of them leaped from the top of the tower and were killed by their fall. Then Harry saw that it was better to give in.

"My lads," he said, "it is better to go down and die by a bullet-shot than to suffer these agonies of thirst, with only death as the issue. We must die. Better to die in our senses as men, than mad like wild beasts with thirst. Mike, my lad, I am sorry to have brought you to this pass."

Mike put his parched lips to his master's hand.

"It is not your fault, master. My life is no differ to any."

The men agreed to Harry's proposal. There was a discussion whether they should go down and die fighting, or not; but Harry urged upon them that it was better not to do so. They were already weak with hunger and thirst, and it would be more dignified to meet their fate quiet and unresistingly. They accordingly laid by their arms, and, preceded by Harry, descended the stairs.

The noise of their footsteps warned the soldiers in the church below of their coming, and these formed in a semicircle round the door to receive the expected onslaught. When they saw that the Royalists were unarmed they lowered their weapons, and an officer said: "Take these men out into the street, and shoot them there, according to the general's orders."

Calmly and with dignity Harry marched at the head of his little party into the street. They were ranged with their backs to the church, and a firing party took their places opposite to them.

The officer was about to give the order, when a divine in a high-steepled hat came up. He looked at the prisoners, and then rapidly advanced between the lines and gazed earnestly at Harry.

"Is your name Master Furness?" he asked.

"I am Colonel Furness, an officer of his majesty Charles II.," Harry said coldly. "What then?"

"I am Ebenezer Stubbs," the preacher said. "Do you not remember how seven years ago you saved my life at the risk of your own in the streets of Oxford? I promised you then that if the time should come I would do as good a turn to yourself. Captain Allgood," he said, "I do beseech you to stay this execution until I have seen the general. I am, as you know, his private chaplain, and I am assured that he will not be wroth with you for consenting to my request."

The influence of the preacher with Cromwell was well known, and the officer ordered his men to ground arms, although they muttered and grumbled to themselves at the prospect of mercy being shown to men who had killed so many of their companions. A quarter of a hour later the preacher returned with an order from the general for the prisoners to be placed in durance.

"I have obtained your life," the preacher said, "but even to my prayers the general will grant no more. You and your men are to be sent to the Bermudas."

Although Harry felt that death itself would be almost preferable to a life of slavery in the plantations, he thanked the preacher for his efforts in his behalf. A week later Harry, with the eight men who had taken with him, and twenty-seven others who been discovered in hiding-places, long after the capture of the place, were placed on board a ship bound for the Bermudas, the sole survivors of the garrison -- three thousand strong -- and of the inhabitants of Drogheda.



Chapter XVIII.

Slaves In The Bermudas.


The Good Intent, upon which Harry Furness with thirty-five other Royalist prisoners were embarked, was a bark of two hundred tons. She carried, in addition to the prisoners, sixty soldiers, who were going out to strengthen the garrison of Barbadoes. The prisoners were crowded below, and were only allowed to come on deck in batches of five or six for an hour at a time. Four of them had died on the way, and the others were greatly reduced in strength when they landed. As soon as they reached Bermuda the prisoners were assigned as slaves to some of the planters most in favor of the Commonwealth. Four or five were allotted to each, and Harry having placed Mike next to him at the end of the line, when they were drawn up on landing, they were, together with two others of the soldiers who had defended the tower of Drogheda with him, assigned to the same master.

"He is an evil-looking scoundrel," Harry said to the Irish boy. "He looks even more sour and hypocritical than do the Puritans at home. We have had a lesson of what their idea of mercy and Christianity is when they get the upper hand. I fear we have a hard time before us, my lad."

The four prisoners were marched to the center of the island, which seemed to Harry to be, as near as he could tell, about the size of the Isle of Wight. Their new master rode in front of them, while behind rode his overseer, with pistols at his holsters, and a long whip in his hand. Upon their way they passed several negroes working in the fields, a sight which mightily astonished Mike, who had never before seen these black creatures. At that time the number of negroes in the island was comparatively small, as the slave trade was then in its infancy. It was the want of labor which made the planters so glad to obtain the services of the white prisoners from England. Many of the slaves in the island had been kidnaped as boys at the various ports in England and Scotland, the infamous traffic being especially carried on in Scotland.

When they reached the plantation the horsemen alighted in the courtyard of the residence, and the planter, whose name was Zachariah Stebbings, told the overseer to take them to the slave quarters.

"You will have," he said harshly, "to subdue your pride here, and to work honestly and hard, or the lash will become acquainted with your backs."

"Look you here, Master Stebbings, if such be your name," Harry said, "a word with you at the beginning. We are exiled to this place, and given into servitude to you through no crime but that of having fought bravely for his majesty King Charles. We are men who care not greatly for our lives, and we four, with seven others, did, as you may learn, defend the tower of Drogheda for two days against the whole army of Cromwell, and did only yield to thirst, and not to force. You may judge then, of our mettle from that fact. Now, hark you; having fallen into this strait, we are willing to conform to our condition, and to give you fair and honest work to the best of our powers; but mind you, if one finger be laid on us in anger, if so much as the end of a whip touch one of us, we have sworn that we will slay him so ventures, and you also, should you countenance it , even though afterward we be burned at the stake for doing it. That is our bargain; see you that you keep to it."

So stern and determined were Harry's words, so fierce and haughty his tone, that the planter and his overseer both turned pale and shrank back. They saw at once the manner of men with whom they had to deal, and felt that the threat would be carried out to the fullest. Muttering some inarticulate reply, the planter turned and entered the house, and the overseer, with a dogged, crestfallen look, led the way to the slave quarters. The place assigned to them was a long hut, the sides lightly constructed of woven boughs, with a thick thatch overhead. Along one side extended a long sloping bench, six feet wide. This was the bed of the slaves.

An hour afterward the other inmates of the hut entered. They consisted of four white men who had been kidnaped as boys, and two who had been apprentices, sent out, as Harry soon learned, for their share in the rising in the city, which he had headed. The negroes on the estate, some twenty in number, were confined in another hut. There were, besides, four guards, one of whom kept sentry at night over the hut, while another with a loaded firearm stood over them while they worked. The garrison of the island consisted, as Harry had learned before landing, of two hundred and fifty soldiers, besides the militia, consisting of the planters, their overseers and guards, who would number altogether about five hundred men.

The next day the work in the fields began. It consisted of hoeing the ground between the rows of young sugar canes and tobacco plants. The sun was extremely powerful, and the perspiration soon flowed in streams from the newcomers. They worked, however, steadily and well, and in a manner which gave satisfaction even to their master and his overseer. Harry had impressed upon his two men and Mike the importance of doing nothing which could afford their employer a fair opportunity for complaint. He would not, Harry felt sure, venture to touch them after the warning he had given, but he might send one or all of them back to the town, where they would be put to work as refractory slaves on the fortifications, and where their lot would be far harder than it would be on the plantation. He urged upon them above all things to have patience; sooner or later the people of England would, he felt sure, recall the young king, and then they would be restored to their country. But even before that some mode of escape, either by ship, or by raising an insurrection in concert with the white slaves scattered through the island, might present itself.

The white slaves and negroes were kept as far as possible apart during their work in all the plantations in the island. The whites were deemed dangerous, and were watched with the greatest care. The blacks were a light-hearted and merry race, not altogether discontented with their position, and the planters did their utmost to prevent the white slaves having communication with them, and stirring them up to discontent and rebellion. At the same time they were not absolutely forbidden to speak. Each slave had a small plot of ground assigned to him near the huts, and on these, after the day's work was over, they raised vegetables for their own consumption.

Mike, who, as a lad, was much less closely watched than the men, soon made friends with the negroes. He was full of fun and mischief, and became a prime favorite with them. He learned that at night, as no watch was kept over them, they would often steal away and chat with the negroes on other plantations, and that so long as there were no signs of discontent, and they did their work cheerfully, the masters placed no hindrance upon such meetings. Often at night, indeed, the sound of the negro singing and music could be heard by the prisoners, the overseers troubling themselves in no way with the proceedings of their slaves after nightfall, so long as their amusements did not interfere with their power of work next morning. Mike heard also that the treatment of the slaves, both white and black, varied greatly on different plantations, according to the nature of their masters. In some the use of the lash was almost unknown, the slaves were permitted many indulgences, and were happy and contented; while in others they were harshly and cruelly treated. Mr. Stebbings was considered one of the worst masters in the island, and, indeed, it was everywhere noticed that the masters who most conformed to the usages and talk of the Puritans at home were the most cruel taskmasters to their slaves. Many times Harry Furness' blood boiled when he saw the lash applied to the bare shoulders of the slaves, often, as it seemed to him, from pure wantonness on the part of the overseer. But the latter never once ventured to touch Harry or his three companions.

Through the negroes Mike learned that to each of the four plantations adjoining their own four white prisoners had been assigned, and among these, Harry found, on obtaining their names, were the other five soldiers who had fought with him at Drogheda.

Mike soon took to going out at night with the negroes, making his way through a small opening in the light wall of the hut. This was easily closed up on his return, and by choosing a time when the sentry was on the other side of the house, he had no difficulty in leaving or entering unseen. By means of the negroes he opened up a communication with the other soldiers, and informed them that Colonel Furness bade them hold themselves in readiness when an opportunity for escape should arise. It might be weeks or even months before this would come, but the signal would be given by a fire burning at daybreak upon a hill at no great distance from the plantation. He bade them use their discretion as to taking any white slaves with them into their confidence. At nightfall, after seeing the column of smoke, they were, as best they could, to make their way from the huts, and meet in a clump of trees near the house of Mr. Stebbings.

Harry had, indeed formed no distinct plan for escape; but he wished, should an opportunity offer, to have such a body of men at hand as might stand him in good stead.

One day, about a month after their arrival on the plantation, the overseer brutally beat an old negro who was working next to Mike. The old man resumed his work, but was so feeble that he in vain endeavored to use his hoe, and the overseer struck him to the ground with the butt end of his whip. Mike instinctively dropped his hoe and sprang to lift the old man to his feet. The infuriated overseer, enraged at this interference, brought down his whip on Mike's head and felled him by the side of the negro. In an instant Harry sprang forward, armed with his hoe; the overseer seeing him coming, retreated a step or two, drew his pistol from his belt and fired -- the ball flew close to Harry's ear, and the latter, whirling his hoe round his head, brought it down with his full strength upon that of the overseer; the man fell in his tracks as if smitten with lightning. The guard ran up with his musket pointed, but Harry's two companions also advanced, armed with their hoes, and the guard, seeing that even if he shot one, he should assuredly be killed by the others, took to his heels and ran off to the house. A minute later Zachariah Stebbings with the four guards was seen running up to the spot.

"What is this?" he exclaimed furiously. "Mutiny?"

"No, Master Stebbings," Harry said calmly. "We have, as you know, worked honestly and well, but your brutal overseer has broken the agreement we made, and struck this lad to the ground without any cause. I, of course, carried out my part of the compact, though I doubt me the fellow is not killed. His hat is a thick one, and may have saved his skull. You had best leave matters alone. I and my three men are a match for you and your guards, even though they have guns, and you best know if our services are worth anything to you."

The planter hesitated. He was unwilling indeed to lose four of his best slaves, and he knew that whether he attacked them now, or whether he reported the case to the commandant of the island, he would assuredly do this. After a moment's hesitation, he said:

"The fool has brought it on himself. Do you," turning to the guards, "lift him up and carry him to the house, and let old Dinah see to his head. It is an ugly cut," he said, leaning over him, "but will do him no harm, though it will not add to his beauty."

The blow had indeed been a tremendous one, and had it alighted fairly on the top of his head, would assuredly have cleft the skull, in spite of the protection afforded by the hat. It had, however, fallen somewhat on one side, and had shorn off the scalp, ear, and part of the cheek. It was three weeks before the overseer again resumed his duty, and he cast such a deadly look at Harry as assured him that he would have his life when the occasion offered.

Two days later, when the planter happened to be in the field with the overseer, two gentlemen rode from the house, where they had been to inquire for him. The sobriety of their garments showed that they belonged to the strictest sect of the Puritans.

"I have ridden hither," one said, with a strong nasal twang, "Zachariah Stebbings, having letters of introduction to you from the governor. These will tell that I am minded to purchase an estate in the island. The governor tells me that maybe you would be disposed to sell, and that if not, I might see the methods of work and culture here, and learn from you the name of one disposed to part with his property."

At the first words of the speaker Harry Furness had started, and dropped his hoe; without, however, looking round, he picked it up and applied himself to his work.

"I should not be unwilling to sell," the planter answered, "for a fair price, but the profits are good, and are likely to be better, for I hear that large numbers of malignants, taken by the sword of the Lord Cromwell at Dundalk and Waterford in Ireland, will be sent here, and with more labor to till the fields, our profits will increase."

"I have heard," the newcomer said, "that some of the ungodly followers of the man Charles have already been sent here."

"That is so," the planter agreed. "I myself, standing well in the favor of the governor, have received four of them; that boy, the two men next to him, and that big man working there. He is a noted malignant, and was known as Colonel Furness."

"Truly he is a stalwart knave," the other remarked.

"Ay is he," the planter said; "but his evil fortune has not as yet altogether driven out the evil spirit within him. He is a man of wrath, and the other day he smote nigh to death my overseer, whose head is, as you see, still bandaged up."

"Truly he is a son of Belial," the other argued, but in a tone in which a close observer might have perceived a struggle to keep down laughter. "I warrant me, you punished him heartily for such an outbreak."

"To tell you the truth," the planter said, "the man is a good workman, and like to an ox in his strength. The three others were by his side, and also withstood me. Had I laid a complaint before the governor they would all have been shot, or put on the roads to work, and I should have lost their labor. My overseer was in the wrong, and struck one of them first, so 'twas better to say naught about the matter. And now will you walk me to the house, where I can open the letter of the governor, and talk more of the business you have in hand."

The instant the man had spoken Harry had recognized the voice of his old friend Jacob, and doubted not, though he had not ventured to look round, that he who accompanied him was William Long; and he guessed that hearing he had been sent with the other captives spared at the massacre of Drogheda to the Bermudas, they had come out to try and rescue him. So excited was he at the thought that it was with difficulty he could continue steadily at his work through the rest of the day. When at nightfall he was shut up in the hut with his companions, he told them that the Puritan they had seen was a friend of his own, a captain in his troop, and that he doubted not that deliverance was at hand. He charged Mike at once to creep forth to join the negroes, and to bid them tell one of their color who served in the house to take an opportunity to whisper to one of his master's guests -- for he learned that they were biding there for the night, "Be in the grove near the house when all are asleep." The negroes willingly undertook the commission, and Mike rejoined the party in the hut. Two hours later Harry himself crept out through the hole, which they had silently and at great pains enlarged for the purpose, and made his way round to the grove. There were still lights in the house, and the negroes in their hut were talking and singing. An hour later the lights were extinguished, and soon afterward he saw a figure stealthily approaching.

"Jacob," he whispered, as the man entered the shelter of the trees, and in another moment he was clasped in the arms of his faithful friend. For some time their hearts were too full to speak, and then Harry leading his companion to the side of the wood furthest from the house, they sat down and began to talk. After the first questions as to the health of Harry's father had been answered, Jacob went on:

"We saw by the dispatch of Cromwell to Parliament that the sole survivors of the sack of Drogheda, being one officer, Colonel Furness, a noted malignant, and thirty-five soldiers, had been sent in slavery to the Bermudas. So, of course, we made up our minds to come and look after you. Through Master Fleming I obtained letters, introducing to the governor the worshipful Grace-be-to-the-Lord Hobson and Jeremiah Perkins, who desired to buy an estate in the Bermudas. So hither we came, William Long and I; and now, Harry, what do you advise to be done? I find that the ships which leave the port are searched before they leave, and that guards are placed over them while they load, to see that none conceal themselves there, and I see not, therefore, how you can well escape in that way. There seem to be no coasting craft here, or we might seize one of these and make for sea."

"No," Harry replied. "They allow none such in the port, for fear that they might be so taken. There are large rowing boats, pulled by twelve slaves, that come to take produce from the plantations farthest from the port round to ships there. But it would be madness to trust ourselves to sea in one of these. We should either die of hunger and thirst, or be picked up again by their cruisers. The only way would be to seize a ship."

"That is what William Long and I have been thinking of," Jacob said. "But there is a shrewd watch kept up, and the ships are moored under the guns of the battery. We passed, on our way hither, a bark bringing a number of prisoners taken at Waterford. She is a slow sailer, and, by the calculations of our captain, will not arrive here for some days yet."

"If we could intercept her," Harry said thoughtfully, "we might, with the aid of the prisoners, overcome the guard, and then turning her head, sail for Holland."

"That might be done," Jacob assented, "if you have force enough."

"I can bring forty men," Harry answered. "There are eight here, and we have communication with those in the neighboring plantations, who are ready to join me in any enterprise. That should be enough."

"It is worth trying," Jacob said. "I will hire a rowboat, as if to bring round a cargo of sugar from this plantation to the port. I will station a man on the highest point of the hills to give me notice when a sail is in sight. He may see it thence forty miles away. The winds are light and baffling, and she will make slow progress, and may bring up outside the port that night, but assuredly will not enter until next morning. The instant I know it is in sight I will ride over here, and William Long will start with the barge from the port. When you see me come, do you send round word to the others to meet at midnight on the beach, where you will see the boat drawn up. Can you let your friends know speedily?"

"Yes," Harry replied. "My signal was to have been given at daybreak, but I will send round word of the change of hour, and that if, when they are locked up for the night, they see a fire burning on the point agreed, they are to meet on the shore at midnight. Tell William Long to haul the boat up, and let the rowers go to sleep on the shore. We will seize them noiselessly. Then we will row along the shore till off the port, and at first daybreak out to the ship if she be at anchor, or away to meet her if she be not yet come. They will think that we bear a message from the port."

After some further discussion of details the friends separated, and the next day Mike sent round by the negroes the news of the change of plans. Two days later Jacob rode up to the plantation. He had upon the first occasion told Stebbings that the sum he asked for the estate seemed to him too high, but that he would return to talk it over with him, after he had seen other properties. Immediately upon his arrival, which happened just as the slaves returned from work, Mike sent off one of the negro boys, who had already collected a pile of brushwood on the beacon hill. Half an hour later a bright flame shone out on its summit.

"I wonder what that means?" the planter, who was sitting at dinner in his veranda with Jacob, said angrily.

"It looks like a signal fire," Jacob remarked calmly. "I have heard that they are sometimes lit on the seacoast of England as a signal to smugglers."

"There are no smugglers here," the planter said, "nor any cause for such a signal."

He clapped his hands, and ordered the black slave who answered to tell the overseer to take two of the guards, and at once proceed to the fire, and examine its cause. After dinner was over the planter went out to the slave huts. All the white men were sitting or lying in the open air, enjoying the rest after their labor. The negroes were singing or working in their garden plots, The list was called over, and all found to be present.

"I expect," the planter said, "that it is only a silly freak of some of these black fellows to cause uneasiness. It can mean nothing, for the garrison and militia could put down any rising without difficulty and there is no hope of escape. In a week we could search every possible hiding-place in the island."

"Yes, that is an advantage which you have over the planters in Virginia, to which place I hear our Scottish brethren have sent large numbers of the malignants. There are great woods stretching no man knoweth how far inland, and inhabited by fierce tribes of Indians, among whom those who escape find refuge."

That night when all was still Harry Furness and his seven comrades crept through the opening in the hut. In the grove they were joined by Jacob. They then made their way to the seashore, where they saw lying a large shallop, drawn partly up on the beach. A man was sitting in her, while many other dark figures lay stretched on the sand near. Harry and his party moved in that direction, and found that the men from two of the other plantations had already arrived. A few minutes later the other two parties arrived. The whole body advanced noiselessly along the shore, and seized and gagged the sleepers without the least difficulty or noise. These were bound with ropes from the boat, and laid down one by one on the sand, at a distance from each other.



Chapter XIX.

A Sea Fight.


The instant the rowers were secured Harry Furness embraced his faithful follower William Long. He had learned from Jacob that the ship had appeared in sight about two in the afternoon, and that it was not thought likely by the sailors of the port that she would reach it until the breeze sprang up in the morning, although she might get within a distance of five or six miles. The whole party had, in concurrence with Harry's orders, brought with them their hoes, which were the only weapons that were attainable. It was agreed that their best course would be to row along the shore until near the lights of the port, then to row out and lay on their oars half a mile beyond the entrance, where, as it was a starlight night, they would assuredly see the ship if she had come to anchor. As soon as the first dawn commenced they were to row out and meet the ship. Wrappings of cloth were fastened round the rowlocks to prevent noise, twelve men took the oars, the boat was shoved down into the sea, and they started on their voyage. The boat rowed but slowly, and it was, Harry judged, past three o'clock when they reached the point they had fixed on off the mouth of the harbor. No ship was visible outside the port, although there was sufficient light to have seen its masts had it been there.

"We had better go another half-mile further out," he said. "Should they take it into their heads on shore, when they see us, to send a fast boat out to inquire what we are doing, it might overtake us before we could reach the ship."

An hour after they had ceased rowing a faint streak of daylight appeared in the west, and a ship could be seen about three miles seaward, while the shore was nearly that distance behind them, for they had been deceived by the darkness, and were much further out than they had thought.

"It is all the better," Harry said. "It must be some time before they think of sending a boat after us, and we shall reach the ship before it can overtake us."

As soon as it became broad daylight Harry took one of the oars himself, and all save the twelve rowers, and Jacob and William Long who sat in the stern, lay down in the bottom of the boat, where some pieces of matting, used for covering cargo, were thrown over them. There was not as yet a breath of wind, and the ship's sails hung idly against the masts. After three-quarters of an hour's hard rowing the barge approached her side. There were only a few figures on the deck.

"Are you the captain of this vessel?" Jacob asked one who seemed to him of that condition.

"Ay, ay," the sailor said. "What is the news?"

"I have come off from the island," Jacob answered, "by orders of his worshipful the governor, to warn you that there is an insurrection among the slaves of the island, and to bid you not to anchor outside, or to wait for your papers being examined, but to enter at once."

By this time the boat was alongside, and Jacob climbed on board.

"You have brought some troops with you?" he asked, "They will be wanted."

"Yes, I have eighty men whom I have brought as a reinforcement to the garrison of the island, besides a hundred and fifty prisoners from Waterford, stowed away below the hatches forward. Hullo! why, what is this? Treason!"

As he spoke Harry, followed by the rowers, swarmed on board armed with their hoes. The captain and the men round him were at once knocked down. The sentries over the fore hatchway discharged their muskets, and, with some of the crew stationed there, made aft. But Harry's party had now all joined him on deck. A rush was made, and the decks entirely cleared. A few of the soldiers who came running up through the after hatchway on hearing the tumult and noise of the fight were beaten down and hurled below on those following them, and the hatches were slipped on and secured. Then a triumphant shout of "God and the King!" was raised.

The forehatches were now lifted, and the prisoners invited to come up. They rushed on deck, delighted and bewildered, for it was the first time that they had seen the sun since they left England, having been kept below, where many had died from confinement and bad air, while all were sorely weakened and brought low. Among them were many officers, of whom several were known to Harry -- although they had some difficulty in recognizing in the man, bronzed brown by his exposure to the sun and clad in a tattered shirt and breeches -- their former comrade, Harry Furness. A search was at once made for arms, and ranged in the passage to the captain's cabin were found twenty muskets for the use of the crew, together with as many boarding pikes and sabers. Ammunition was not wanting. The arms were divided among Harry's band of forty men, and the twenty strongest of those they had rescued. The hoes were given to the remainder.

The captain, who had by this time recovered from the blow dealt him by Harry, was now questioned. He was told that if he would consent with his crew to navigate the vessel to Holland, he should there be allowed to go free with the ship, which it seemed was his own property; but the cargo would be sold as a fair prize, to satisfy the needs of his captors. If he refused, he would be sent with his crew on shore in the barge, and his ship and cargo would alike be lost to him. The captain had no hesitation in accepting the first of these alternatives, as he would be, although no gainer by the voyage, yet no loser either. He told Harry that for himself he had no sympathy with the rulers in London, and that he sorely pitied the prisoners he was bringing over.

The hatch was now a little lifted, and the prisoners below summoned to surrender. This they refused to do. Harry and his men then, with much labor, lowered a four-pounder carronade down the forehatch, and wheeled it to within a few feet of the bulkhead which divided that portion where the prisoners had been confined from the after part. The gun was loaded to the muzzle with grape, and discharged, tearing a hole through the bulkhead and killing and wounding many within. Then the officer in command offered to surrender.

Harry ordered them at once to hand up all their firelocks and other arms through the hatchway, which was again lifted for the purpose. When those on deck had armed themselves with those weapons, the prisoners were ordered to come up, bringing their wounded with them. As they reached the deck they were passed down into the barge, from which all the oars save four had been removed. Six of the soldiers had been killed, and the remainder having entered the barge, where they were stowed as thickly as they could pack, the head rope was dropped, and they were allowed to row away. Besides the eighty muskets of the guard, a store of firelocks, sufficient to arm all on board, was found; these having been intended for the use of the garrison. A gentle breeze had by this time sprung up from the land, and the ship's head was turned seaward.

The boat was but half a mile behind them when it was joined by an eight-oared galley, which had been seen rowing out from the harbor, whence, doubtless, it had been dispatched to inquire into the errand of the boat seen rowing off to the ship. After lying alongside the barge for a minute or two she turned her head, and made back again with all speed.

"You would have done more wisely," the captain said to Harry, "if you had retained the prisoners on board until the second boat came alongside. You could have swamped that, and sent those in it back with the others, who will not reach shore until late this afternoon, for with only four oars they will make no way until the land breeze falls."

"It would have been better -- far better" -- Harry agreed -- "but one does not always think of things at the right time. What ships are there in port, Jacob?"

"There is the vessel I came by and two others," Jacob replied, "all about the same size as this, and mounting each as many guns. You have eight, I see, captain; the one I came out in had ten."

"They will pursue us," the captain said, "you may be sure. It is known that we are not a fast sailer, and I think, sir, you will have to fight for it."

"So be it," Harry said. "There are two hundred of us, and though they might sink the ship, they will assuredly never carry it by boarding. There is not a man here who would not rather die fighting than spend his life in slavery on that island."

The vessel had gone about six miles on her course, when from the topmast the captain announced that the galley had gained the port, now twelve miles distant. "There is a gun," he said, five minutes later. "They have taken the alarm now." He then descended to the deck, leaving a sailor in the tops. Two hours later the latter announced that the topsails of three ships coming out from the harbor were visible.

"We have nigh thirty miles' start," the captain said. "They will not be up to us till to-morrow at midday."

"Do you think it would be any use to try to lose them by altering our course in the night?" Harry asked.

"No," the captain answered. "It is but ten o'clock in the day now. They will be within ten or twelve miles by nightfall, for the wind is stronger near the land than it is here, and with their night glasses they could hardly miss us on a bright starlight night. I am ready to try if you like, for I do not wish to see the ship knocked into matchwood."

After some deliberation it was determined to hold their course, and as night came on it was found that escape would have been out of the question, for the vessels behind had overhauled the Lass of Devon faster than had been anticipated, and were little more than five miles astern. They could be plainly seen after darkness set in, with the night glasses.

"What you must do, captain, is to lay her aboard the first which comes up," Harry said; "even if they have brought all the garrison we shall be far stronger than any one of them taken singly."

During the night the pursuing vessels lessened sail and maintained a position about a mile astern of the chase, evidently intending to attack in the morning. The day spent in the open air, with plenty of the best eating and drinking which could be found in the ship, had greatly reinvigorated the released prisoners, and when at daybreak the vessels behind were seen to be closing up, all were ready for the fight. The enemy, sure that their prey could not escape them, did not fire a shot as they came up in her wake. The two immediately behind were but a cable's length asunder, and evidently meant to engage on either side. Harry ordered the greater portion of men below, leaving only sufficient on deck to fight the guns, to whose use many were well accustomed. The wind was very light, and the ships were scarcely stealing through the water.

"We had better fight them broadside to broadside," Harry said; "but keep on edging down toward the ship to leeward."

The fight began with a heavy fire of musketry from the tops, where, in all three ships, the best marksmen had been posted. Then, when they were abreast of each other, the guns opened fire. The vessels were little more than fifty yards apart. For half an hour the engagement continued without intermission. Both ships of the enemy had brought all their guns over to the sides opposed to the Royalist vessel, and fought eighteen guns to his eight. Fearing to injure each other, both aimed entirely at the hull of their opponent, while Harry's guns were pointed at the masts and rigging. The sides of the Lass of Devon were splintered and broken in all directions, while those of his assailants showed scarcely a shot mark. The fire of his men in the tops -- all old soldiers -- had been so heavy and deadly that they had killed most of the marksmen in the enemy's tops, and had driven the rest below. All this time the Lass of Devon was raked by the fire of the third vessel which had come up behind her, and raked her fore and aft. At the end of the half-hour the mainmast of the vessel to windward, which had been several times struck, fell with a crash.

"Now, captain, lay her aboard the ship to leeward."

They had already edged down within twenty yards of this ship, and slowly as they were moving through the water, in another three or four minutes the vessels grated together. At Harry's first order the whole of his men had swarmed on deck, pouring in such a fire of musketry that none could stand alive at the enemy's tiller to keep her head away as the Lass of Devon approached. As the vessels touched Harry leaped from the bulwark on to the deck of the enemy, followed by Jacob and his men. The Parliamentary troops had also rushed on deck, and, although inferior in numbers, for they counted but eighty men, they made a sturdy stand. Gradually, however, they were driven back, when an exclamation from Mike, who, as usual, was close to Harry, caused him to look round.

The ship behind had, the moment she perceived the Lass of Devon bearing down upon her consort, crowded on more sail, and was now ranging up on the other side of her. Bidding Jacob press the enemy hard with half his force, Harry, with the remainder, leaped back on to the deck of his own ship, just as the enemy boarded from the other side. The fight was now a desperate one. The vessel which had last arrived bore a hundred of the troops of the garrison, and the numbers were thus nearly equal. The Royalists, however, fought with a greater desperation, for they knew the fate that awaited them if conquered. Gradually they cleared the deck of the Lass of Devon of the enemy, and in turn boarded their opponent. William Long led thirty men into the tops of the Lass of Devon, and poured their fire into the crowded enemy. Every step of the deck was fiercely contested, but at last the Roundheads gave way. Some threw down their arms and called for quarter, others ran below. The Royalists, with shouts of "Remember Drogheda!" fell upon them, and many of those who had surrendered were cut down before Harry could arrest the slaughter.

A loud cheer announced the victory, and the men in the other ship, who had hitherto, although with difficulty, made front against the attacks of Jacob and his men, now lost heart and ran below. The wind had by this time entirely dropped, but battening the prisoners below, Harry set his men to thrust the ships past one another, until they were sufficiently in line for their guns to be brought to bear upon the third enemy. Crippled as she was by the loss of her mast, she immediately hauled down her colors, and the victory was complete.

The prisoners were brought on deck and disarmed. Harry found that the boats of the four ships would carry two hundred men closely packed, and but a hundred and eighty of the two hundred and fifty troops who had sailed in pursuit remained alive. These, with sufficient provisions and water to last for three days, were made to take their places in the boats, and told to row back to the island, which they should be able to regain in two days at the utmost. The crews of the captured ships were willing enough to obey the orders of their captors, for the sailors had in general but little sympathy with the doings of Parliament. Harry had lost in killed and wounded forty-two men, and the rest he divided between the four ships, giving about thirty-five men to each. He himself, with Jacob, William Long, and Mike, remained on board the Lass of Devon, officers being placed in command of the troops on board the other ships, which were ordered to sail in company with her. Twenty-four hours were spent in getting a jury-mast set in place of that which had been shot away. When this was completed the four ships hoisted their canvas and sailed together for Holland.

They met with no adventure until near the mouth of the English Channel, when one morning a fleet of eight ships was perceived. The captain of the Lass of Devon at once pronounced them to be ships of war, and their rate of sailing speedily convinced Harry that there was no chance of escape. Against such odds resistance was useless, and the other ships were signaled to lower their topsails in answer to the gun which the leading ship of the squadron fired. Anticipating a return to captivity, if not instant death, all on board watched the approaching men-of-war. Presently these, when close at hand, brought up into the wind, and a boat was lowered. It rowed rapidly to the Lass of Devon, which lay somewhat the nearest to them. Harry stood on the quarter-deck ready to surrender his sword. The boat came alongside, an officer leaped on deck and advanced toward him.

Harry could scarce believe his eyes; this gallant, in the gay dress of a cavalier officer, could be no follower of Cromwell. The officer paused and gazed in astonishment at Harry. The recognition was mutual, and the words "Furness" and "Elphinstone" broke from their lips.

"Why, Elphinstone, what squadron is that?"

"Prince Rupert's, to be sure," the officer said.

"What! did you take us for the Roundhead fleet?"

Harry made no reply, but taking off his hat, shouted to his men, "It is the Royalist fleet. Three cheers for Prince Rupert."

A cheer of joy burst from the men, caught up and re-echoed by the crews of the other ships. Harry led the officer into his cabin, and rapidly explained to him the circumstances which had taken place; ten minutes later, entering a boat, he rowed off to the flagship.

"Why! Harry Furness!" exclaimed Prince Rupert, "whither do you spring from? I heard of you last as being sent to slave in the Bermudas, and methought, old friend, that you would stand the heat better than most, since you had served such a sharp apprenticeship with me in that oven you wot of. And now tell me how is it that you have got free, and that I find you sailing here with four ships?"

Harry related his adventure. When he had finished Prince Rupert said:

"I envy you, Furness, in that you have three faithful friends. One is as much as most men could even hope for, whereas you have three, who each seem willing to go through fire and water for you. They do remind me of the wonderful servants of whom my old nurse used to tell me as a child. They were given by a fairy to some fortunate prince, and whenever he got into sore straits were ready to do the most impossible things to free him from them. Now you must take up your quarters here until we reach Holland, whither I am on the point of sailing. We have picked up several fat prizes, which I have sent to Italy to sell, to pay the wages of my men, for his gracious majesty's exchequer is of the emptiest. But I hear that Blake is about to put to sea with the ships of the Parliament, and I care not to risk my fleet, for they will be needed to escort his majesty to Scotland ere long."

"Are the Scots then again inclined to his majesty's cause? Were I King Charles, I would not trust myself to them," Harry said. "They sold his father, and would sell him -- at least Argyll and the knaves with him would do so."

"I like not these cold, calculating men of the north, myself," Prince Rupert said, "and trust them as little. Nor would my cousin venture himself again among them, if he took my advice. His majesty, however, is no more given to the taking of advice than was his father before him, unless it be of Buckingham and Wilmot, and other dissolute young lords, whose counsel and company are alike evil for him."

The same afternoon the fleet sailed for Holland, the four merchantmen accompanying it. Upon their arrival there Harry sold the three ships which he had taken, together with such cargo as was found in their holds. He sold also the cargo of the Lass of Devon, leaving the ship itself, as he had promised, to the captain, its owner, and making him and the sailors a handsome present for the way they stood by him and worked the ship during the action. The rest of the proceeds he divided between the officers and men who had sailed with him, and finding that these were ready still to share his fortunes, he formed them into a regiment for the service of the king, enlisting another hundred Royalists, whom he found there well-nigh starving, in his ranks.

It was at the end of April, 1650, that Harry reached Hamburg, and a month later came the news of the defeat and death of the Earl of Montrose. He had two months before sailed from Hamburg to the Orkneys, where he had landed with a thousand men. Crossing to the mainland he had marched down into Sunderland. There he had met a body of cavalry under Colonel Strachan, in a pass in the parish of Kincardine, now called Craigchonichan, or the Rock of Lamentation. The recruits he had raised in Orkney and the north fled at once. The Scotch and Germans he had brought with him fought bravely, but without effect, and were utterly defeated, scattering in all directions. Montrose wandered for many days in disguise, but was at last captured, and was brought to Edinburgh with every indignity. He was condemned to death by the Covenanters, and executed. So nobly did he bear himself at his death that the very indignities with which Argyll and his minions loaded him, in order to make him an object of derision to the people, failed in their object, and even those who hated him most were yet struck with pity and admiration at his noble aspect and bearing. Argyll stood at a balcony to see him pass, and Montrose foretold a similar fate for this double-dyed traitor, a prediction which was afterward fulfilled. Harry deeply regretted the loss of this gallant and chivalrous gentleman.



Chapter XX.

With The Scotch Army.


While trying and executing Montrose for loyalty to the king, the Scots were themselves negotiating with Charles, commissioners having come over to Breda, where he was living, for the purpose. They insisted upon his swearing to be faithful to the Covenant, to his submitting himself to the advice of the Parliament and Church, and to his promising never to permit the exercise of the Catholic religion in any part of his dominions. Charles agreed to everything demanded of him, having all the time no intention whatever of keeping his promises. While he was swearing to observe everything the Scots asked of him, he was writing to Ormonde to tell him that he was to mind nothing he heard as to his agreement with the Scots, for that he would do all the Irish required. Charles, indeed, although but a young man of twenty, was as full of duplicity and faithlessness as his father, without possessing any of the virtues of that unfortunate king, and the older and wiser men among his followers were alienated by his dissolute conduct, and by the manner in which he gave himself up to the reckless counsels of men like Buckingham and Wilmot.

Harry heard with deep regret the many stories current of the evil life and ways of the young king. Had it not been for the deadly hatred which he felt to Cromwell and the Puritans for the murder of Sir Arthur Ashton, and the rest of the garrison and people of Drogheda, in cold blood, he would have retired altogether from the strife, and would have entered one of the continental armies, in which many Royalist refugees had already taken service. He determined, however, that he would join in this one expedition, and that if it failed he would take no further part in civil wars in England, but wait for the time, however distant, when, as he doubted not, the people of England would tire of the hard rule of the men of the army and conventicle, and would, with open arms, welcome the return of their sovereign.

Early in June the king sailed for Scotland, accompanied by the regiment which Harry had raised, and a few hundred other troops. He landed there on the 16th. The English Parliament at once appointed Cromwell captain-general and commander-in-chief of all the forces raised and to be raised within the commonwealth of England. A few days later he left London, and on the 23d of June entered Scotland with sixteen thousand men. King Charles, to whom Harry had been presented by Prince Rupert as one of his father's most gallant and faithful soldiers, received him at first with great cordiality. As soon as he found, however, that this young colonel was in no way inclined to join in his dissipations, that his face was stern and set when light talk or sneers against religion were uttered by the king's companions, Charles grew cold to him, and Harry was glad to be relieved from all personal attendance upon him, and to devote himself solely to his military duties. Upon landing in Scotland, Harry, with his regiment, was encamped in the valley between Edinburgh Castle and the high hill called Arthur's Seat. A few days after his arrival he, with Jacob, who was now raised to the rank of major, and William Long, who was one of his lieutenants, entered the palace of Holyrood, where the king's court was held. Here were gathered a motley assembly. A few English Cavaliers, many loyal Scotch nobles and gentlemen, and a large number of somber men of the Covenant. Next to Charles stood a tall man, whom Harry instantly recognized. Argyll, for it was he, stared fixedly at the young colonel, who returned his look with one as cold and haughty.

"This is Colonel Furness, my lord earl," the young king said. "One of my father's bravest and most devoted followers."

"I seem to have met the gentleman before," the earl said.

"You have," Harry replied coldly. "At that time the Earl of Argyll threatened to torture me into betraying the secrets of his majesty, and would, I doubt not, have carried his threat into effect had I not escaped from his hands. The times have changed, and the Earl of Argyll now stands beside his king, but I, sir, have not forgotten the past so easily." So saying, with a deep bow to the king, Harry passed on.

"Harry," whispered Donald Leslie, a young Scotch officer who had joined the ranks of his regiment as captain at Hamburg, "hitherto I have thought you the wisest and most discreet of men. I cannot say as much now. It would have been safer to walk into a den of lions than to insult the old red fox. He was never known to forgive, and those who offend him have a short life. Beware, colonel, for henceforth you carry your life in your hand."

"My sword is as sharp as his," Harry laughed, as they issued into the open air.

"I doubt it not," Leslie said, "but it is with daggers rather than swords that Argyll fights, and with secret plottings more than either. Edinburgh swarms with Campbells, any one of whom would think no more of running you through at his lord's command than he would of killing a rat. Mark my words, before a week is out you will be engaged in some broil or other."

Jacob and William Long heard with great disquietude the remarks of the young Scotch officer, which they knew sufficient of Argyll to be aware were perfectly true. They resolved that they would maintain a careful watch over their friend, and that night they charged Mike, who was now a tall, active young fellow of seventeen, to keep the strictest watch as he followed his master in the streets, and to have pistol and sword always in readiness.

Two days later Harry had the first evidence of the truth of Leslie's prediction. He was walking up the High Street, accompanied by Jacob, while Leslie and two or three of his officers followed a short distance behind, when three or four Scotch nobles were seen approaching. One of these, Colonel Campbell, of Arrain, a tall and powerful figure, in passing jostled roughly against Harry.

"S'death, sir!" he exclaimed. "Do you think that you are in England, that you can take up the whole of the road?"

"I'm as much entitled to the road as yourself," Harry said hotly; "you purposely jostled me."

"Well, sir, and what if I did?" Colonel Campbell replied. "If you don't like it you have your remedy," and he touched his sword significantly.

"I will meet you, sir," Harry said, "in an hour's time at the foot of the Castlehill."

The colonel nodded, and accompanied by his kinsmen strode on.

"Jacob, you and Leslie will act with me?" Harry asked.

"Willingly enough," Leslie replied. "But it is a bad business. Campbell has the name of being one of the best swordsmen in the Scottish army. Of course he has been set on to attack you."

"I have been fighting," Harry said, "for the last ten years, and was not a bad swordsman when I began. Unless I mistake, I am as powerful a man as Colonel Campbell, and I fear not him or any man."

At the time appointed Harry, accompanied by his seconds, was upon the ground, where five minutes later they were joined by Colonel Campbell, with two of his kinsmen. While the principals divested themselves of their cloaks and doublets, the seconds compared their swords. They were of entirely different fashion, Harry's being long and straight with sharp edges, while Colonel Campbell's was a basket-hilted sword, also straight and double edged, and even larger and much heavier than Harry's; each had brought one of similar make and size to his own. Some conversation took place as to the weapons which should be used.

"I cannot fight with a plaything like that," Colonel Campbell said roughly.

"And I object equally," Harry puts in calmly, "to wield a heavier weapon than that to which I am accustomed. But I am quite content to fight with my own against that of Colonel Campbell."

The seconds at first on both sides objected to this, arguing that the weight and length of Campbell's weapon would give him an unfair advantage. Harry, however, was firm.

"A man fights better," he said, "with the sword to which he is used. Mine is of tried temper, and I have no fear of its breaking." Harry had good reason for faith in his weapon. It was a long, straight blade of Toledo steel, which he had purchased for a considerable sum from a Spanish Jew in Hamburg. Colonel Campbell put an end to the argument by roughly saying that he wanted no more talk, and that if Colonel Furness meant fighting he had better take up his ground. This had already been marked out, and Harry immediately stood on the defensive.

In a moment the swords met. Colonel Campbell at once attacked furiously, trying to beat down Harry's guard by sheer strength and the weight of his weapon. The Englishman, however, was to the full as powerful a man, and his muscles from long usage were like cords of steel. His blade met the sweeping blows of the Scotchman firmly and steadily, while his point over and over again menaced the breast of his adversary, who several times only saved himself by springing back beyond it. Harry's seconds saw from the first that the issue was not doubtful. In a contest between the edge and the point, the latter always wins if strength and skill be equal, and in this case, while in point of strength the combatants were fairly matched, Harry was more skilled in the use of his weapon, whose lightness, combined with its strength, added to his advantage. The fight lasted but five minutes. Twice Harry's sword drew blood, and at the third thrust he ran his adversary through under the shoulder. The latter dropped his sword, with a curse.

"I have spared your life, Colonel Campbell," Harry said. "It was at my mercy a dozen times, but I wished not to kill you. You forced this quarrel upon me at the bidding of another, and against you I had no animosity. Farewell, sir. I trust that ere the day of battle you will be able to use your sword again in the service of the king."

So saying, Harry resumed his doublet and cloak, and, accompanied by his seconds, returned to his camp, leaving Campbell, furious with pain and disappointment, to be conveyed home by his friends.

"So far, so good, Harry," Captain Leslie said. "The attempt will, you will find, be a more serious one. Argyll will not try fair means again. But beware how you go out at night."

The duel made a good deal of talk, and Argyll attempted to induce the king to take the matter up, and to punish Harry for his share in it. But the young king, although obliged to listen every day to the long sermons and admonitions of the Covenanters, was heartily sick of them already and answered Argyll lightly that, so far as he had heard of the circumstances, Colonel Campbell was wholly to blame. "And, indeed," added the king, "from what I have heard, the conduct of your kinsman was so wantonly insulting that men say he must have been provoked thereto by others, as the two officers appear to have been strangers until the moment when their quarrel arose."

The earl grew paler than usual, and pressed his thin lips tightly together.

"I know of no reason," he said, "why Colonel Campbell should have engaged wantonly in a quarrel with this English officer."

"No!" Charles said innocently. "And if you do not, my lord, I know of no one that does. Colonel Furness is an officer who is somewhat staid and severe for his years, and who, in sooth, stands somewhat aloof from me, and cares not for the merry jests of Buckingham; but he is a gallant soldier. He has risked his life over and over again in the cause of my sainted father, and tried his utmost to save him, both at Carisbrook and Whitehall. Any one who plots against him is no friend of mine." The young king spoke with a dignity and sternness which were not common to him, and Argyll, biting his lips, felt a deadlier enmity than ever toward the man who had brought this reproof upon his shoulders.

The following day Harry received orders from General Leslie, who commanded the royal forces, to march down toward the border, accompanied by two regiments of horse. He was to devastate the country and to fall back gradually before Cromwell's advance, the cavalry harassing him closely, but avoiding any serious conflict with the Roundhead horse. The whole party were under the command of Colonel Macleod.

"I am heartily glad to be on the move, Jacob," Harry said, on the evening before starting. "It is not pleasant to know that one is in constant danger of being attacked whenever one goes abroad. Once away from Edinburgh one may hope to be beyond the power of Argyll."

"I would not be too sure of that," Donald Leslie said. "A hound on the track of a deer is not more sure or untiring than is Argyll when he hunts down a foe. Be warned by me, and never relax a precaution so long as you are on Scottish ground. There are men who whisper that even now, when he stands by the side of the king, Argyll is in communication with Cromwell. Trust me, if he can do you an ill turn, he will."

Upon the following morning the detachment marched, with flags flying and drums beating, and the king himself rode down to see them depart. Argyll was with him, and the king, as if in bravado of the formidable earl, waved his hand to Harry, and said: "Good-by, my grave colonel. Take care of yourself, and do not spare my enemies as you spared my friend."

Harry doffed his plumed hat, and rode on at the head of his regiment. The force marched rapidly, for it was known that Cromwell was within a few days of Berwick. So fast did they travel that in three days they were near the border. Then they began the work which they had been ordered to carry out. Every head of cattle was driven up the country, and the inhabitants were ordered to load as much of their stores of grain in wagons as these would hold, and to destroy the rest. The force under Colonel Macleod saw that these orders were carried out, and when, on the 14th of July, Cromwell crossed the Tweed, he found the whole country bare of all provision for his troops. In vain his cavalry made forays to a distance from the coast. Harry's foot opposed them at every defensible point, while the cavalry hung upon their skirts. In vain the Roundheads tried to charge by them. The Scotch cavalry, in obedience to orders, avoided a contest, and day after day Cromwell's troopers had to return empty handed, losing many of their men by the fire of Harry's infantry. Thus the army of Cromwell was obliged to advance slowly upon the line of coast, drawing their supplies wholly from the fleet which accompanied it.

One evening Colonel Macleod rode up to the cottage where Harry was quartered for the night.

"I am going to beat up Oliver's camp to-night," he said. "Do you cover the retreat with your men at the ford of the river. If I can get for five minutes in his camp I will read the Roundheads a lesson, and maybe spike some of his cannon. If I could catch Cromwell himself it would be as good as a great victory."

After nightfall the force approached the enemy's camp; at the ford the infantry halted, the cavalry crossing and continuing their way to the camp, about a mile distant. An hour passed without any sound being heard. At length a sound of distant shouts, mingled with the reports of firearms, fell upon the ear.

"Macleod is among them now," Donald Leslie exclaimed. "I would I wore with him."

"You will have your turn presently," Harry replied. "A thousand horse may do a good deal of damage in a sudden attack, but they must fall back as soon as the Roundheads rally."

For five or six minutes the distant tumult continued. Then it ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun. A minute or two later there was a deep, muffled sound.

"Here come the horse," Jacob said.

The infantry had already been placed along the bank of the river on each side of the ford, leaving the way clear in the center for the passage of the cavalry. It was not long before they arrived on the opposite bank, and dashed at full speed across the river. Colonel Macleod rode at their rear.

"The Ironsides are just behind," he said to Harry. "Let your men shoot sharp and straight as they try to cross. We will charge them as they reach the bank."

A minute later, and the close files of the Roundhead cavalry could be seen approaching, the moonlight glinting on steel cap, breastpiece, and sword.

"Steady, lads!" Harry shouted. "Do not fire a shot till they enter the river. Then keep up a steady fire on the head of the column."

The Roundheads halted when they reached the river, and formed rapidly into a column, twelve abreast, for the ford was no wider. As they entered the stream a heavy musketry fire opened suddenly upon them. Men and horses went down, floating away in the river. In spite of their losses the cavalry pressed on, and though numbers fell, gained the opposite bank. Then arose the Royalist cry "King and Covenant!" and the Scottish horse swept down. The head of the column was shattered by the charge, but the Ironsides still pressed on, and breaking the center of the Scottish horse, poured across the river.

Harry had already given his orders to Jacob, who commanded the left wing of the infantry, and the regiment, drawing up on both flanks of the column of Ironsides, poured so heavy a fire upon them, while the cavalry of Macleod again charged them in front, that the column was broken, and still fighting sturdily, fell back again across the river. The moment they did so a heavy fire of musketry opened from the further bank.

"Their infantry are up, Colonel Furness," Macleod said. "Draw off your men in good order. I will cover the retreat. We have done enough for to-night."

Getting his regiment together, Harry ordered them to retire at the double, keeping their formation as they went. The Roundhead cavalry again crossed the river, and several times charged the Scotch horse. Twice they succeeded in breaking through, but Harry, facing his men round, received them pike in hand, the musketeers in rear keeping up so hot a fire over the shoulders of the pikemen that the Ironsides drew rein before reaching them, and presently fell back, leaving the party to retire without further pursuit.

"I as nearly as possible caught Cromwell," Colonel Macleod said, riding up to Harry. "We got confused among the tents and ropes, or should have had him. We entered his tent, but the bird had flown. We cut down some scores of his infantry, and spiked four guns, I have not lost twenty men, and his cavalry must have lost at least a hundred from your fire, besides the damage I did at their camp."

Obtaining a stock of supplies sufficient for some days from the ships at Dunbar, Cromwell advanced to Musselburgh, within striking distance of Edinburgh. Leslie had strongly posted his army in intrenched lines extending from Edinburgh to Leith, a distance of two miles. Colonel Macleod with his detachment rejoined the army on the same day that Cromwell reached Musselburgh. Upon the day after the arrival of the English there was a sharp cavalry fight, and Cromwell would fain have tempted the Scotch army to engage beyond their lines. But Leslie was not to be drawn. He knew that if he could maintain himself in his intrenchments the English must fall back, as they had the sea behind them and on their right, Edinburgh in front of them, and a devastated country on their left. At the urgent request of Cromwell the Parliament strained every nerve to send up provisions by ships, and so enabled him to remain before Edinburgh for a month.

A few days after his arrival Harry received orders to take a hundred and fifty men of his regiment, and to post himself at Kirkglen, which blocked a road by which it was thought Cromwell might send foraging parties westward. Harry asked that a detachment of cavalry might accompany him, but the request was refused. Kirkglen stood fifteen miles south of Edinburgh, and somewhat to its west. Harry left Jacob to command the main body of the regiment, and took with him the companies of Donald Leslie and Hugh Grahame, in the latter of which William Long was lieutenant. They sallied out from the western side of the camp at daybreak.

"I like not this expedition, Colonel Furness," Donald Leslie said. "The refusal to send cavalry with us is strange. Methinks I see the finger of that crafty fox Argyll in the pie. His faithfulness to the cause is more and more doubted, though none dare wag a tongue against him, and if it be true that he is in communication with Cromwell, we shall have the Roundheads, horse and foot, down upon us."

"There is a castle there, is there not," Harry asked, "which we might occupy?"

"Assuredly there is," Leslie replied. "It is the hold of Alan Campbell, a cousin of the man you pinked. It is that which adds to my suspicion. You will see, unless I am greatly mistaken, that he will not admit us."

Such, indeed, proved to be the case. Upon their arrival at Kirkglen, Leslie went in Harry's name to demand admittance to the castle for the royal troops, but Campbell replied that he had received no orders to that effect, and that it would greatly incommode him to quarter so large a number of men there. He said, however, that he would willingly entertain Colonel Furness and his officers. Leslie brought back the message, strongly urging Harry on no account to enter the castle and put himself in the hands of the Campbells. Harry said that even had he no cause to doubt the welcome he might receive at the castle, he should in no case separate himself from his men, when he might be at any moment attacked.

"It is a rough piece of country between this and Cromwell's post," Leslie said, "and he would have difficulty in finding his way hither. There is more than one broad morass to be crossed, and without a guide he would scarce attempt it. It is for this reason that he is so unlikely to send out foraging parties in this direction. It was this reflection which caused me to wonder why we should be ordered hither."

"Mike," Harry said, "you have heard what Captain Leslie says. Do you keep watch to-night near the castle gate, and let me know whether any leave it; and in which direction they go. I will place a man behind to watch the postern. If treachery is meditated, Campbell will send news of our coming to Cromwell."



Chapter XXI.

The Path Across The Morass.


Mike, when night fell, moved away toward the castle, which lay about a quarter of a mile from the village. Approaching to within fifty yards of the gate, he sat down to watch. About eleven o'clock he heard the creak of the gate, and presently was startled by seeing two horsemen ride past him. "They must have muffled their horses' feet," he said to himself. "They are up to no good. I wish there had only been one of them." Mike slipped off his shoes and started in pursuit, keeping just far enough behind the horsemen to enable him to observe the outline of their figures. For half a mile they proceeded quietly. Then they stopped, dismounted, removed the cloths from their horses' feet, and remounting rode forward at a gallop. Mike's old exercise as a runner now rendered him good service. He could already tell, by the direction which the horsemen were taking, that they were bearing to the east of Edinburgh, but he resolved to follow as far as possible in order to see exactly whither they went. The road, or rather track, lay across a moorland country. The ground was often deep and quaggy, and the horsemen several times checked their speed, and went at a slow walk, one advancing on foot along the track to guide the way. These halts allowed breathing time for Mike, who found it hard work to keep near them when going at full speed. At last, after riding for an hour, the horsemen halted at a solitary house on the moorland, Here several horses, held by troopers, were standing. Mike crept round to the back of the house, and looked in at the window. He saw two English officers sitting by a fire, while a light burned on a table. Mike at once recognized in one of them the dreaded General Cromwell, whom he had seen at Drogheda.

"What a fool I was," he muttered to himself, "to have come without my pistol. I would have shot him as he sits, and so wiped out Drogheda."

At the moment the door opened, and a trooper in Scotch uniform entered. "I have brought this letter," he said, "from Alan Campbell."

The general took the letter and opened it. "Campbell promises," he said to the other officer, "to open fire upon the detachment in the village with the guns of the castle as soon as we attack. One of the men who has brought this will remain here and guide our troops across the morass. He suggests that two hundred foot and as many horse should be here at eight to-morrow evening. All he stipulates for is that Colonel Furness, the Royalist who commands the enemy's detachment, shall be given over to him, he having, it seems, some enmity with Argyll. Furness? ah, that is the officer whom I sent to the Bermudas from Drogheda. We had advices of his having got away and captured a ship with other prisoners on board. A bold fellow, and a good officer, but all the more dangerous. Let Campbell do with him as he likes."

The other officer drew out an inkhorn and wrote, at Cromwell's dictation, his adherence to the terms offered by Alan Campbell. Cromwell signed the paper, and handed it to the messenger. Then the English general and his escort mounted and rode off. Campbell's retainers sat for half an hour drinking together. Then they came to the door. One mounted, and saying to the other, "I would rather have twenty-four hours' sleep such as you have before you, than have to ride back to Kirkglen to-night; the mist is setting in thickly," rode off into the darkness.

Mike kept close to him, until at last the man dismounted to follow the track where the morass was most dangerous. In an instant Mike sprang upon him and buried his dagger in his body. Without a cry the trooper fell. Mike felt in his doublet for Cromwell's letter. Placing this in his breast, he went a few paces from the path where he found that he sunk to his knees, the water being some inches deep over the bog. Then he returned, lifted the body of the trooper, carried it as far into the bog as he dared venture, and then dropped it. He placed his foot on the iron breastpiece, and pressed until the body sank in the soft ooze, and the water completely covered it. Then he went back to the horse, and taking the reins, followed the track until completely clear of the moorland country, where, mounting, he rode back to Kirkglen, and presented himself to Harry. The latter had, hours before, gone to bed, having posted strong guards around the village. He struck a light and listened to Mike's relation of what he had done, and ended by the production of the document with Cromwell's signature.

"Another debt to the Earl of Argyll," Harry said grimly. "However, although this proves the treachery of his kinsman, it does not convict Argyll himself, although the evidence is strong enough to hang any other man. Now, Leslie, what do you advise? Shall we send and seize the man left at the hut?"

"It is a doubtful question," Leslie answered, after a pause. "When Campbell finds that his messenger does not return before morning, he will like enough send others off to learn the reason why. If they find him gone, Campbell may suspect that his plan has failed and may send warning to Cromwell."

"At any rate," Harry continued, "we need not decide before morning. But at daybreak, Leslie, plant a party of men on the road and stop any horseman riding out. Let the sergeant in charge say only that he has my orders that none are to pass eastward. It would be a natural precaution to take, and when the news comes back to the castle, Campbell will not necessarily know that his scheme has been detected."

The next morning Leslie volunteered to go out with a couple of men and capture the guide, and arraying himself in his clothes, to take his place, and lead the Roundhead troops astray.

"Were the country other than it is," Harry said, "I would accept your offer, my brave Leslie, even though it might entail your death, for it would be difficult for you to slip away. But over such ground there is no need of this. Let the guide lead the Roundhead troops along the path. We will reconnoiter the morass to-day, and when night falls will so post our men as to open a fire on either flank of him as he comes across the track. Not more than four footmen can march abreast, according to what Mike says, and we shall surprise him, instead of he surprising us."

An hour later two horsemen rode out from the castle, but upon reaching the guard Leslie had placed were turned back. They returned to the castle, and a short time afterward a trooper rode down into the village with a note from Alan Campbell, demanding haughtily by what warrant Colonel Furness ventured to interfere with the free passage of his retainers. Harry replied that he had, as a military precaution, stationed guards on the various roads leading toward the enemy's quarter, and that they were ordered to turn back all, whomsoever they might be, who might seek to pass.

Alan Campbell returned a furious answer, that he should sally out with his garrison, and ride where he listed. Harry replied by marching fifty men up to the road leading to the castle, and by sending a message to Alan Campbell that, although he should regret to be obliged to treat him as an enemy, yet that assuredly if he strove by force to break the military rules he had laid down, he should be compelled to fire upon him. Leaving the detachment under charge of Lieutenant Long, and the main body in the village under that of Hugh Grahame, Harry, accompanied by Donald Leslie and Mike, rode off to reconnoiter the morass. They found that it was particularly bad at two points, while between these the ground was firm for a distance of twenty yards on each side of the track. Beyond the swamp was very deep for thirty or forty yards on both sides, and then it was again somewhat firmer.

Harry decided to post twenty-five men behind these quagmires. Their orders would be to remain perfectly quiet until the column, passing the first morass, should have entered the second; then, when Harry, with the main body, opened fire upon them there, they were to commence upon the flanks of the column.

Returning to the camp, Harry sent forty men with shovels, obtained in the village, to dig a trench, twelve feet wide, and as deep as they could get for the water, across the track, at the near side of the morass.

At nightfall, leaving twenty-five men under William Long in front of the castle, with orders to let none issue forth, and to shoot down any who might make the attempt, Harry marched out with the rest of his command. Crossing the ditch which had been dug, he led fifty forward, and posted them, as he had planned with Leslie; with twenty-five, he took up his own station behind the breastwork formed by the earth thrown out from the trench. The remaining fifty he bade advance as far as they safely could into the swamp on either side. Two hours later a dull sound was heard, the occasional clink of arms, and the muffled tread of many feet on the soft ground. The Roundhead infantry, two hundred strong, led the way, followed by their horse, the guide walking with the officer at the head of the column. When it approached within twenty yards of the ditch Harry gave the word, and a flash of fire streamed from the top of the earthwork. At the same moment those on either side opened fire into the flanks of the column, while the fifty men beyond poured their fire into the cavalry in the rear of the column.

For a moment all was confusion. The Roundheads had anticipated no attack, and were taken wholly by surprise. The guide had fallen at the first discharge and all were ignorant of the ground on which they found themselves. They were, however, trained to conflict. Those on the flank of the column endeavored to penetrate the morass, but they immediately sank to the middle, and had much ado to regain the solid track. The head of the column, pouring a volley into their invisible foes, leveled their pikes, and rushed to the assault. A few steps, and they fell into a deep hole, breast high with water, and on whose slippery bottom their feet could scarce find standing. In vain they struggled forward. From front and flank the fire of their enemy smote them. Those who reached the opposite side of the trench were run through with pikes as they strove to climb from it.

For ten minutes the desperate struggle continued, and then, finding the impossibility of storming such a position in the face of foes of whose strength they were ignorant, the Roundhead infantry turned, and in good order marched back, leaving half their number dead behind them. The cavalry in the rear had fared but little better. Finding the ground on either side was firm when the fire opened on their flanks, they faced both ways, and charged. But ere the horses had gone twenty strides they were struggling to their girths in the morass. Their foes kept up a steady fire, at forty yards' distance, into the struggling mass, and before they could extricate themselves and regain the pathway, many leaving their horses behind, a third of their number had fallen. Joined by the beaten infantry, they retired across the track, and made their way back toward their camp.

Leaving a strong guard at the morass to resist further attempts, Harry returned with his force to the village having inflicted a loss of a hundred and fifty upon enemy, while he himself had lost but eight men. He intrenched the position strongly, and remained there unmolested, until a week later he received orders to march back to Edinburgh. The following day he was summoned before King Charles. He found there General Leslie, the Earl of Argyll, Alan Campbell, and several of the leaders of the Covenant.

"What is this I hear of you, Colonel Furness?" the king said. "General Leslie has reported to me that you have inflicted a very heavy defeat upon a rebel force which marched to surprise you. This is good service, and for it I render you my hearty thanks. But, sir, the Earl of Argyll complains to me that you have beleaguered his kinsman, Alan Campbell, in his hold at Kirkglen, and treated him as a prisoner, suffering none to go out or in during your stay there."

"This, sire, is the warranty for my conduct," Harry said, producing the document signed by Cromwell. "This was taken by one of my men from a trooper who had borne a dispatch from Alan Campbell to the enemy. My man watched the interview between him and Cromwell himself, heard the terms of the dispatch, and saw Cromwell write and give this letter to the trooper, whom he afterward slew, and brought me the letter. The other trooper, who acted as guide to the enemy, fell in the attack."

The king took the letter and read it. "My lord," he said, "this is a matter which gravely touches your honor. This is a letter of General Cromwell's in answer to a traitorous communication of your kinsman here. He has offered to betray Colonel Furness and the troops under him to Cromwell, and has sent a guide for the English troops. He stipulates only that Colonel Furness shall be handed over to him to do as he likes with. As it was manifest to me here some time since that you and Colonel Furness are not friends, this touches you nearly."

"I know nothing of it," the earl said. "My kinsman will tell you."

"I do not need his assurances," King Charles said coldly. "He, at least, is proved to be a traitor, and methinks, my lord earl, that the preachers who are so fond of holding forth to me upon the wickedness of my ways might with advantage bestow some of their spare time in conversing with you upon the beauty and godliness of straightforwardness. General Leslie, you will arrest at once, on his leaving our presence, Colonel Alan Campbell, and will cause a court of inquiry to sift this matter to the bottom. And hark you, my lord of Argyll, see you that no more of your kinsmen practice upon the life of my faithful Colonel Furness. This is the third time that he has been in jeopardy at your hands. I am easy, my lord earl, too easy, mayhap, but let no man presume too far upon it. My power is but limited here, but remember the old saying, 'Wise men do not pull the tails of lions' whelps.' The day may come when Charles II. will be a king in power as well as in name. Beware that you presume not too far upon his endurance now." So saying, the king turned from Argyll, and bidding Harry follow him, and tell him the story of the defeat of the English troops, left the earl standing alone, the picture of rage and mortification.

"You had best beware, Master Furness," the king said. "He needs a long spoon they say, who sups with the deil. The Earl of Argyll is the real king of Scotland at present, and it is ill quarreling with him. You have got the best of it in the first three rubbers, but be sure that Argyll will play on till the cards favor him. And if you are once in his power, I would not give a baubee for your life. The proud earl treats me as a master would teach a froward pupil, but I tell you, Master Furness, and I know you are discreet and can be trusted, that as surely as the earl brought Montrose to the block, so surely shall Argyll's head roll on the scaffold, if Charles II. is ever King of England. But I fear for you, Master Furness. I can help you here not at all, and the lecture which, on your behalf, I administered to the earl -- and in faith I wonder now at my own courage -- will not increase his love for you. You will never be safe as long as you remain in Scotland. What do you say? Will you south and join one or other of the Royalist bodies who are in arms there?"

"Not so, your majesty. With your permission, I will play the game out to the end, although I know that my adversary holds the strongest cards. But even did I wish to leave, it would be as hazardous to do so as to stay here. So long as I am with my regiment I am in safety. I could not gain England by sea, for the Parliament ships bar the way, and did I leave my regiment and go south with only a small party, my chance of crossing the border alive would be but small. No, your majesty, I have the honor to command a king's regiment, and whether against Cromwell in the field, or against Argyll's plots and daggers, I shall do my duty to the end."

When, upon his return to the camp, Harry told his friends the purport of the interview between himself and Argyll, of Alan Campbell being put under arrest and the earl openly reproved by the king, Donald Leslie raised his hands in despair.

"If you get through this, Furness," he said, "I shall for the rest of my life be convinced that you have a charmed existence, and that your good genius is more powerful than the evil one of Argyll. The gossips say that he is in alliance with the evil one himself, and I can well believe them. But I beg you, in all seriousness, to confine yourself to the camp. So long as you are here you are safe. But once beyond its limits your life will not be worth a straw."

Jacob added his entreaties to those of Leslie, and Harry promised that until the decisive battle was over he would keep among his men, unless compelled by duty to appear at court.

Four days afterward a soldier entered Harry's tent, and handed him a missive. It was as follows: "Upon receipt of this, Colonel Furness will proceed to Leith and will board the vessel, the Royalist, which has just arrived from Holland. There he will inspect the newly arrived recruits, who will be attached to his regiment. He will examine the store of arms brought by her, and will report on their state and condition. -- David Leslie, commanding his majesty's armies."

The duty was one of mere routine. Harry showed the note to Jacob, and said, "You may as well come with me, Jacob. Your drilling is over for the day, and you can aid me looking through the stores. Mike," he said, "we shall be back to supper. We are only going down to the port." The two officers buckled on their swords, and at once started on foot for the port, which was but half a mile distant. Mike looked anxiously after his master. Since the day when danger had first threatened him he had scarce let him out of his sight, following close to his heels like a faithful dog. His present business seemed assuredly to forbode no danger. Nevertheless, the lad felt restless and anxious when he saw his master depart. A few minutes later he went to William Long's tent. "Master Long," he said, "will you see that my master's servant gets supper in readiness at the usual hour. He has gone down to the port to inspect some recruits just arrived from Holland, by order of General Leslie, and said he would return by supper. I know that it is foolish, but since the affair with Alan Campbell I am never easy when he is not near. In this case, I do not see that there can possibly be any lurking danger. Argyll could not know of his proceeding to the port, nor would he venture to attack him there where the streets swarm with our soldiers. Nevertheless, I would fain go down and assure myself that all is well."

William Long at once promised to look after the supper, and Mike hurried away after Harry and his companion. These had, however, too far a start to be overtaken, and when he reached the wharf he saw a boat rowed by two men, and having two sitters in the stern. It was already some distance from shore, and appeared to be proceeding toward a vessel which lay at anchor several hundred yards further out from the shore than the others.

"Can you tell me," he asked a sailor, "whether that ship lying there is the Royalist?"

"That is the name she goes by to-day," the sailor said, "for as I rowed past her this morning on my way from fishing, I saw the name newly painted on her stern. They have put it on her boat too, which you now see rowing toward her, and which has been lying by the pier all day, in readiness to take out any one who might wish to go off to her."

"But have they changed her name, then?" Mike asked. "What have they been doing that for?"

"She has been called the Covenant for the last two years," the sailor said. "But I suppose Johnny Campbell, her master, thought the other more suited to the times."

The name of the captain at once aroused Mike's uneasiness to the fullest.

"Tell me," he said, "good fellow, did that ship arrive this morning from Holland?"

"From Holland!" repeated the sailor. "No. She came down the coast from the north three days ago, with beasts for the army."

Mike stood for a moment thunderstruck. Then, without a word to the sailor, he turned and ran back at full speed through the town up to the camp. At a headlong pace he made his way through the camp until he stopped at the tent of General Leslie. He was about to rush in without ceremony when the sentinel stopped his way.

"Please let me pass," he panted. "I would see the general on a matter of the utmost importance."

The sentries laughed.

"You don't suppose," one of them said, "that the general is to be disturbed by every barefooted boy who wants to speak to him. If you have aught to say, you must speak first to the lieutenant of the guard."

"Every moment is of importance," Mike urged. "It is a matter of life and death. I tell you I must see the general." Then at the top of his voice he began to shout, "Sir David Leslie! Sir David Leslie!"

"Silence there, young varmint, or I will wring thy neck for thee!" exclaimed the soldier, greatly scandalized, seizing Mike and shaking him violently. But the boy continued to shout out at the top of his voice, "Sir David Leslie! Sir David Leslie!"



Chapter XXII.

Kidnaped.


Unable to silence Mike's shouts, the scandalized guards began dragging him roughly from the spot, cuffing him as they went. But the door of the tent opened, and General Leslie appeared.

"What means all this unseemly uproar?" he asked.

"This malapert boy, general, wished to force his way into your tent, and when we stopped him, and told him that he must apply to the lieutenant of the guard if he had aught of importance which he wished to communicate to you, he began to shout like one possessed."

"Loose him," the general said. "Now, varlet, what mean you by this uproar?"

"Forgive me, sir," Mike pleaded, "but I come on an errand which concerns the life of my master, Colonel Furness."

"Come within," the general said briefly, for by this time a crowd had gathered round the tent. "Now," he went on, "what is it you would tell me?"

"I would ask you, sir, whether an hour since you sent an order to my master that he should forthwith go on board the ship Royalist to inspect recruits and stores of arms just arrived from Holland?"

The general looked at him in astonishment.

"I sent no such order," he said. "No ship has arrived from Holland of that or any other name. What story is this that you have got hold of?"

"My master received such an order, sir, for I heard him read it aloud, and he started at once with his major to carry out the order. Knowing, sir, how great, as you are doubtless aware, is the enmity which the Earl of Argyll bears to my master, I followed him to the port, and there learned that the ship called the Royalist had not come from Holland, but is a coaster from the north. I found, moreover, that she was but yesterday named the Royalist, and that she was before known as the Covenant, and that she is commanded by a Campbell. Then it seemed to me that some plot had been laid to kidnap my master, and I ran straight to you to ask you whether you had really ordered him to go on board this ship."

"This must be seen to at once," the general said; for having been present at the scene when Harry produced Cromwell's letter, he knew how deadly was the hatred of the earl for the young colonel. "Without there!" he cried. A soldier entered. "Send the lieutenant of the guard here at once." The soldier disappeared, and the general sat down at his table and hastily wrote an order. "Lieutenant," he said, when the officer entered, "give this letter to Captain Farquharson, and tell him to take his twenty men, and to go on the instant down to the port. There he is to take boat and row out to the ship called the Royalist. He is to arrest the captain and crew, and if he see not there Colonel Furness, let him search the ship from top to bottom. If he find no signs of him, let him bring the captain and six of his men ashore at once."

As soon as he heard the order given Mike, saluting the general, hurried from the tent, and ran at full speed to the camp of Harry's regiment. There he related to Donald Leslie and William Long the suspicious circumstances which had occurred, and the steps which the general had ordered to be taken.

"This is bad news, indeed," Captain Leslie exclaimed; "and I fear that the colonel has fallen into the hands of Argyll's minions. If it be so Farquharson is scarce likely to find the Royalist at anchor when he arrives at the port. Come, Long, let us be stirring. I will hand over the command of the regiment to Grahame till we return. While I am speaking to him pick me out ten trusty men."

He hurried off, and in five minutes was hastening toward the port, with William Long, Mike, and ten men. Such was the speed they made that they reached the quay just at the same time with Captain Farquharson and his men.

Mike gave a cry of despair. The Royalist had disappeared. He ran up to a sailor who was still sitting on an upturned basket, smoking as he had left him before.

"Where is the Royalist?" he exclaimed.

"Halloo! young fellow, are you back again? I thought you had gone off with a bee in your bonnet, so suddenly and quickly did you run. The Royalist? ay, she hoisted her sails two minutes after her boat reached her. I was watching her closely, for I wondered whether she had aught to do with your sudden flight. Methinks that something strange has happened on board, for I saw what seemed to be a scuffle, and certainly the sun shone on the gleam of swords. Then, too, instead of heaving her anchor, she slipped the cable, and a Scotch captain must be in a hurry indeed when he does that."

"Where is she now?" Mike asked.

"Over there, full four miles away, making across the Forth for the northern point of land."

"Is she a fast ship?" Captain Leslie, who had come up, inquired.

"She has the name of being the fastest sailer in these parts."

"There is nothing here would catch her?" Donald Leslie asked. "Would a rowboat have a chance of overtaking her?"

"Not this evening," the sailor said, looking at the sky. "The wind is rising now, and it will blow a gale before morning."

"Tell me, my man," Leslie asked, "and here is a gold piece for your pains, where you think she is likely to put in?"

"That will all depend," the sailor replied, "upon what errand she is bound. I must know that before I can answer you."

Leslie looked at William Long. The latter said:

"It were best to tell this honest fellow the facts of the case. Look you, my 'man, the two king's officers who have gone on board are ill friends with the Campbells, and we doubt not that these have kidnaped and carried them off."

"The Campbells are an ill crew to deal with," the sailor said, "and I do not love them myself. If it be as you say, they might be landed either at Anstruther, near which is a hold belonging to Andrew Campbell of Glencoulie, or at St. Andrews, or at Leuchars, a little bay north of that town, whence they might take them to Kilbeg Castle, also held by a Campbell. It is a lonely place ten miles inland, and their friends would be little likely to look for them there. Besides, the Royalist might land them and sail away without any being the wiser, while at the other ports her coming would be surely noticed."

"Think you that we can obtain horses on the other side?"

"You might obtain four or five," the sailor said, "of Tony Galbraith, who keeps the inn there, and who lets horses on hire to those traveling north."

"If a storm comes on," Leslie asked, "which way is it likely to blow, and will the Royalist be like to make the bay you name?

"Ah! that is more than I can tell," the sailor replied. "Methinks 'twill blow from the west. In that case, she might be able to make her way along the shore; she might run into port for shelter; she might be blown out to sea."

"At any rate," Leslie said, "our first step is to cross. Get us a stout sailing boat. Be not sparing of promises."

The man at once went off to a group of sailors, but these at first shook their heads, and looked toward the sky. Its aspect was threatening. The wind was getting up fast, and masses of scud flew rapidly across it. Leslie went up to the group.

"Come, lads," he said, "five pounds if you put us across."

The offer was too tempting to be rejected, and the men hurried down and began to prepare a large sailing boat. Leslie and Lieutenant Long had a hasty consultation, and agreed that, seeing the difficulty there would be in obtaining horses, it was useless to take more than ten men in all. Accordingly, as soon as the boat was in readiness, the two officers, Mike, and seven soldiers took their places in her. The sails were closely reefed, and she at once put out into the Firth. Every minute the wind rose, until, by the time they were half across, it was blowing a gale. The boat was a stout one, but the waves broke freely over her, and four of the soldiers were kept at work baling to throw out the water she took over her bows. Once or twice they thought that she would capsize, so furious were the gusts, but the boatmen were quick and skillful. The sheets were let go and the sails lowered until the force of the squall abated, and at last, after a passage which seemed rapid even to those on board, anxious as they were, she entered the little port.

Hurrying to the inn, they found that six horses were obtainable. These they hired at once. The host said that he could send to some farms, not far distant, and hire four more, but that an hour or so would elapse ere they came. Leslie and William Long had already decided that the prisoners would most probably be taken to Kilbeg Castle, as being more secluded than the others. They now agreed that they themselves with Mike and three soldiers should start at once, to intercept them if possible between the sea and the castle. When the other horses arrived two of the soldiers were to ride with all speed to Anstruther, and two to St. Andrews, and were there to keep sharp watch to see if the Royalist arrived there, and landed aught in the way either of men or goods.

The point to which they were bound lay fully forty miles away. They determined to ride as far as the horses would carry them, and then, if able to obtain no more, to walk forward. Night was already setting in, and a driving rain flew before the gale.

"We shall never be able to keep the road," Leslie said, "Landlord, have you one here who could serve as guide? He must be quick-footed and sure. Our business is urgent, and we are ready to pay well."

A guide was speedily found, a lad on a shaggy pony, who had the day before come down from the north with cattle. While the horses were being prepared the party had taken a hasty supper, and Leslie had seen that each of the soldiers had a tankard of hot spiced wine. So quickly had the arrangements been made that in half an hour after their arrival at the port the party started from the inn. The ride was indeed a rough one. The country was heavy and wild. The rain drenched them to the skin in spite of their thick cloaks, and the wind blew at times with such violence that the horses were fain to stop and stand huddled together facing it to keep their feet. Hour after hour they rode, never getting beyond a walk, so rough was the road; often obliged to pause altogether from the force of the gale. Twice they stopped at inns at quiet villages, knocked up the sleeping hosts, and obtained hot wine for themselves and hot gruel for their horses. Their pace grew slower as the animals became thoroughly knocked up, and at last could not be urged beyond a walk.

At the next village they stopped, and as they found that there was no possibility of obtaining fresh horses, they determined to push forward on foot. It was now four o'clock in the morning, and they had ridden over forty miles. Another guide was obtained, and they set forward. Although they had hurried to the utmost, it was ten o'clock in the morning before they came down upon a valley with a narrow stream which their guide told them fell into the sea, near Leuchars. They were, he said, now within two miles of the castle, the track from which to the sea ran down the valley. The wind was still blowing a gale, but the clouds had broken, and at times the sun streamed out brightly.

"Thank Heaven we are here at last," Donald Leslie said, "for a harder night I have never spent. I think we must be in time."

"I think so," William Long said. "Supposing the Royalist made the bay safely, she would have been there by midnight, but the sea would have been so high that I doubt if they would have launched a boat till morning. It was light by five, but they might wait for the gale to abate a little, and after landing they have eight miles to come. Of course, they might have passed here an hour ago, but a incline to think that they would not land till later, as with this wind blowing off shore, it would be no easy matter to row a boat in its teeth."

The guide saying that there was a cottage a mile further up the valley, he was sent there with instructions to ask whether any one had been seen to pass that morning. After being half an hour absent he returned, saying that there was only an old woman at the hut, and that she had told him she was sure no one had passed there since daybreak. They now followed the stream down the valley until they came to a small wood. Here they lay down to rest, one being placed upon the lookout. Two hours later the sentry awoke them with the news that a party of men were coming up the valley. All were at once upon the alert.

"Thank Heaven," Leslie said, "we have struck the right place. There seem to be ten or twelve of them, of whom two, no doubt, are the prisoners. We shall have no difficulty in overcoming them by a sudden surprise. Capture or kill every man if possible, or we shall have hot work in getting back to Edinburgh."

When the party came nearer it could be seen that it consisted of eight armed men, in the center of whom the two Royalist officers were walking. Their arms were bound to their sides. Leslie arranged that he with Mike and one of the soldiers would at once spring to their aid, as likely enough, directly the attack began, the captors might endeavor to slay their prisoners, to prevent them from being rescued. Mike was instructed to strike no blow, but to devote himself at once to cutting their cords, and placing weapons in their hands.

The surprise was complete. The sailors forming the majority of the party, with two trusty retainers of the earl, who had special charge of the affair, were proceeding carelessly along, having no thought of interruption. So far their plans had succeeded perfectly. The moment the two officers had reached the quay they were addressed by the men sent on shore with the Royalist's boat. Unsuspicious of danger they took their place in it, and therefore missed the opportunity, which they would have had if they had entered any of the other boats, of learning the true character of the Royalist. They had been attacked the instant they gained the deck of the vessel. Harry, who was first, had been knocked down before he had time to put his hand to his sword. Jacob had fought valiantly for a short time, but he too had been knocked senseless by a blow with a capstan bar. They had then been roughly tumbled below, where no further attention had been paid to them. The Royalist had been blown many miles out to sea, and did not make her anchorage until ten o'clock in the morning. Then the hatches were removed, and the prisoners brought on deck.

The inlet was a small one, and contained, only a little fishing village; the prisoners saw the Royalist sail off again, directly they had been placed in the boat. They had from the first moment when they regained consciousness entertained no doubts whatever into whose hands they had fallen, and they felt their position to be desperate. The plan, indeed, had been skillfully laid, and had it not been for Harry reading the order aloud in Mike's presence, there would have been no clew to their disappearance. During the night the young men were too overpowered with the violence of the storm, and the closeness of the atmosphere in the hold, in which they had been thrown, to converse. But as the motion moderated in the morning they had talked over their chances, and pronounced them to be small indeed. Harry, indeed, remembered that Mike had been present when he asked Jacob to accompany him on board ship, but he thought that no uneasiness would be felt until late that night, as it might well be thought that their duties had detained them, and that they had supped on board. The storm might further account for their non-appearance till morning. Then they imagined that inquiry would be made, and that it would be found that the Royalist had sailed. Their captors would then have a start of twenty-four hours, and in such troubled times it was scarce likely that anything would be done. Nor indeed did they see how they could be followed, as the destination of the ship would be entirely unknown. The very fact that they had not been thrown overboard when fairly out at sea was in itself a proof that their captors entertained no fear of pursuit; had they done so, they would have dispatched them at once. The captives felt sure that it was intended to land them, in order that Argyll himself might have the pleasure of taunting them before putting them to death. Against Jacob, indeed, he could have no personal feeling, and it was by accident only that he was a sharer in Harry's fate. But as a witness of what had taken place, his life would assuredly be taken, as well as that of his companion. As they walked along they gathered from the talk of their guards the distance which they had to go, and the place of their destination. They had never heard of Kilbeg Castle, but as they had no enemies save Argyll, they knew that it must belong to one of his clan. They spoke but little on the way. Harry was wondering how the news of his disappearance would be received in the camp, and thinking of the dismay which it would occasion in the minds of Mike and William Long, when suddenly he heard a shout, and on the instant a fierce fight was raging around him.

Although taken completely by surprise, the sailors fought steadily. But two were cut down before they could draw a sword, and the others, outmatched, were driven backward. The leader of the party shouted again and again, "Kill the prisoners," but he and each of his men were too hotly engaged with the adversaries who pressed them, to do more than defend their own lives. In a minute the fray was rendered still more unequal by Harry and Jacob joining in it, and in less than three minutes from its commencement seven of the guards lay dead or dying upon the ground. The other, an active young fellow, had taken to flight early in the fight, and was already beyond reach.

The contest over, there was a delighted greeting between the rescued prisoners and their friends.

"Come," Leslie said, "we have not a moment to lose. That fellow who has escaped will take the news to Kilbeg, and we shall be having its garrison at our heels. He has but three miles to run, and they will beat to horse in a few minutes after he gets there. We must strike across the hills, and had best make a great circuit by Stirling. If we avoid the roads and towns they may not pick up our track."

Their guide fortunately knew the country well, and leaving the path by which they had traveled, the party started on their return. All day they tramped across the moorlands, avoiding all villages and scattered farmhouses. They had, they knew, three-quarters of an hour's start, and as their pursuers would be alike ignorant whence they came or whither they were going, the chances of their hitting the right route were small.

Making a circuit round Kinross and Alloa, where the Campbells might have ridden in pursuit, and sleeping in a wood, they arrived next day at Stirling. Here was great excitement, for Cromwell's army, marching south of Edinburgh, had approached the town. They remained, however, a few hours only, collecting what previsions they could, and then falling back again to their former camp at Musselburgh. The following day Harry and his party marched to Edinburgh. That night Harry reported to Sir David Leslie what had befallen him and the next morning he accompanied the general to Holyrood, and laid a complaint before the king.

His majesty was most indignant at the attempt which had been made upon his follower, but he said to General Leslie, "I doubt not, Sir David, that your thoughts and mine go toward the same person. But we have no evidence that he had an absolute hand in it, although the fact that this ship was commanded by a Campbell, and that the hold of Kilbeg belongs to one of his kinsmen, point to his complicity in the affair. Still, that is no proof. Already the earl is no friend of mine. When the day comes I will have a bitter reckoning with him, but in the present state of my fortunes, methinks that 'twere best in this, as in other matters, to hold my tongue for the time. I cannot afford to make him an open enemy now."

General Leslie agreed with the king. Cromwell's army was in a sore strait, and would, they hoped, be shortly driven either to surrender or to fight under disadvantageous circumstances. But the open defection of Argyll at the present moment, followed as it would be by that of the whole fanatical party, would entirely alter the position of affairs, and Harry begged his majesty to take no more notice of the matter, and so returned to the camp.



Chapter XXIII.

The Battle Of Worcester.


The next morning the Scotch army moved after that of Cromwell, which had fallen back to Dunbar, and took post on the Doon hill facing him there. Cromwell's army occupied a peninsula, having on their face a brook running along a deep, narrow little valley. The Scotch position on the hill was an exceedingly strong one, and had they remained there Cromwell's army must have been driven to surrender. Cromwell himself wrote on that night, "The enemy hath blocked up our way at the pass at Copperspath, through which we cannot pass without almost a miracle. He lieth so upon the hills that we knoweth not how to come that way without much difficulty, and our lying here daily consumeth our men, who fall sick beyond imagination."

The Scotch had, in fact, the game in their hands, had they but waited on the ground they had taken up. The English had, however, an ally in their camp. The Earl of Argyll strongly urged that an attack should be made upon the English, and he was supported by the preachers and fanatics, who exclaimed that the Lord had delivered their enemies into their hands. General Leslie, however, stood firm. The preachers scattered in the camp and exhorted the soldiers to go down and smite the enemy. So great an enthusiasm did they excite by their promises of victory that in the afternoon the soldiers, without orders from their general, moved down the hill toward the enemy. The more regular body of the troops stood firm, but Leslie, seeing that the preachers had got the mastery, and that his orders were no longer obeyed, ordered these also to move forward, in hopes that the enthusiasm which had been excited would yet suffice to win the victory.

Cromwell saw the fatal mistake which had been committed, and in the night moved round his troops to his left, and these at daybreak fell upon the Scottish right. The night had been wet, and the Scottish army were unprovided with tents. Many of their matchlocks had been rendered useless. At daybreak on the morning of the 3d of September the English, led by General Lambert, fell upon them. The Scotch for a time stood their ground firmly; but the irregular troops, who had by their folly led the army into this plight, gave way before the English pikemen. The preachers, who were in vast numbers, set the example of flight. Many of the regiments of infantry fought most fiercely, but the battle was already lost. The Scotch cavalry were broken by the charge of the Ironsides, and in less than an hour from the commencement of the fighting the rout was complete. Three thousand Scotch were killed, and ten thousand taken prisoners.

Harry's regiment was but slightly engaged. It had been one of the last to march down the hill on the evening before, and Harry and Jacob foresaw the disaster which would happen. "If I were the king," Harry said, "I would order every one of these preachers out of camp, and would hang those who disobeyed. Then I would march the army on to the hill again. If they wait there the English must attack us with grievous disadvantage, or such as cannot get on board their ships must surrender. Charles would really be king then, and could disregard the wrath of the men of the conventicles. Cromwell will attack us to-morrow, and will defeat us; his trained troops are more than a match for these Scotchmen, who think more of their preachers than of their officers, and whose discipline is of the slackest."

"I agree with you entirely," Jacob said. "But in the present mood of the army, I believe that half of them would march away if the general dismissed the preachers."

The next day, when the fight began, Harry moved forward his regiment to the support of the Scottish right, but before he came fairly into the fray this had already given away, and Harry, seeing that the day was lost, halted his men, and fell back in good order. Again and again the Ironsides charged them. The leveled pikes and heavy musketry fire each time beat them off, and they marched from the field almost the only body which kept its formation. Five thousand of the country people among the prisoners Cromwell allowed to depart to their homes. The remainder he sent to Newcastle, where great numbers of them were starved to death by the cruelty of the governor, Sir Arthur Hazelrig. The remainder were sent as slaves to New England.

Leslie, with the wreck of his army, fell back to Stirling, while Charles, with the Scotch authorities, went to Perth. Here the young king, exasperated beyond endurance at the tyranny of Argyll and the fanatics, escaped from them, and with two or three friends rode fifty miles north. He was overtaken and brought back to Perth, but the anger of the army was so hot at his treatment that the fanatics were henceforth obliged to put a curb upon themselves, and a strong king's party, as opposed to that of the Covenant, henceforth guided his counsels.

The winter passed quietly. The English troops were unable to stand the inclemency of the climate, and contented themselves with capturing Edinburgh Castle, and other strongholds south of the Forth. Cromwell was compelled by ill health to return for some months to England. Leslie's army was strongly intrenched round Stirling. In June Cromwell again took the field, and moved against Perth, which he captured on the 31st of July. Charles, who had joined his army at Stirling, broke up his camp and marched toward England, the road being open to him owing to Cromwell and his army being further north at Perth.

During the time which had elapsed since the battle of Dunbar no events had happened in Harry's life. Remaining quietly in camp, where the troops, who had been disgusted by the conduct of the fanatics at Dunbar, were now ill disposed toward Argyll and his party, he had little fear of the machinations of the earl, who was with the king at Perth.

Argyll refused to join in the southern march, and the army with which Leslie entered England numbered only eleven thousand men. As soon as he crossed the border, Charles was proclaimed king, and proclamations were issued calling on all loyal subjects to join him.

The people were, however, weary of civil war. The Royalists had already suffered so heavily that they held back now, and the hatred excited, alike by the devastations of the Scotch army on its former visit to England, and by the treachery with which they had then sold the king, deterred men from joining them. A few hundred, indeed, came to his standard; but upon the other hand, Lambert and Harrison, with a strong force, were marching against him, and Cromwell, having left six thousand men in Scotland, under Monk, was pressing hotly behind with the victors of Dunbar. On the 22d of August Charles reached Worcester. On the 28th Cromwell was close to the town with thirty thousand men.

"This is the end of it all, Jacob," Harry said that night. "They outnumber us by three to one, and even if equal, they would assuredly beat us, for the Scotch are dispirited at finding themselves so far from home, in a hostile country. Things look desperate. If all is lost to-morrow, do you and William Long and Mike keep close to me. Get a horse for Mike to-night. You and Long are already mounted. If all is lost we must try and make our way to the seacoast, and take boat for France or Holland. But first of all we must see to the safety of the king. It is clear that at present England is not ready to return to the former state of things. We must hope that some day she will weary of the Roundhead rule, and if the king can reach the Continent he must remain there till England calls him. At present she only wants peace. It is just nine years now since King Charles' father set up his standard at Nottingham. Nine years of wars and troubles! No wonder men are aweary of it. It is all very well for us, Jacob, who have no wives, neither families nor occupations, and are without property to lose, but I wonder not that men who have these things are chary of risking them in a cause which seems destined to failure."

Upon the 3d of September, 1651, the anniversary of the battle of Dunbar, Cromwell advanced to the attack. Harry's regiment was placed among some hedges around the city, and upon them the brunt of the fight first fell. In spite of the immense numbers brought against them they defended themselves with desperate bravery. Some of the Scottish troops came up, and for a time Cromwell's footmen could make but little way. At other parts, however, the resistance was more feeble, and the Scotch fell rapidly into confusion. Contesting every foot of the way, Harry's regiment was driven back into the town, where a terrible confusion reigned. Still keeping his men together, he marched to the marketplace. Here he found the king with a considerable body of horse. The greater part, however, of the horse had fled through the town without drawing rein, while the foot were throwing away their arms and flying in all directions.

"If all my troops had fought like your regiment, Colonel Furness, we should have won the day," the king said. "As it is now, it is a hopeless rout. It is useless for your brave fellows to throw away their lives further. They will only be cut down vainly, seeing that the rest of my army are disbanded. Thank them from me for their services, and bid them seek their homes as best they may and wait for better times. They are English, and will meet with better treatment from the country people than will the Scotch. Then do you join me. I am going to head my horsemen here in a charge against the Roundhead cavalry, and so give more time for the army to get away."

Harry rode up to his troops, now reduced to half their former strength. Leslie and Grahame had both been killed, and William Long was sorely wounded. He gave the men the message from the king, and the brave fellows gave a cheer for King Charles, the last he was to hear for ten years. Then they marched away in orderly array, with their arms, intending to beat off all who might attack them before nightfall, and then to break up and scatter, each for himself. William Long had friends near Gloucester, and as his wound would prevent him from traveling rapidly with Harry, he took farewell of him, and rode away with the regiment. Harry, with Jacob and Mike, rejoined the king, and they rode toward the gate by which the Roundhead troops were already entering the town. The horsemen, however, had but little stomach for the fight, and as the king advanced, in twos and threes they turned their horses' heads and rode off.

Harry was riding close to the king, and looking round said at length, "It is useless, your majesty. There are not a dozen men with us."

The king looked round and checked his horse. Besides his personal friends, Buckingham, Wilmot, and one or two other nobles, scarce a man remained. The king shrugged his shoulders. "Well, gentlemen, as we cannot fight, we must needs run." Then the party turned their horses and galloped out on the other side of Worcester. The country was covered with fugitives. They soon came upon a considerable body of horse, who at once attached themselves to the party. "These, gentlemen," the king said, "would not fight when I wanted them to, and now that I would fain be alone, they follow me."

At last, when darkness came on, the king, with his personal friends and some sixty others, slipped away down a by-road, and after riding for some hours came to a house called the White Ladies. Here for a few hours they rested. Then a council was held. They had news that on a heath near were some three thousand Scotch cavalry. The king's friends urged him to join these and endeavor to make his way back into Scotland, but Charles had already had more than enough of that country, and he was sure that Argyll and his party would not hesitate to deliver him up to the Parliament, as they had done his father before him. He therefore determined to disguise himself, and endeavor to escape on foot, taking with him only a guide. The rest of the party agreed to join the Scotch horse, and endeavor to reach the border. After a consultation with Jacob, Harry determined to follow the example of the king, and to try and make his way in disguise to a seaport. He did not believe that the Scotch cavalry would be able to regain their country, nor even if they did would his position be improved were he with them. With the destruction of the Royalist army, Argyll would again become supreme, and Harry doubted not that he would satisfy his old grudge against him. He was right in his anticipations. The Scots were a day or two later routed by the English horse, and comparatively few of them ever regained their country. Out of the eleven thousand men who fought at Worcester, seven thousand were taken prisoners, including the greater part of the Scottish contingent. The English, attracting less hostility and attention from the country people, for the most part reached their homes in safety.

As soon as the king had ridden off, Harry with Jacob and Mike, started in another direction. Stopping at a farmhouse, they purchased from the master three suits of clothes. Harry's was one of the farmer's own, the man being nearly his own size. For Jacob, who was much shorter, a dress, cloak and bonnet of the farmer's wife was procured, and for Mike the clothes of one of the farmer's sons. One of the horses was left here, and a pillion obtained for the other. Putting on these disguises, Harry mounted his horse, with Jacob seated behind him on a pillion, while Mike rode by his side. They started amid the good wishes of the farmer and his family, who were favorable to the Royalist cause. Harry had cut off his ringlets, and looked the character of a young farmer of twenty-four or twenty-five years old well enough, while Jacob had the appearance of a suitable wife for him. Mike was to pass as his brother.

In the course of the first day's journey they met several parties of Roundhead horse, who plied them with questions as to whether they had seen any parties of fugitives. Making a detour, they rode toward Gloucester, not intending to enter that town, where there was a Parliamentary garrison, but to cross the river higher up. They stopped for the night at a wayside inn, where they heard much talk concerning the battle, and learned that all the fords were guarded to prevent fugitives crossing into Wales, and that none might pass who could not give a good account of themselves. They heard, too, that on the evening before a proclamation had been made at Gloucester and other towns offering a reward of a thousand pounds for the capture of Charles, and threatening all with the penalties of treason who should venture to aid or shelter him; a systematic watch was being set on all the roads.

They determined to ride again next morning toward Worcester, and to remain in that neighborhood for some days, judging that less inquiry would be made there than elsewhere. This they did, but journeyed very slowly, and slept a mile or two from Worcester.

Before reaching their halting-place they took off a shoe from Mike's horse, and with a nail wounded the frog of the foot, so that the animal walked lame. Under this pretense they stopped three days, feigning great annoyance at the delay. They found now that orders had been issued that none should journey on the roads save those who had passes, and these had to be shown before entering any of the large towns. They therefore resolved to leave their horses, and to proceed on foot, as they could then travel by byways and across the country. There was some debate as to the best guise in which to travel, but it was presently determined to go as Egyptians, as the gypsies were then called. Harry walked into Worcester, and there, at the shop of a dealer in old clothes, procured such garments as were needed, and at an apothecary's purchased some dyes for staining the skin.

The next day, telling the landlord that they should leave the lame horse with him until their return, they started as before, Mike walking instead of riding. They presently left the main road, and finding a convenient place in a wood, changed their attire. Harry and Mike were dressed in ragged clothes, with bright handkerchiefs round their necks, and others round their heads. Jacob still retained his attire as a woman, with a tattered shawl round his shoulders, and a red handkerchief over his head. All darkened their faces and hands. They took the saddle from the horse, and placed the bundles, containing the clothes they had taken off, on his back. Mike took the bridle, Harry and Jacob walked beside, and so they continued for some miles along the lonely roads, until they came to a farmhouse. Here they stopped. The farmer came out, and roughly demanded what they wanted. Harry replied that he wanted to sell their horse, and would take a small sum for it.

"I doubt me," the farmer said, looking at it, "that that horse was not honestly come by. It suits not your condition. It may well be," he said, "the horse of some officer who was slain at Worcester, and which you have found roaming in the country."

"It matters not," Harry said, "where I got it; it is mine now, and may be yours if you like it, cheap. As you say, its looks agree not with mine, and I desire not to be asked questions. If you will give me that donkey I see there, and three pounds, you shall have him."

The offer was a tempting one, but the farmer beat them down a pound before he agreed to it. Then shifting their bundles to the donkey, they continued their way. At the next village they purchased a cooking-pot and some old stuff for a tent. Cutting some sticks, they encamped that night on some wild land hard by, having purchased provisions for their supper. Very slowly they traveled south, attracting no attention as they passed. They avoided all large towns, and purchased such things as they needed at villages, always camping out on commons and waste places. They could hear no news of the king at any of their halting-places. That he had not been taken was certain; also, that he had not reached France, or the news of his coming there would have been known. It was generally supposed that he was in hiding somewhere in the south, hoping to find an opportunity to take ship to France. Everywhere they heard of the active search which was being made for him, and how the houses of all suspected to be favorable to him were being searched.

Traveling only a few miles a day, and frequently halting for two or three days together, the party crossed the Thames above Reading, and journeyed west into Wiltshire. So they went on until they reached the port of Charmouth, near Lime Regis. Here, as in all the seaport towns, were many soldiers of the Parliament. They did not enter the town, but encamped a short distance outside, Harry alone going in to gather the news. He found that numerous rumors concerning the king were afloat. It was asserted that he had been seen near Bristol, and failing to embark there, was supposed to be making his way east along the coast, in hopes of finding a ship. The troops were loud in their expressions of confidence that in a few days, if not in a few hours, he would be in their hands, and that he would be brought to the scaffold, as his father had been.

Uneasy at the news, Harry wandered about the town, and at nightfall entered a small public house near the port. Calling for some liquor, he sat down, and listened to the talk of the sailors. Presently these left, and soon after they did so three other men entered. One was dressed as a farmer, the other two as serving-men. Harry thought that he noticed a glance of recognition pass between the farmer and the landlord, and as the latter placed some liquor and a candle on the table before the newcomers, Harry recognized in the farmer Colonel Wyndham, a Royalist with whom he was well acquainted. He now looked more closely at the two serving-men, and recognized in them the king and Lord Wilmot.

He sauntered across the room as if to get a light for his pipe, and said, in low tones:

"Colonel Wyndham, I am Harry Furness. Is there any way I can serve his majesty?"

"Ah! Colonel Furness, I am glad to see you," the king said heartily; "though if you are hunted as shrewdly as I am, your state is a perilous one."

"The landlord is to be trusted," Colonel Wyndham said. "We had best call him in. He said nothing before you, deeming you a stranger."

The landlord was called in, and told Harry was a friend, whereupon he barred the door and closed the shutters, as if for the night. Then turning to Colonel Wyndham, whom alone he knew, he said:

"I am sorry to say that my news is bad, sir. An hour since I went round to the man who had engaged to take you across to St. Malo, but his wife has got an inkling of his intentions. She has locked him into his room, and swears that if he attempts to come forth she will give the alarm to the Parliament troops; for that she will not have herself and her children sacrificed by meddlings of his in the affairs of state."



Chapter XXIV.

Across The Sea.


The announcement of the innkeeper struck consternation into the party.

"This is bad news indeed," Colonel Wyndham said; "what does your majesty advise now?"

"I know not, my good Wyndham," King Charles replied. "Methinks 'twere better that I should give myself up at once. Fate seems against us, and I'm only bringing danger on all my friends."

"Your friends are ready to risk the danger," Colonel Wyndham said; "and I doubt not that we shall finally place your majesty in safety. I think we had best try Bridport. Unfortunately, the Roundheads are so sure of your being on the coast that it is well-nigh impossible to procure a ship, so strict is the search of all who leave port. If we could but put them off your scent, and lead them to believe that you have given it up in despair here, and are trying again to reach Scotland, it might throw them off their guard, and make it more easy for us to find a ship."

"I might do that," Harry said. "I have with me my comrade Jacob, who is about the king's height and stature. I will travel north again, and will in some way excite suspicion that he is the king. The news that your majesty has been seen traveling there will throw them off your track here."

"But you may be caught yourself," the king said. "The Earl of Derby and other officers have been executed. There would be small chance for you were you to fall into their hands."

"I trust that I shall escape, sire. My friend Jacob is as cunning as a fox, and will, I warrant me, throw dust in their eyes. And how has it fared with your majesty since I left you at White Ladies?"

"Faith," Charles replied, laughing, "I have been like a rat with the dogs after him. The next night after leaving you I was in danger from a rascally miller, who raised an alarm because we refused to stay at his bidding. Then we made for Moseley, where I hoped to cross the Severn. The Roundheads had set a guard there, and Richard Penderell went to the house of Mr. Woolfe, a loyal gentleman, and asked him for shelter for an officer from Worcester. Mr. Woolfe said he would risk his neck for none save the king himself. Then Richard told him who I was, and brought me in. Mr. Woolfe hid me in the barn and gave me provisions. The neighborhood was dangerous, for the search was hot thereabout, and I determined to double back again to White Ladies, that I might hear what had become of Wilmot. Richard Penderell guided me to Boscabell, a farmhouse kept by his brother William. Here I found Major Careless in hiding. The search was hot, and we thought of hiding in a wood near, but William advised that as this might be searched we should take refuge in an oak lying apart in the middle of the plain."

"This had been lopped three or four years before and had grown again very thick and bushy, so that it could not be seen through. So, early in the morning, Careless and I, taking provisions for the day, climbed up it and hid there, and it was well we did so, for in the day the Roundheads came and searched the wood from end to end, as also the house. But they did not think of the tree. The next two days I lay at Boscabell, and learned on the second day that Wilmot was hiding at the house of Mr. Whitgrave, a Catholic gentleman at Moseley, where he begged me to join him. That night I rode thither. The six Penderells, for there were that number of brothers, rode with me as a bodyguard. I was well received by Mr. Whitgrave, who furnished me with fresh linen, to my great comfort, for that which I had on was coarse, and galled my flesh grievously, and my feet were so sore I could scarce walk. But the Roundheads were all about, and the search hot, and it was determined that I should leave. This time I was dressed as a decent serving man, and Colonel Lane's daughter agreed to go with me. I was to pass as her serving man, taking her to Bristol. A cousin rode with us in company. Colonel Lane procured us a pass, and we met with no adventure for three days. A smith who shod my horse, which had cast a shoe, did say that that rogue Charles Stuart had not been taken yet, and that he thought he ought to be hanged. I thought so too, so we had no argument. At Bristol we could find no ship in which I could embark, and after some time I went with Miss Lane and her cousin to my good friend Colonel Wyndham, at Trent House. After much trouble he had engaged a ship to take me hence, and now this rascal refuses to go, or rather his wife refuses for him. And now, my friend, we will at once make for Bridport, since Colonel Wyndham hopes to find a ship there. I trust we may meet ere long in France. None of my friends have served me and my father more faithfully than you. It would seem but a mockery now to take knighthood at the hands of Charles Stuart, but it will not harm thee."

Taking a sword from Colonel Wyndham, the king dubbed Harry knight. Then giving his hand to the landlord to kiss, Charles, accompanied by his two companions, left the inn.

A few minutes later Harry started and joined his friends. Jacob agreed at once to the proposal to throw the Roundheads off King Charles' track. The next day they started north, and traveled through Wiltshire up into Gloucestershire, still keeping their disguises as gypsies. There they left their donkey with a peasant, telling him they would return in a fortnight's time and claim it. In a wood near they again changed their disguise, hid their gypsy dresses, and started north on foot. In the evening they stopped at Fairford, and took up their abode at a small inn, where they asked for a private room. They soon ascertained that the landlord was a follower of the Parliament. Going toward the room into which they were shown, Jacob stumbled, and swore in a man's voice, which caused the servant maid who was conducting them to start and look suspiciously at him. Supper was brought, but Harry noticed that the landlord, who himself brought it in, glanced several times at Jacob. They were eating their supper when they heard his footstep again coming along the passage. Harry dropped on one knee, and was in the act of handing the jug in that attitude to Jacob, when the landlord entered. Harry rose hastily, as if in confusion, and the landlord, setting down on the table a dish which he had brought, again retired.

"Throw up the window, Jacob, and listen," Harry said. "We must not be caught like rats in a trap."

The window opened into a garden, and Jacob, listening, could hear footsteps as of men running in the streets.

"That is enough, then," Harry said. "The alarm is given. Now let us be off." They leaped from the window, and they were soon making their way across the country. They had not been gone a hundred yards before they heard a great shouting, and knew that their departure had been discovered. They had not walked far that day and now pressed forward north. They had filled their pockets with the remains of their supper, and after walking all night, left the road, and climbing into a haystack at a short distance, ate their breakfast and were soon fast asleep.

It was late in the afternoon before they awoke. Then they walked on until, after darkness fell, they entered a small village. Here they went into a shop to buy bread. The woman looked at them earnestly.

"I do not know whether it concerns you," she said, "but I will warn you that this morning a mounted man from Fairford came by warning all to seize a tall countryman with a young fellow and a woman with him, for that she was no other than King Charles."

"Thanks, my good woman," Jacob said. "Thanks for your warning. I do not say that I am he you name, but whether or no, the king shall hear some day of your good-will."

Traveling on again, they made thirty miles that night, and again slept in a wood. The next evening, when they entered a village to buy food, the man in the shop, after looking at them, suddenly seized Jacob, and shouted loudly for help. Harry stretched him on the ground with a heavy blow of the stout cudgel he carried. The man's shouts, however, had called up some of his neighbors, and these ran up as they issued from the shop, and tried to seize them. The friends, however, struck out lustily with their sticks, Jacob carrying one concealed beneath his dress. In two or three minutes they had fought their way clear, and ran at full speed through the village, pursued by a shouting crowd of rustics.

"Now," Harry said, "we can return for our gypsy dresses, and then make for the east coast. We have put the king's enemies off the scent. I trust that when we may get across the water we may hear that he is in safety."

They made a long detour, traveling only at night, Harry entering alone after dusk the villages where it was necessary to buy food. When they regained the wood where they had left their disguises they dressed themselves again as gypsies, called for the donkey, and then journeyed across England by easy stages to Colchester, where they succeeded in taking passage in a lugger bound for Hamburg. They arrived there in safety, and found to their great joy the news had arrived that the king had landed in France.

He had, they afterward found, failed to obtain a ship at Bridport, where when he arrived he here found a large number of soldiers about to cross to Jersey. He returned to Trent House, and a ship at Southampton was then engaged. But this was afterward taken up for the carriage of troops. A week later a ship lying at Shoreham was hired to carry a nobleman and his servant to France, and King Charles, with his friends, made his way thither in safety. The captain of the ship at once recognized the king, but remained true to his promise, and landed him at Fécamp in Normandy.

Six weeks had elapsed since the battle of Worcester, and during that time the king's hiding-places had been known to no less than forty-five persons, all of whom proved faithful to the trust, and it was owing to their prudence and caution as well as to their loyalty that the king escaped, in spite of the reward offered and the hot search kept up everywhere for him.

Harry had now to settle upon his plans for the future. There was no hope whatever of an early restoration. He had no thought of hanging about the king whose ways and dissolute associates revolted him. It was open to him to take service, as so many of his companions had done, in one or other of the Continental armies, but Harry had had more than enough of fighting. He determined then to cross the ocean to the plantations of Virginia, where many loyal gentlemen had established themselves. The moneys which Colonel Furness had during the last four years regularly sent across to a banker at the Hague, for his use, were lying untouched, and these constituted a sum amply sufficient for establishing himself there. Before starting, however, he determined that if possible he would take a wife with him. In all his wanderings he had never seen any one he liked so much as his old playmate, Lucy Rippinghall. It was nearly four years since he had seen her, and she must now be twenty-one. Herbert, he knew by his father's letters, had left the army at the end of the first civil war, and was carrying on his father's business, the wool-stapler having been killed at Marston Moor. Harry wrote to the colonel, telling him of his intention to go to Virginia and settle there until either Cromwell's death, and the dying out of old animosities, or the restoration of the king permitted him to return to England, and also that he was writing to ask Lucy Rippinghall to accompany him as his wife. He told his father that he was well aware that he would not have regarded such a match as suitable had he been living at home with him at Furness Hall, but that any inequality of birth would matter no whit in the plantations of Virginia, and that such a match would greatly promote his happiness there. By the same mail he wrote to Herbert Rippinghall.

"My DEAR HERBERT: The bonds of affection which held us together when boys are in no way slackened in their hold upon me, and you showed, when we last met, that you loved me in no way less than of old. I purpose sailing to Virginia with such store of money as would purchase a plantation there, and there I mean to settle down until such times as these divisions in England may be all passed. But I would fain not go alone. As a boy I loved your sister Lucy, and I have seen none to take the place of her image in my heart. She is, I know, still unmarried, but I know not whether she has any regard for me. I do beseech you to sound her, and if she be willing to give her to me. I hear that you are well married, and can therefore the better spare her. If she be willing to take me, I will be a good husband to her, and trust some day or other to bring her back to be lady of Furness Hall. Although I know that she will care little for such things, I may say that she would be Lady Lucy, since the king has been pleased to make me Sir Harry Furness. Should the dear girl be willing, will you, since I cannot come to you, bring her hither to me. I have written to my father, and have told him what I purpose to do. Trusting that this will find you as well disposed toward me as ever, I remain, your affectionate friend, HARRY FURNESS."

This letter, together with that to his father, Harry gave to Mike. The post in those days was extremely irregular, and none confided letters of importance to it which could possibly be sent by hand. Such a communication as that to Herbert Rippinghall was not one which Harry cared to trust to the post. Mike had never been at Abingdon, and would therefore be unknown there. Nor, indeed, unless they were taken prisoners in battle or in the first hot pursuit, were any of lower degree meddled with after their return to their homes. There was therefore no fear whatever of molestation. At this time Jacob was far from well. The fatigues which he had undergone since the king broke up his camp at Stirling had been immense. Prolonged marches, great anxiety, sleeping on wet ground, being frequently soaked to the skin by heavy rains, all these things had told upon him, and now that the necessity for exertion was over, a sort of low fever seized him, and he was forced to take to his bed. The leech whom Harry called in told him that Jacob needed rest and care more than medicine. He gave him, however, cooling drinks, and said that when the fever passed he would need strengthening food and medicine.

Hamburg was at that time the resort of many desperate men from England. After Worcester, as after the crushing out of the first civil war, those too deeply committed to return to their homes sought refuge here. But though all professed to be Cavaliers, who were suffering only from their loyalty to the crown, a great many of them were men who had no just claim to so honorable a position. There were many who took advantage of the times in England to satisfy private enmities or to gratify evil passions. Although the courts of law sat during the whole of the civil war, and the judges made their circuits, there was necessarily far more crime than in ordinary times. Thus many of those who betook themselves to Hamburg and other seaports on the continent had made England too hot for them by crimes of violence and dishonesty.

The evening after Mike sailed Harry, who had been sitting during the afternoon chatting by Jacob's bedside, went out to take the air. He strolled along the wharves, near which were the drinking-houses, whence came sounds of singing, dancing, and revelry, mingled occasionally with shouts and the clash of steel, as quarrels arose among the sailors and others frequenting them. Never having seen one of these places, Harry strolled into one which appeared of a somewhat better class than the rest. At one end was a sort of raised platform, upon which were two men, with fiddles, who, from time to time, played lively airs, to which those at the tables kept time by stamping their feet. Sometimes men or women came on to the platform and sang. The occupants of the body of the hall were mostly sailors, but among whom were a considerable number of men, who seemed by their garb to be broken-down soldiers and adventurers.

Harry took his seat by the door, called for a glass of wine and drank it, and, having soon seen enough of the nature of the entertainment, was about to leave, when his attention was attracted by a young girl who took her place on the platform. She was evidently a gypsy, for at this time these people were the minstrels of Europe. It would have been considered shameful for any other woman to sing publicly. Two or three of these women had already sung, and Harry had been disgusted with their hard voices and bold looks. But he saw that the one who now took her place on the platform was of a different nature. She advanced nervously, and as if quite strange to such a scene, and touched her guitar with trembling fingers. Then she began to sing a Spanish romance in a sweet, pure voice. There was a good deal of applause when it finished, for even the rough sailors could appreciate the softness and beauty of the melody. Then a half-drunken man shouted, "Give us something lively. Sing 'May the Devil fly off with Old Noll.'"

The proposal was received with a shout of approval by many, but some of the sailors cried out, "No, no. No politics. We won't hear Cromwell insulted."

This only led to louder and more angry shouts on the part of the others, and in all parts of the room men rose to their feet, gesticulating and shouting. The girl, who evidently did not understand a word that was said, stood looking with affright at the tumult which had so suddenly risen. In a minute swords were drawn. The foreign sailors, in ignorance of the cause of dispute, drew their knives, and stood by the side of those from the English ships, while the foreign soldiers seemed ready to make common cause with the English who had commenced the disturbance. Two or three of the latter leaped upon the platform to insist upon their wishes being carried out. The girl, with a little scream, retreated into a corner. Harry, indignant at the conduct to his countrymen, had drawn his sword, and made his way quietly toward the end of the hall, and he now sprang upon the platform.

"Stand back," he shouted angrily. "I'll spit the first man who advances a step."

"And who are you, sir, who ventures to thrust yourself into a quarrel, and to interfere with English gentlemen?"

"English gentlemen," Harry said bitterly. "God help England if you are specimens of her gentlemen."

"S'death!" exclaimed one. "Run the scoundrel through, Ralph."

In a moment Harry slashed open the cheek of one, and ran the other through the arm. By this time the fray had become general in the hall. Benches were broken up, swords and knives were used freely. Just as the matter began to grow serious there was a cry of "The watch!" and a strong armed guard entered the hall.

There was an instant cessation of hostilities, and then both parties uniting, rushed upon the watch, and by sheer weight bore them back out of the place. Harry looked round, and saw that the girl had fled by a door at the back of the platform. Seeing that a fight was going on round the door, and desiring to escape from the broil, he went out by the door she had taken, followed a passage for some distance, went down a dimly-lighted stair, and issued through a door into the air. He found himself in a foul and narrow lane. It was entirely unlighted, and Harry made his way with difficulty along, stumbling into holes in the pavement, and over heaps of rubbish of all kinds.

"I have got into a nice quarter of the town," he muttered to himself. "I have heard there are places in Hamburg, the resort of thieves and scoundrels of the worst kind, and where even the watch dare not penetrate, Methinks that this must be one them."

He groped his way along till he came to the end of the lane. Here a dim light was burning. Three or four other lanes, in appearance as forbidding as that up which he had come, met at this spot. Several men were standing about. Harry paused for a moment, wondering whether he had better take the first turning at random, or invite attention by asking his way. He determined that the former was the least dangerous alternative, and turned down the lane to his right. He had not gone ten steps when a woman came up to him from behind.

"Are you not the gentleman who drew a sword to save me from insult?" she asked in French.

Harry understood enough of the language to make out what she said.

"Yes," he said, "if you are the singer."

"Good heavens! sir, what misfortune has brought you here? I recognized your face in the light. Your life, sir, is in the greatest danger. There are men here who would murder you for the sake of a gold piece, and that jewel which fastens your plume must have caught their eyes. Follow me, sir, quickly."



Chapter XXV.

A Plot Overheard.


As the gypsy ended her warning she sprang forward, saying, "Follow me, for your life, sir." Harry did not hesitate. He heard several footsteps coming down the lane, and drawing his sword he followed his guide at a run. As he did so there was a shout among the men behind him and these set off in hot pursuit. Harry kept close to the girl, who turned down another lane even more narrow than that they were leaving. A few paces further she stopped, opened a door and entered. Harry followed her in and she closed the door behind her.

"Hush!" she whispered. "There are men here as bad as those without. Take off your shoes."

Harry did as directed. He was in pitch darkness. Taking him by the hand, the girl led him forward for some distance.

"There is a staircase here," she whispered.

Still holding his hand, she began to mount the stairs. As they passed each landing Harry heard the voices of men in the rooms on either side. At last they arrived at the top of the house. Here she opened a door, and led Harry into a room.

"Are you here, mother?" she asked.

There was no answer. The girl uttered an exclamation of thankfulness; then, after groping about, she found a tinder-box, and struck a light.

"You are safe here for the present. This is my room, where I live with my mother. At least," she sighed, "she calls herself my mother, and is the only one I have known."

"Is it possible," Harry asked in surprise, "that one like yourself can live in such an abode as this?"

"I am safe here," she answered. "There are five men of my tribe in the next room, and fierce and brutal as are the men of these courts, none of them would care to quarrel with the gypsies. But now I have got you here, how am I to get you away?"

"If the gypsies are so feared, I might go out with them," Harry said.

"Alas!" the girl answered, "they are as had as the others. And even if they were disposed to aid you for the kindness you have shown me, I doubt if they could do so. Assuredly they would not run the risk of thwarting the cutthroats here for the sake of saving you."

"Could you go and tell the watch?" Harry asked.

"The watch never comes here," the girl replied, shaking her head. "Were they to venture up these lanes it would be like entering a hive of bees. This is an Alsatia -- a safe refuge for assassins and robbers."

"I have got myself into a nice mess," Harry said. "It seems to me I had better sally out and take my chance."

"Look," the girl said, going to the window and opening it.

Peering out, Harry saw below a number of men with swords and knives drawn. One or two had torches, and they were examining every doorway and court. Outside the window ran a parapet.

"They will search like hounds," the girl continued. "They must know that you have not gone far. If they come here you must take to the parapet, and go some distance along. Now, I must try and find some disguise for you."

At this moment the door opened, and an old woman entered. She uttered an exclamation of astonishment at seeing Harry, and turning angrily to the girl, spoke to her in the gypsy dialect. For two or three minutes the conversation continued in that language; then the old woman turned to Harry, and said in English:

"My daughter tells me that you have got into a broil on her behalf. There are few gentlemen who draw sword for a gypsy. I will do my best to aid you, but it will be difficult to get a gallant like yourself out of this place."

Her eye fell covetously upon the jewel in Harry's hat. He noticed the glance.

"Thanks, dame," he said; "I will gladly repay your services. Will you accept this token?" And removing the jewel from the hat, he offered it to her.

The girl uttered an angry exclamation as the old woman seized it, and after examining it by the candle light, placed it in a small iron coffer. Harry felt he had done wisely, for the old woman's face bore a much warmer expression of good-will than had before characterized it.

"You cannot leave now," she said. "I heard as I came along that a well-dressed gallant had been seen in the lanes, and every one's mouth is on water. They said that they thought he had some woman with him, but I did not dream it was Zita. You cannot leave to-night; to-morrow I will get you some clothes of my son's, and in these you should be able to escape without detection."

Very slowly the hours passed. The women at times talked together in Romaic, while Harry, who had possession of the only chair in the room, several times nodded off to sleep. In the morning there was a movement heard in the next room, and the old woman went in there.

"Surely that woman cannot be your mother?" Harry said to the girl.

"She is not," she answered. "I believe that I was stolen as a child; indeed, they have owned as much. But what can I do? I am one of them. What can a gypsy do? We are good for nothing but to sing and to steal."

"If I get free from this scrape," Harry said, "you may be sure that shall not be ungrateful, and if you long to leave this life, I can secure you a quiet home in England with my father."

The girl clasped her hands in delight.

"Oh, that would be too good!" she exclaimed. "Too good; but I fear it can never be."

She put her fingers to her lips, as the door again opened. The old woman entered, carrying some clothes.

"Here," she said; "they have gone out; put these on, Zita and I will go out and see if the coast is clear."

Harry, smiling to himself at the singularity of his having twice to disguise himself as a gypsy, rapidly changed his clothes. Presently the old woman returned.

"Quick," she exclaimed; "I hear that the news of the riot in the drinking-house has got about this morning, and it is known that an Englishman, something like the one seen in the lanes, took Zita's part, and there are suspicions that it was she who acted as his guide. They have been roughly questioning us. I told her to go on to avoid suspicion, while I ran back. You cannot stir out now, and I heard a talk of searching our rooms. Come, then, we may find a room unoccupied below; you must take refuge there for the present."

Harry still retained his sword, incongruous as it was with his attire, but he had determined to hide it under his clothes, so that, if detected, he might be able at least to sell his life. Taking it in his hand, he followed the old woman downstairs. She listened at each door, and continued downward until she reached the first floor.

"I can hear no one here," she said, listening at a door. "Go up a few steps; I will knock. If any one is there I can make some excuse."

She knocked, but there was no answer. Then she drew from her pocket a piece of bent wire, and inserted it in the keyhole.

"We gypsies can enter where we will," she said, beckoning Harry to enter as the door opened. "Wait quiet here till I come for you. The road will be clear then." So saying, she closed the door behind him, and again shot the bolt.

Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. Should the owner of the room return, he would be taken for a thief, although, as he thought, looking round the room, there was little enough to steal. It was a large room, with several truckle beds standing against the walls. In the center was a table, upon which were some mugs, horns, and empty bottles, with some dirty cards scattered about. The place smelled strongly of tobacco, and benches lying on the ground showed that the party of the night before had ended in a broil, further evidence to which was given by stains of blood on one of the beds, and by a rag saturated with blood, which lay beside it. At one side of the room was a door, giving communication into the next apartment. Scarcely had Harry entered when he heard voices there, and was surprised to find that the speakers were English.

"I tell you I'm sick of this," one of the speakers said. "I might be as well hanged at home as starved here."

"You might enlist," another voice said, in sneering tones. "Gallant soldiers are welcome in the Low Countries."

"You'd best keep your sneering tongue between your lips," the other said angrily. "If I don't care for fighting in the field, I can use a knife at a pinch, as you know full well. You will carry your gibes too far with me some day. No," he went on more calmly, after a pause, "I shall go back to England next week, after Marmaduke Harris and his gang have finished Oliver. The country will be turned so topsy-turvy that there will be no nice inquiry into bygones, and at any rate I can keep out of London."

"Yes, it will be wise to do that," the other said, since that little affair when the mercer and his wife in Cheap were found with their throats cut, and you -- "

"Fire and furies! John Marlow, do you want three inches of steel in your ribs?"

"By no means!" the other answered. "You have become marvelously straightlaced all at once. As you know, I have been concerned in as many affairs as you have. Aha! I have had a merry time of it!"

"And may again," the other said. "Noll once dead, there will be good times for us again. It is a pity that you and I were too well known to have a hand in the job. Dost think there is any chance of a failure?"

"None," the other replied. "It is in good hands. Black Harry has bribed a cook wench, who will open the back door. They say he was to return to London this week, and if so Sunday is fixed for the affair. Five days yet, and say another week for the news to get here. In a fortnight we will be on our way to England. There, I am thirsty, and we left the bottle in the next room. We had a late night of it with the boys there."

During this conversation, to which Harry listened breathlessly, he had heard the tramp of feet going upstairs, and just as they finished speaking these had descended again. A moment later the door between the two rooms opened, and a man in the faded finery of a Royalist gentleman entered.

"Fires and furies!" he exclaimed. "Whom have we here? Marlow, here is an eavesdropper or a thief. We will slit his weasand. Aha!" he said, gazing fixedly at Harry, "you are Colonel Furness. I know you. You had me flogged the day before Worcester, for helping myself to an old woman's purse. It is my turn now."

Joined by his fellow ruffian he fell upon Harry, but they were no match for the Royalist colonel. After a few rapid thrusts and parries he ran his first assailant through the body and cut down the man called Marlow, with a sweeping blow which nearly cleft his head asunder.

Scarcely was the conflict ended when the door opened, and the old gypsy entered. She started at seeing the bodies of the two ruffians.

"I have been attacked," Harry said briefly, "and have defended myself."

"It is no business of mine," the old woman remarked. "When I have guided you out I will come back again. It's strange if there's not something worth picking up. Now, pull your hat well over your eyes and follow me."

Closing and locking the door again, she led the way downstairs.

"Do not walk so straight and stiff," she said. "Slouch your shoulders, and stoop your head. Now."

Harry sallied out into the lane, keeping by the side of his guide, with his head bent forward, and his eyes on the ground, walking, as far as he could, with a listless gait. The old woman continued to chatter to him in Romaic. There were many people about in the lane, but none paid any heed to them. Harry did not look up, but turned with his guide down several lanes, until they at length emerged on the quays. Saying she would call next day at his hotel for the reward he had promised her, she left him, and Harry, with his head full of the plot against Cromwell's life, crossed at once to the vessels by the quay.

"Is any ship sailing for the Thames to-day?" he asked.

"Yes," the sailor said. "The Mary Anne is just hoisting her anchor now, out there in midstream. You will be but just in time, for the anchor's under her foot."

Harry sprang into a boat and told the waterman to row to the ship. The latter stared in astonishment at the authoritative manner in which this gypsy addressed him, but Harry thrust his hand into his pocket, and showed him some silver.

"Quick, man," he said, "for she is moving. You will have double fare to put me on board."

The man pulled vigorously, and they were soon alongside the brig.

"Halloo! what now?" the captain said, looking over the side.

"I want a passage to England, and will pay you your own price."

"You haven't been killing any one, have you?" the captain asked. "I don't want to have trouble when I come back here, for carrying off malefactors."

"No, indeed," Harry said, as he lightly leaped on the deck. "I am Sir Harry Furness, though I may not look it, and am bound to England on urgent business. It is all right, my good fellow, and here is earnest money for my passage," and he placed two pieces of gold in the captain's hand.

"That will do," the captain said. "I will take you."

Harry went to the side.

"Here, my man, is your money, and a crown piece beside. Go to the Hotel des Etoiles and ask for the English officer who is there lying sick. Tell him Colonel Furness has been forced to leave for England at a moment's notice, but will be back by the first ship."

The man nodded, and rowed back to shore as the Mary Anne, with her sails hoisted, ran down the river.

Never did a voyage appear longer to an anxious passenger than did that of the Mary Anne to England. The winds were light and baffling, and at times the Mary Anne scarce moved through the water. Harry had no love for Cromwell. Upon the contrary, he regarded him as the deadliest enemy of the king, and moreover personally hated him for the cruel massacre of Drogheda. In battle he would have gladly slain him, but he was determined to save him from assassination. He felt the man to be a great Englishman, and knew that it was greatly due to his counsels that so little English blood had been shed upon the scaffold. Most of all, he thought that his assassination would injure the royal cause. The time was not yet ripe for a restoration. England had shown but lately that there existed no enthusiasm for the royal cause. At Cromwell's death the chief power would fall into the hands of fanatics more dangerous and more violent than he. His murder would be used as a weapon for a wholesale persecution of the Royalists throughout the land, and would create such a prejudice against them that the inevitable reaction in favor of royalty would be retarded for years. Full of these thoughts, Harry fretted and fumed over the slow progress of the Mary Anne. Late on Saturday night she entered the mouth of the Thames, and anchored until the tide turned. Before daybreak she was on her way, and bore up on the tide as far as Gravesend, when she had again to anchor. Harry obtained a boat and was rowed to shore. In his present appearance, he did not like to go to one of the principal inns for a horse, but entering a small one on the outskirts of the place, asked the landlord if he could procure him a horse.

"I am not what I seem," he said, in answer to his host's look of surprise. "But I have urgent need to get to London this evening. I will pay well for the horse, and will leave this ring with you as a guarantee for his safe return."

"I have not a horse myself," the landlord said, with more respect than he had at first shown; "but I might get one from my neighbor Harry Fletcher, the butcher. Are you willing to pay a guinea for his use? Fletcher will drive you himself."

Harry agreed to the sum, and a quarter of an hour later the man, with a light horse and cart, came to the door.

"You are a strange-looking carle," he said, "to be riding on a Sunday in haste; I scarce like being seen with thee."

"I have landed but an hour ago," Harry said, "and can buy no clothes to-day; but if you or mine host here, who is nearer my size, have a decent suit which you can sell me, I will pay you double the sum it cost."

The landlord at once agreed to the terms, and five minutes later Harry, clad in the sober garb of a decent tradesman, mounted the cart. The horse was not a fast one, and the roads were bad. It was nigh six o'clock before they reached London. Paying Fletcher the sum agreed upon, Harry walked rapidly westward. Cromwell was abiding in a house in Pall Mall. Upon Harry arriving there he was asked his business.

"The general is ill," the servant said, "and can see no one."

"I must see him," Harry urged. "It is a matter of the extremest importance."

"See him you cannot," the man repeated, "and it were waste of words to talk further on the matter. Dost think that, even were he well, the general, with all the affairs of the Commonwealth on his shoulders, has time to see every gossiping citizen who would have speech with him?"

Harry slipped a gold piece into the man's hand.

"It is useless," the man said. "The general is, as I truly told thee, ill."

Harry stood in despair, "Could you gain me speech with the general's wife?"

"Ay," the man said. "I might do that. What name shall say?"

"She would not know my name. Merely say that one wishes to speak to her on a matter nearly touching the safety of the general."

"Hadst thou said that at once," the man grumbled, "I might have admitted you before. There are many rumors of plots on the part of the malignants against the life of the general. I will take your message to Madam Cromwell, and she can deal with it as she will."

The man was absent for a few minutes. Then he returned with an officer.

"Can you tell me," the latter asked, "what you have to reveal?"

"No," Harry replied, "I must speak with the general himself."

"Beware," the officer said sternly, "that you trifle not. The general is sick, and has many things on his mind; 'twill be ill for you if you disturb him without cause."

"The cause is sufficient," Harry said. "I would see him in person."

Without a word the officer turned and led the way to a room upstairs, where Cromwell was sitting at a table, His wife was near him. A Bible lay open before him. Cromwell looked steadily at Harry.

"I hear that you have a matter of importance to tell me, young man, and one touching my safety. I know that there are many who thirst for my blood. But I am in the hands of the Lord, who has so far watched over His servant. If there be truth in what you have to tell you will be rewarded."

"I seek for no reward," Harry said. "I have gained knowledge of a plot against your life. Do you wish that I should speak in the presence of this officer?"

"Assuredly," the general said.

"Briefly, then, I have arrived from Hamburg but now to give you warning of a matter which came to my ears. I overheard, how it matters not, a conversation between two rascals who gave themselves out as Royalists, but who were indeed rather escaped criminals, to the effect that men had gone over thence to England with the intention of killing you. The plot was to come off to-night, Whether there be any change in the arrangements or no I cannot say, but the matter was, as they said, fixed for to-night. One of the women servants has been bribed to open the back entrance and to admit them there, More than this I know not."

"You speak, sir, as one beyond your station," Cromwell said; "and methinks I know both your face and figure, which are not easily forgotten when once seen."

"It matters not who I am," Harry replied, "so that the news I bring be true. I am no friend of yours, but a servant of King Charles. Though I would withstand you to the death in the field, I would not that a life like yours should be cut short by assassination; or that the royal cause should be sullied by such a deed, the dishonor of which, though planned and carried out by a small band of desperate partisans, would yet, in the eyes of the world, fall upon all who followed King Charles."

"You are bold, sir," Cromwell said. "But I wonder not, for I know you now. We have met, so far as I know, but once before. That was after Drogheda, where you defended the church, and where I spared your life at the intercession of my chaplain. I heard of you afterward as having, by a desperate enterprise, escaped, and afterward captured a ship with prisoners; and as having inflicted heavy loss and damage upon the soldiers of Parliament. You fought at Dunbar and Worcester, and, if I mistake not, incurred the enmity of the Earl of Argyll."

"I am Sir Harry Furness," Harry said calmly; "his majesty having been pleased to bestow upon me the honor of knighthood. Nor are you mistaken touching the other matters, since you yourself agreed at the lonely house on the moor to hand me over to Colonel Campbell, as his price for betraying the post I commanded. That matter, as you may remember, turned out otherwise than had been expected. I am not ashamed of my name, nor have I any fear of its being known to you. I have come over to do you service, and fear not harm at your hands when on such business."

"Why then did you not tell me at once?" Cromwell asked.

"Simply because I seek no favor at your hands. I would not that you should think that Harry Furness sought to reconcile himself with the Commons, by giving notice of a plot against your life. I am intending to start for Virginia and settle there, and would not stoop to sue for amnesty, though I should never see Furness Hall or England again."

Harry spoke in a tone of haughty frankness, which carried conviction with it.

"I doubt you not," Cromwell said. "You have been a bitter foe to the Commons, Colonel Furness, but it is not of men like you that we need be afraid. You meet us fairly in the field, and fight us loyally and honorably. It is the tricksters, the double-dealers, and the traitors, the men who profess to be on our side but who burrow in the dark against us, who trouble our peace. In this matter I am greatly beholden to you. Now that you have given us warning of the plot, it will be met if attempted. But should these men's hearts fail them, or for any other cause the attempt be laid aside, I shall be none the less indebted to you. I trust, Colonel Furness, that you will not go to the plantations. England needs honest men here. There is a great work yet to be done before happiness and quiet are restored; and we need all wise and good men in the counsels of the state. Be assured that you are free to return and dwell with the Cavalier, your father, at your pleasure. He drew aside from the strife when he saw that the cause he fought for was hopeless, and none have interfered with him. Charles will, methinks, fight no more in England. His cause is lost, and wise men will adapt themselves to the circumstances. Let me know where you lodge to-night. You will hear further from me to-morrow."



Chapter XXVI.

Rest At Last.


Harry slept at an inn in Westminster, and the next morning on going down to his breakfast, he found people much excited, a rumor having gone about that an attack had been made upon Cromwell's house during the night, and that several had been killed, but no harm done to the general. An hour afterward a messenger brought word that General Cromwell wished to see Colonel Furness. After his breakfast Harry had at once gone out and purchased clothes suitable to a country gentleman; in these he proceeded to the general, and was at once shown up to his room.

"Your news was trustworthy, Colonel Furness, and Oliver Cromwell owes his life to you. Soon after midnight one of the serving wenches opened the back door, and eight men entered. Had no watch been set, they would doubtless have reached my room unobserved, by the staircase which leads from that part of the house. As it was, I had a guard in waiting, and when the men were fairly inside they fell upon them. The soldiers were too quick with them, being hot at the plot which was intended against my life, and all were killed, together with the wench who admitted them, who was stabbed by one of the men at the first alarm, thinking doubtless she had betrayed them. I hear that none of them have the air of gentlemen, but are clearly broken men and vagabonds. The haste of my soldiers has prevented me from getting any clew as to those who set them on, but I am sure that no English gentleman, even although devoted to the cause of Charles Stuart, would so plot against my life. And now, sir, I thank you heartily for the great service you have rendered me. My life is, I think, precious to England, where I hope to do some good work before I die. I say only in return that henceforth you may come and go as you list; and I hope yet that you will sit by me in Parliament, and aid me to set things in England in order. Do not take this, sir, as in any way a recompense for saving my life. The war is over; a few of those who had troubled, and would always trouble the peace of England, have been executed. Against the rest we bear no malice. They are free to return to their homes and occupations as they list, and so long as they obey the laws, and abstain from fresh troubles and plots, none will molest them. But, sir, in order that no molestation or vexation may occur to you, here is a free pass, signed by General Fairfax and two of the commissioners, saying that you are at liberty to go or come and to stay where you please, without hindrance or molestation from any."

Harry took the document, bowed, and withdrew.

"It is a thousand pities," he said to himself, "that his majesty the king has not somewhat of this man's quality. This is a strong man, and a true. He may have his faults -- ay, he has them -- he is ambitions, he is far more fanatical for his religion than was Charles I. for his. He is far more absolute, far more domineering than was King Charles. Were he made king to-morrow, as I hear he is like enough to be, he would trample upon the Parliament and despise its will infinitely more than any English king would ever have dared to do. But for all that he is a great man, honest, sincere, and, above all, to be trusted. Who can say that for the Stuarts?"

Upon the day of his arrival Harry had written to Jacob telling him the cause of his sudden departure, and promising to return by the first ship, He hesitated now whether he should sail at once, or go down to see his father, but he determined that it would be best, at any rate in the first place, to return to Hamburg and look after his companion, and then to come over to see his father, before carrying out his intention of proceeding to Virginia. A ship would, he found, be sailing in three days, and he wrote to his father telling him that he had been in London for a day or two, but was forced by the illness of Jacob to return at once; but that upon his friend's recovery he would come back to Abingdon for a short time before leaving. He arrived at Hamburg without adventure. On reaching the hotel he was informed that Jacob was delirious, and that his life was despaired of. The rascally boatman could not have given the message with which he had been charged, since Jacob, upon the day after he was first missed, had risen from his bed, and insisted on going in search of him. He had, after many inquiries, learned that one answering to his description had taken part in a fray in a drinking-house -- interfering to protect a Bohemian singer from insult. Beyond this nothing could be heard of him. He had not been seen in the fray in the street, when several of the rioters had been captured and carried off by the watch, and some supposed that he might have left the place at the back, in which case it was feared that he might have been fallen upon and assassinated by the ruffians in the low quarter lying behind the drinking hall. Jacob had worked himself into a state of high fever by his anxiety, and upon returning to the hotel had become so violent that they were forced to restrain him. He had been bled and blistered, but had remained for a fortnight in a state of violent fever and delirium. This had now somewhat abated, but he was in such a weak state that the doctors feared the worst.

The return of Harry did more for him than all the doctors of Hamburg. He seemed at once to recognize his voice, and the pressure of his hand soothed and calmed him. He presently fell into a deep sleep, in which he lay for twelve hours, and on opening his eyes at once recognized his friend. His recovery now was rapid, and in a week he was able to sit up.

One morning the servant told Harry that a gentleman wished to speak to him, and a moment after his father entered. With a cry of delight father and son flew into each other's arms. It was four years since they had met, and both were altered much. The colonel had aged greatly, while Harry had grown into a broad and powerful man.

"My dear father, this is an unexpected pleasure indeed," Harry said, when the first burst of delight was over. "Did you not get my letter from London, saying that I hoped shortly to be with you?"

"From London!" the colonel exclaimed, astonished. "No, indeed; I have received no letter save that which your boy brought me. We started a week later for Southampton, where we were detained nigh ten days for a ship."

"And who is the we, father?" Harry asked anxiously.

"Ah," the old man said, "now you are in a hurry to know. Who should it be but Master Rippinghall and a certain young lady?"

"Oh, father, has Lucy really come?"

"Assuredly she has," Colonel Furness said, "and is now waiting in a private room below with her brother, for Sir Harry. I have not congratulated you yet, my boy, on your new dignity."

"And you really consent to my marriage, sir?"

"I don't see that I could help it," the colonel said, "since you had set your mind on it, especially as when I came to inquire I found the young lady was willing to go to Virginia. But we must talk of that anon. Yes, Harry, you have my full consent. The young lady is not quite of the rank of life I should have chosen for you; but ranks and classes are all topsy-turvy in England at present, and when we are ruled over by a brewer, it would be nice indeed to refuse to take a wool-stapler's sister for wife. But seriously, Harry, I am well contented. I knew little of the young lady except by common report, which spoke of her as the sweetest and kindest damsel in Abingdon. But now I have seen her, I wonder not at your choice. During the fortnight we have been together I have watched her closely, and I find in her a rare combination of gentleness and firmness. You have won her heart, Harry, though how she can have kept thee in mind all this time is more than I can tell. Her brother tells me that he placed no pressure upon her either for or against, though he desired much for your sake, and from the love he bore you, that she should accept of your suit. Now you had better go down, and learn from her own lips how it stands with her."

It need not to describe the meeting between Harry and his old friends. Herbert was warm and cordial as of old. Lucy was but little changed since Harry had seen her four years before, save that she was more fair and womanly.

"Your letter gave me," Herbert said, "a mixed feeling of pleasure and pain. I knew that my little sister has always looked upon you as a hero of romance, and though I knew not that as a woman her heart still turned to you, yet she refused so sharply and shrewishly all the suitors who came to her, that I suspected that her thoughts of you were more than a mere child's fancy. When your letter came I laid no pressure upon her, just as in other cases I have held aloof, and indeed have gained some ill-will at the hands of old friends because I would not, as her brother, and the head of the family, lay stress upon her. I read your letter to her, and she at first said she was ready to obey my wishes in the matter, and to go with you to Virginia if I bade her. I said that in such a matter it was her will and not mine which I wished to consult, and thus pressed into a corner, she owned that she would gladly go with you."

"Harry," the girl said, "for my tongue is not as yet used to your new title, under other circumstances I should have needed to be wooed and won like other girls. But seeing how strangely you are placed, and that you were about to start across the sea, to be absent perhaps for many years, I felt that it would not be worthy either of me or you were I to affect a maiden coyness and so to throw difficulties in your way. I feel the honor of the offer you have made me. That you should for so many years have been absent and seen the grand ladies of the court, and have yet thought of your little playfellow, shows that your heart is as true and good as I of old thought it to be, and I need feel no shame in acknowledging that I have ever thought of you with affection."

For the next few days there was much argument over the project of going to Virginia. Herbert, when he heard what had happened in London, joined his entreaties to those of Sir Henry, asserting that he had only consented to Lucy's going to so outlandish a place in the belief that there was no help for it, and that he did not think it fair for Harry to take her to such a life when he could stay comfortably at home. Sir Henry did not say much, but Harry could see how ardently he longed for him to remain. As for Lucy, she stood neutral, saying that assuredly she did not wish to go to Virginia, but that, upon the other hand, she should feel that her consent had been obtained under false pretenses, and that she had been defrauded of the enjoyment of a proper and regular courtship, did it prove that Harry might have come home and sought her hand in regular form. Harry's reluctance to remain arose principally from the fact that he had gained permission to do so by an act of personal service which he had done the king's great enemy. Had he been included in a general amnesty he would gladly have accepted it. However, his resolution gave way under the arguments of Herbert, who urged upon him that he had no right, on a mere point of punctilio, to leave his father in his old age, and to take Lucy from her country and friends to a life of hardship in the plantations of Virginia. At last he yielded. Then a difficulty arose with Lucy, who would fain have returned to Abingdon with her brother, and urged she should there have time given her to be married in regular fashion. This Harry would by no means consent to, and as both Sir Henry and Herbert saw no occasion for the delay, they were married a fortnight later at the Protestant church at Hamburg, Jacob, who was by this time perfectly restored to health, acting as his best man.

One of the first steps which Harry took after his return to Hamburg was to inquire about the gypsy maid who had done him such service. She was still singing at the drinking-house. Harry went down there in the daytime and gave one of the drawers a crown to tell her quietly that the Englishman she knew would fain see her, and would wait for her at a spot he named on the walk by the river bank, between ten and twelve the next day. Here, accompanied by Lucy, who, having heard of the service which the girl had rendered him, fully entered into his anxiety to befriend her, he awaited her the next day. She came punctual to the appointment, but in great fear that the old gypsy would discover her absence. Upon Harry telling her that Lucy, who was about to become his wife, would willingly take her to England and receive her as a companion until such time as some opportunity for furthering her way in life might appear, Zita accepted the proposal with tears of joy. She abhorred the life she was forced to lead, and it was only after many beatings and much ill-usage from the gypsies that she consented to it, and it made her life the harder, inasmuch as she knew that she had not been born to such a fate, but had been stolen as a child.

"What could have been their motive in carrying you away?" Lucy asked.

"I believe," the girl said, "from what they have told me, that I was taken in revenge. My father had charged one of the gypsies with theft, and the man having been hung, the others, to avenge themselves, carried me off."

"But why did you not, when you grew old enough, tell your story to the magistrates, and appeal to them for assistance?"

"Alas!" the girl said, "what proofs have I for my tale? Moreover, even were I believed, and taken from the gypsies, what was there for me to do, save to beg in the streets for charity?"

They now arranged with her the manner of her flight. She was afraid to meet them again lest her footsteps should be traced, for she was sure that the gypsies would carry her away to some other town if they had the least suspicion that she had made friends with any capable of taking her part, as the whole party lived in idleness upon the money she gained by singing. It was arranged, therefore, that the night before they were to depart Harry should appear in the singing hall, and should take his place near the door. She should let him know that she perceived him by passing her hand twice across her forehead. When the performance was over she should, instead of leaving as usual by the back way, slip down the steps, and mingle with those leaving the hall. Outside the door she would find Harry, who would take her to the hotel, where dresses would be provided for her. There she should stop the night, and go on board ship with them in the morning.

These arrangements were all carried out, and four days after the wedding of Harry and Lucy the party, with Zita, sailed for England. Had the tenantry on the Furness estate known of the home-coming of their young master and his bride, they would have given him a grand reception; but Harry and his father both agreed that this had better not be, for that it was as well to call no public attention to his return, even though he had received Cromwell's permission.

After all his adventures, Sir Harry Furness dwelt quietly and happily with his father. In the following years the English fleet fought many hard battles with the Dutch, and the Parliament, in order to obtain money, confiscated the property of most of those Cavaliers who had now returned under the Act of Amnesty. Steps were taken against Sir Henry Furness, but as he had taken no part in the troubles after the close of the first civil war, Cromwell, on receiving an application from him, peremptorily quashed the proceedings.

On April 20, 1653, Cromwell went down to the House with a body of troops, and expelled the Parliament, who were in the act of passing a bill for their own dissolution, and a new representation. He thus proved himself as tyrannous and despotic as any sovereign could have been. A new Parliament was summoned, but instead of its members being elected in accordance with the customs of England, they were selected and nominated by Cromwell himself. The history of England contains no instance of such a defiance of the constitutional rights of the people. But although he had grasped power arbitrarily and by force, Cromwell used it well and wisely, and many wise laws and great social reforms were passed by the Parliament under his orders. Still the fanatical party were in the majority in this body, and as Cromwell saw that these persons would push matters further than he wished, he made an arrangement with the minority, who resigned their seats, thereby leaving an insufficient number in the House to transact business. Cromwell accepted their resignation, and the Parliament then ceased to exist.

Four days later, on the 16th of December, Cromwell assumed the state and title of Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. For the next five years he governed England wisely and well. The Parliament was assembled, but as its proceedings were not in accordance with his wishes, he dissolved it, and for the most part governed England by his own absolute will. That it was a strong will and a wise cannot be questioned, but that a rising, which originally began because the king would not yield to the absolute will of Parliament, should have ended in a despotism, in which the chief of the king's opponents should have ruled altogether without Parliaments, is strange indeed. It is singular to find that those who make most talk about the liberties of Englishmen should regard as their hero and champion the man who trod all the constitutional rights of Englishmen under foot. But if a despot, Cromwell was a wise and firm one, and his rule was greatly for the good of the country. Above all, he brought the name of England into the highest honor abroad, and made it respected throughout Europe. Would that among all Englishmen of the present day there existed the same feeling of patriotism, the same desire for the honor and credit of their country, as dwelt in the breast of Oliver Cromwell.

On August 30, 1658, Cromwell died, and his son Richard succeeded him. The Parliament and the army soon fell out, and the army, coming down in force, dissolved Parliament, and Richard Cromwell ceased at once to have any power. The army called together forty-two of the old members of the Long Parliament, of extreme republican views, but these had no sooner met than they broke into divisions, and England was wholly without a government. So matters went on for some time, until General Monk, with the army of the north, came up to London. He had for weeks been in communication with the king. For a time he was uncertain of the course he should take, but after awhile he found that the feeling of London was wholly averse to the Parliament, and so resolved to take the lead in a restoration. A Parliament was summoned, and upon the day after its assembling Monk presented to them a document from King Charles, promising to observe the constitution, granting full liberty of conscience, and an amnesty for past offenses. Parliament at once declared in favor of the ancient laws of the kingdom, the government to be by King, Lords and Commons; and on May 8, 1660, Charles II. was proclaimed king, and on the 30th entered London in triumph.

Sir Harry Furness sat in the Parliament which recalled the king, and in many subsequent ones. His father came to London to see the royal entry, and both were most kindly received by the king, who expressed a warm hope that he should often see them at court. This, however, was not to be. The court of King Charles offered no attractions to pure-minded and honorable men. Sir Henry came no more to London, but lived quietly and happily to the end of a long life at Furness Hall, rejoicing much over the happiness of his son, and in the society of his daughter-in-law and her children. Herbert Rippinghall sat in Parliament for Abingdon. Except when obliged by his duties as a member to be in London, Sir Harry Furness lived quietly at Furness Hall, taking much interest in country matters. Twenty-eight years later James II fled from England, and William of Orange mounted the throne. At this time Sir Harry Furness was sixty-one, and he lived many years to see the freedom and rights for which Englishmen had so hotly struggled and fought now enjoyed by them in all their fullness.

A few words as to the other personages of this story. Jacob, three years after Harry's return to England, married the Spanish girl Zita, and settled down in a pretty house called the Dower House, on the Furness property, which, together with a large farm attached to it, Sir Henry Furness settled upon him, as a token of his affection and gratitude to him for the faithful services he had rendered to his son.

William Long was made bailiff of the estate, and Mike remained the attached and faithful body-servant of Sir Harry, until he, ten years later, married the daughter and heiress of a tradesman in Abingdon, and became a leading citizen of that town.

Although Harry was not of a revengeful disposition, he rejoiced exceedingly when he heard, two or three months after the king's restoration, of the execution of that doubly-dyed traitor, the Earl of Argyll.

<eob>

The Eagle Cliff

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

Begins The Tale -- Naturally.

From the earliest records of history we learn that man has ever been envious of the birds, and of all other winged creatures. He has longed and striven to fly. He has also signally failed to do so.

We say "failed" advisedly, because his various attempts in that direction have usually resulted in disappointment and broken bones. As to balloons, we do not admit that they fly any more than do ships; balloons merely float and glide, when not otherwise engaged in tumbling, collapsing, and bursting.

This being so, we draw attention to the fact that the nearest approach we have yet made to the sensation of flying is that achieved by rushing down a long, smooth, steep hill-road on a well-oiled and perfect ball-bearings bicycle! Skating cannot compare with this, for that requires exertion; bicycling down hill requires none. Hunting cannot, no matter how splendid the mount, for that implies a certain element of bumping, which, however pleasant in itself, is not suggestive of the smooth swift act of flying.

We introduce this subject merely because thoughts somewhat similar to those which we have so inadequately expressed were burning in the brain of a handsome and joyful young man one summer morning not long ago, as, with legs over the handles, he flashed -- if he did not actually fly -- down one of our Middlesex hills on his way to London.

Urgent haste was in every look and motion of that young man's fine eyes and lithe body. He would have bought wings at any price had that been possible; but, none being yet in the market, he made the most of his wheel -- a fifty-eight inch one, by the way, for the young man's legs were long, as well as strong.

Arrived at the bottom of the hill the hilarious youth put his feet to the treadles, and drove the machine vigorously up the opposite slope. It was steep, but he was powerful. He breathed hard, no doubt, but he never flagged until he gained the next summit. A shout burst from his lips as he rolled along the level top, for there, about ten miles off, lay the great city, glittering in the sunshine, and with only an amber-tinted canopy of its usual smoke above it.

Among the tall elms and in the flowering hedgerows between which he swept, innumerable birds warbled or twittered their astonishment that he could fly with such heedless rapidity through that beautiful country, and make for the dismal town in such magnificent weather. One aspiring lark overhead seemed to repeat, with persistent intensity, its trill of self gratulation that it had not been born a man. Even the cattle appeared to regard the youth as a sort of ornithological curiosity, for the sentiment, "Well, you are a goose!" was clearly written on their mild faces as he flew past them.

Over the hill-top he went -- twelve miles an hour at the least -- until he reached the slope on the other side; then down he rushed again, driving at the first part of the descent like an insane steam-engine, till the pace must have increased to twenty miles, at which point, the whirl of the wheel becoming too rapid, he was obliged once more to rest his legs on the handles, and take to repose, contemplation, and wiping his heated brow -- equivalent this, we might say, to the floating descent of the sea-mew. Of course the period of rest was of brief duration, for, although the hill was a long slope, with many a glimpse of loveliness between the trees, the time occupied in its flight was short, and, at the bottom a rustic bridge, with an old inn and a thatched hamlet, with an awkwardly sharp turn in the road beyond it, called for wary and intelligent guidance of this lightning express.

Swiftly but safely to the foot of the hill went John Barret (that was the youth's name), at ever-increasing speed, and without check; for no one seemed to be moving about in the quiet hamlet, and the old English inn had apparently fallen asleep.

A delicious undulating swoop at the bottom indicates the crossing of the bridge. A flash, and the inn is in rear. The hamlet displays no sign of life, nevertheless Barret is cautious. He lays a finger on the brake and touches the bell. He is half-way through the hamlet and all goes well; still no sign of life except -- yes, this so-called proof of every rule is always forthcoming, except that there is the sudden appearance of one stately cock. This is followed immediately by its sudden and unstately disappearance. A kitten also emerges from somewhere, glares, arches, fuffs, becomes indescribable, and -- is not! Two or three children turn up and gape, but do not recover in time to insult, or to increase the dangers of the awkward turn in the road which is now at hand.

Barret looks thoughtful. Must the pace be checked here? The road is open and visible. It is bordered by grass banks and ditches on either side. He rushes close to the left bank and, careering gracefully to the right like an Algerine felucca in a white squall, dares the laws of gravitation and centrifugal force to the utmost limitation, and describes a magnificent segment of a great circle. Almost before you can wink he is straight again, and pegging along with irresistible pertinacity.

Just beyond the hamlet a suburban lady is encountered, with clasped hands and beseeching eyes, for a loose hairy bundle, animated by the spirit of a dog, stands in the middle of the road, bidding defiance to the entire universe! The hairy bundle loses its head all at once, likewise its heart: it has not spirit left even to get out of the way. A momentary lean of the bicycle first to the left and then to the right describes what artists call "the line of beauty," in a bight of which the bundle remains behind, crushed in spirit, but unhurt in body.

At the bottom of the next hill a small roadside inn greets our cyclist. That which cocks, kittens, dangers, and dogs could not effect, the inn accomplishes. He "slows." In front of the door he describes an airy circlet, dismounting while yet in motion, leans the lightning express against the wall, and enters. What! does that vigorous, handsome, powerful fellow, in the flush of early manhood, drink? Ay, truly he does.

"Glass of bitter, sir?" asks the exuberant landlord.

"Ginger," says the young man, pointing significantly to a bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole.

"Come far to-day, sir?" asks the host, as he pours out the liquid.

"Fifty miles -- rather more," says Barret, setting down the glass.

"Fine weather, sir, for bicycling," says the landlord, sweeping in the coppers.

"Very; good-day."

Before that cheery "Good-day" had ceased to affect the publican's brain Barret was again spinning along the road to London.

It was the road on which the mail coaches of former days used to whirl, to the merry music of bugle, wheel, and whip, along which so many men and women had plodded in days gone by, in search of fame and fortune and happiness: some, to find these in a greater or less degree, with much of the tinsel rubbed off, others, to find none of them, but instead thereof, wreck and ruin in the mighty human whirlpool; and not a few to discover the fact that happiness does not depend either on fortune or fame, but on spiritual harmony with God in Jesus Christ.

Pedestrians there still were on that road, bound for the same goal, and, doubtless, with similar aims; but mail and other coaches had been driven from the scene.

Barret had the broad road pretty much to himself.

Quickly he ran into the suburban districts, and here his urgent haste had to be restrained a little.

"What if I am too late!" he thought, and almost involuntarily put on a spurt.

Soon he entered the crowded thoroughfares, and was compelled to curb both steed and spirit. Passing through one of the less-frequented streets in the neighbourhood of Finchley Road, he ventured to give the rein to his willing charger.

But here Fortune ceased to smile -- and Fortune was to be commended for her severity.

Barret, although kind, courteous, manly, sensitive, and reasonably careful, was not just what he ought to have been. Although a hero, he was not perfect. He committed the unpardonable sin of turning a street corner sharply! A thin little old lady crossed the road at the same identical moment, slowly. They met! Who can describe that meeting? Not the writer, for he did not see it; more's the pity! Very few people saw it, for it was a quiet corner. The parties concerned cannot be said to have seen, though they felt it. Both went down. It was awful, really, to see a feeble old lady struggling with an athlete and a bicycle!

Two little street boys, and a ragged girl appeared as if by magic. They always do!

"Oh! I say! Ain't he bin and squashed 'er?"

Such was the remark of one of the boys.

"Pancakes is plump to 'er," was the observation of the other.

The ragged girl said nothing, but looked unspeakable things.

Burning with shame, trembling with anxiety, covered with dust and considerably bruised, Barret sprang up, left his fallen steed, and, raising the little old lady with great tenderness in his arms, sat her on the pavement with her back against the railings, while he poured out abject apologies and earnest inquiries.

Strange to say the old lady was not hurt in the least -- only a good deal shaken and very indignant.

Stranger still, a policeman suddenly appeared in the distance. At the same time a sweep, a postman, and a servant girl joined the group.

Young Barret, as we have said, was sensitive. To become the object and centre of a crowd in such circumstances was overwhelming. A climax was put to his confusion, when one of the street arabs, observing the policeman, suddenly exclaimed: -- 

"Oh! I say, 'ere's a bobby! What a lark. Won't you be 'ad up before the beaks? It'll be a case o' murder."

"No, it won't," retorted the other boy; "it'll be a case o' manslaughter an' attempted suicide jined."

Barret started up, allowing the servant maid to take his place, and saw the approaching constable. Visions of detention, publicity, trial, conviction, condemnation, swam before him.

"A reg'lar Krismas panty-mime for nuffin'!" remarked the ragged girl, breaking silence for the first time.

Scarcely knowing what he did, Barret leaped towards his bicycle, set it up, vaulted into the saddle, as he well knew how, and was safely out of sight in a few seconds.

Yet not altogether safe. A guilty conscience pursued, overtook, and sat upon him. Shame and confusion overwhelmed him. Up to that date he had been honourable, upright, straightforward; as far as the world's estimation went, irreproachable. Now, in his own estimation, he was mean, false, underhand, sneaking!

But he did not give way to despair. He was a true hero, else we would not have had anything to write about him. Suddenly he slowed, frowned, compressed his lips, described a complete circle -- in spite of a furniture van that came in his way -- and deliberately went back to the spot where the accident had occurred; but there was no little lady to be seen. She had been conveyed away, the policeman was gone, the little boys were gone, the ragged girl, sweep, postman, and servant maid -- all were gone, "like the baseless fabric of a vision," leaving only new faces and strangers behind to wonder what accident and thin old lady the excited youth was asking about -- so evanescent are the incidents that occur; and so busily pre-occupied are the human torrents that rush in the streets of London!

The youth turned sadly from the spot and continued his journey at a slower pace. As he went along, the thought that the old lady might have received internal injuries, and would die, pressed heavily upon him: Thus, he might actually be a murderer, at the best a man-slaughterer, without knowing it, and would carry in his bosom a dreadful secret, and a terrible uncertainty, to the end of his life!

Of course he could go to that great focus of police energy -- Scotland Yard -- and give himself up; but on second thoughts he did not quite see his way to that. However, he would watch the daily papers closely. That evening, in a frame of mind very different from the mental condition, in which he had set out on his sixty miles' ride in the afternoon, John Barret presented himself to his friend and old schoolfellow, Bob Mabberly.

"You're a good fellow, Barret; I knew you would come; but you look warm. Have you been running?" asked Mabberly, opening the door of his lodging to his friend. "Come in: I have news for you. Giles Jackman has agreed to go. Isn't that a comfort? for, besides his rare and valuable sporting qualities, he is more than half a doctor, which will be important, you know, if any of us should get ill or come to grief. Sit down and we'll talk it over."

Now, it was a telegram from Bob Mabberly which led John Barret to suddenly undertake a sixty miles' ride that day, and which was thus the indirect cause of the little old lady being run down. The telegram ran as follows: -- 

"Come instanter. As you are. Clothes unimportant. Yacht engaged. Crew also. Sail, without fail, Thursday. Plenty more to say when we meet."

"Now, you see, Bob, with your usual want of precision, or care, or some such quality -- "

"Stop, Barret. Do be more precise in the use of language. How can the want of a thing be a quality?"

"You are right, Bob. Let me say, then, that with your usual unprecision and carelessness you sent me a telegram, which could not reach me till late on Wednesday night, after all trains were gone, telling me that you sail, without fail, on Thursday, but leaving me to guess whether you meant Thursday morning or evening."

"How stupid! My dear fellow, I forgot that!"

"Just so. Well to make sure of losing no time, instead of coming here by trains, which, as you know, are very awkward and slow in our neighbourhood, besides necessitating long waits and several changes, I just packed my portmanteau, gun, rods, etcetera, and gave directions to have them forwarded here by the first morning train, then took a few winks of sleep, and at the first glimmer of daylight mounted my wheel and set off across country as straight as country roads would permit of -- and -- here I am."

"True, Barret, and in good time for tea too. We don't sail till morning, for the tide does not serve till six o'clock, so that will give us plenty of time to put the finishing touches to our plans, allow your things to arrive, and permit of our making -- or, rather, renewing -- our acquaintance with Giles Jackman. You remember him, don't you?"

"Yes, faintly. He was a broad, sturdy, good-humoured, reckless, little boy when I last saw him at old Blatherby's school."

"Just so. Your portrait is correct. I saw him last month, after a good many years' interval, and he is exactly what he was, but considerably exaggerated at every point. He is not, indeed, a little, but a middle sized man now; as good-humoured as ever; much more reckless; sturdier and broader a great deal, with an amount of hair about his lip, chin, and head generally that would suffice to fit out three or four average men. He has been in India -- in the Woods and Forests Department, or something of that sort -- and has killed tigers, elephants, and such-like by the hundred, they say; but I've met him only once or twice, and he don't speak much about his own doings. He is home on sick-leave just now."

"Sick-leave! Will he be fit to go with us?" asked Barret, doubtfully.

"Fit!" cried Mabberly. "Ay, much more fit than you are, strong and vigorous though you be, for the voyage home has not only cured him; it has added superabundant health. Voyages always do to sick Anglo-Indians, don't you know? However ill a man may be in India, all he has to do is to obtain leave of absence and get on board of a ship homeward bound, and straightway health, rushing in upon him like a river, sends him home more than cured. So now our party is made up, yacht victualled, anchor tripped; and -- 'all's well that ends well.'"

"But all is not ended, Bob. Things have only begun, and, as regards myself, they have begun disastrously," said Barret, who thereupon related the incident of the little old lady being run down.

"My dear fellow," cried Mabberly, laughing, "excuse me, don't imagine me indifferent to the sufferings of the poor old thing; but do you really suppose that one who was tough enough, after such a collision, to sit up at all, with or without the support of the railings, and give way to indignant abuse -- "

"Not abuse, Bob, indignant looks and sentiments; she was too thorough a lady to think of abuse -- "

"Well, well; call it what you please; but you may depend upon it that she is not much hurt, and you will hear nothing more about the matter."

"That's it! That's the very thing that I dread," returned Barret, anxiously. "To go through life with the possibility that I may be an uncondemned and unhung murderer is terrible to think of. Then I can't get over the meanness of my running away so suddenly. If any one had said I was capable of such conduct I should have laughed at him. Yet have I lived to do it -- contemptibly -- in cold blood."

"Contemptibly it may have been, but not in cold blood, for did you not say you were roused to a state of frenzied alarm at the sight of the bobby? and assuredly, although unhung as yet, you are not uncondemned, if self-condemnation counts for anything. Come, don't take such a desponding view of the matter. We shall see the whole affair in the morning papers before sailing, with a report of the old lady's name and condition -- I mean condition of health -- as well as your unmanly flight, without leaving your card; so you'll be able to start with an easy -- Ha! a cab! yes, it's Jackman. I know his manservant," said Mabberly, as he looked out at the window.

Another moment and a broad-chested man, of about five-and-twenty, with a bronzed face -- as far as hair left it visible -- a pair of merry blue eyes, and a hearty manner, was grasping his old schoolfellows by the hand, and endeavouring to trace the likeness in John Barret to the quiet little boy whom he used to help with his tasks many years before.

"Man, who would have thought you could have grown into such a great long-legged fellow?" he said stepping back to take a more perfect look at his friend, who returned the compliment by asking who could have imagined that he would have turned into a Zambezian gorilla.

"Where'll I put it, sor?" demanded a voice of metallic bassness in the doorway.

"Down there -- anywhere, Quin," said Jackman turning quickly; "and be off as fast as you can to see after that rifle and cartridges."

"Yes, sor," returned the owner of the bass voice, putting down a small portmanteau, straightening himself, touching his forehead with a military salute, and stalking away solemnly.

"I say, Giles, it's not often one comes across a zoological specimen like that. Where did you pick him up?" asked Mabberly.

"In the woods and forests of course," said Jackman, "where I have picked up everything of late -- from salary to jungle fevers. He's an old soldier -- also on sick-leave, though he does not look like it. He came originally from the west of Ireland, I believe; but there's little of the Irishman left, save the brogue and the honesty. He's a first-rate servant, if you know how to humour him, and, being a splendid cook, we shall find him useful."

"I hope so," said Mabberly, with a dubious look.

"Why, Bob, do you suppose I would have offered him as cook and steward if I had not felt sure of him?"

"Of course not; and I would not have accepted him if I had not felt sure of you, Giles, my boy; so come along and let's have something to eat."

"But you have not yet told me, Bob," said Jackman, while the three friends were discussing their meal, "what part of the world you intend to visit. Does your father give you leave to go wherever you please, and stay as long as you choose?"

"No; he limits me to the Western Isles."

"That's an indefinite limitation. D'you mean the isles of the Western Pacific?"

"No; only those of the west of Scotland. And, to tell you the truth, I have no settled or definite plan. Having got leave to use the yacht all the summer on condition that I don't leave our own shores, I have resolved to begin by running at once to the wildest and farthest away part of the kingdom, leaving circumstances to settle the rest."

"A circumstantial account of the matter, no doubt, yet rather vague. Have you a good crew?"

"Yes; two men and a boy, one of the men being skipper, and the nearest approach to a human machine you ever saw. He is a Highlander, a thorough seaman, hard as mahogany and about as dark, stiff as a poker, self-contained, silent, except when spoken to, and absolutely obedient."

"And we set sail to-morrow, early?" asked Barret.

"Yes; after seeing the morning papers," said Mabberly with a laugh.

This, of course, turned the conversation on the accident, much to the distress of Barret, who feared that the jovial, off-hand reckless man from the "woods and forests" would laugh at and quiz him more severely than his friend Bob. To his surprise and great satisfaction, however, he found that his fears were groundless, for Jackman listened to the account of the incident quite gravely, betrayed not the slightest tendency to laugh, or even smile; asked a good many questions in an interested tone, spoke encouragingly as to the probable result, and altogether showed himself to be a man of strong sympathy as well as high spirits.

Next morning found our three adventurers dropping down the Thames with the first of the ebb tide, and a slight breeze from the south-west; Mabberly and Jackman in the very small cabin looking after stores, guns, rods, etcetera; Barret anxiously scanning the columns of a newspaper; Quin and the skipper making each other's acquaintance with much of the suspicion observable in two bull-dogs who meet accidentally; the boy in the fore part of the vessel coiling ropes; and the remainder of the crew at the helm.

"Port! port! stiddy," growled the skipper.

"Port it is; steady," replied the steersman in a sing-song professional tone, as a huge steamer from the antipodes went slowly past, like a mighty leviathan of the deep.

"Is it to the north, south, east, or west we're bound for, captain?" asked Quin, with a voice like that of a conciliatory bassoon.

"I don't know where we're bound for," growled the skipper slowly. "Starboard a bit; stiddy!"

"Steady!" sang out the man at the tiller.

A few hours carried them into the German Ocean. Here Quin thought he would try again for a little information.

"Sure it's nor'-east we're steerin', captain," he remarked in a casual way.

"No, it's not," growled the skipper, very much through his nose; "she's headin' west."

"It's to somewhere that coorse will take us in the ind, no doubt, if we carry on?" suggested Quin, interrogatively.

"Ay; oot to sea," replied the skipper.

Quin was obliged to give it up for the time being.

For some time they were nearly becalmed; then, as the land dropped astern and the shades of night deepened, the wind fell altogether, and, when the stars came out, a profound calm prevailed over the gently undulating sea. The exuberant spirits of our three friends were subdued by the sweet influences around, and, as the hour for rest drew near, the conversation, which at first became fitful, dropped at last to silence.

This was broken at length by Jackman saying, to the surprise of his companions, "What d'you say to reading a chapter before turning in? I'm fond of striking what's called a key-note. If we begin this pleasure-trip with an acknowledgment of our dependence on God, we shall probably have a really pleasant time of it. What say you?"

Both Mabberly and Barret gladly agreed to their friend's proposal -- for both had been trained in God-fearing families -- though neither would have had the courage to make the proposal himself. The crew were invited to join, and thus family worship was established on board the Fairy from the first day.

Only one point is worthy of note in connection with this -- although no one noted it particularly at the time, namely, that the portion of Scripture undesignedly selected contained that oft-quoted verse, "Ye know not what a day may bring forth."

The truth of this was very soon thrust home upon them by stern experience.



Chapter Two.

The Voyage Auspiciously Begun And Promptly Ended.

A voyage up the east coast of Great Britain and through the Pentland Firth does not usually take a long time. When the vessel is a swift little schooner-yacht, and the breeze is stiff as well as fair, the voyage is naturally a brief one.

Everything favoured the little Fairy. Sun, moon, and stars cheered her, and winds were propitious, so that our voyagers soon found themselves skimming over the billows of the western sea.

It was one part of Mabberly's plan that he and his friends should do duty as part of the crew. He was himself accustomed to the handling of yachts, and Barret he knew had been familiar with the management of boats from childhood.

"You can steer, of course?" he had asked Giles Jackman almost as soon as they were fairly at sea.

"Well, ye-es, oh yes. No doubt I could steer if I were to try."

"Have you never tried?" asked his friend in surprise.

"Oh yes, I have tried -- once. It was on an occasion when a number of us had gone on a picnic. We had to proceed part of the way to our destination by river in a small boat, which was managed by a regular old sea-dog -- I forget his name, for we generally hailed him by the title of Old Salt. Some of the impatient members of the party suggested a little preliminary lunch. There are always people ready to back up impatient suggestions! It was agreed to, and Old Salt was ordered to open the provision basket, which had been stowed away in the bows of the boat. 'Would you steer, sir?' said Old Salt to me, as he rose to go forward. 'Certainly, with pleasure,' said I, for, as you know, it's an old weakness of mine to be obliging! Well, in a few minutes they were all eating away as if they'd had no breakfast, while we went merrily down the river, with the current and a light breeze in our favour.

"Suddenly Old Salt shouted something that was smothered in its passage through a bite of sandwich. I looked up, and saw a native canoe coming straight towards us. 'Port!' roared Old Salt, in an explosion that cleared away half the sandwich. 'No, thankee; I prefer sherry,' said I. But I stopped there, for I saw intuitively from the yell with which he interrupted me that something was wrong. 'Hard a-port!' he cried, jumping up and scattering his rations. I shoved the tiller hard to the side that suggested itself, and hoped for the best. The worst followed, for we struck the native canoe amidships, as it was steering wildly out of our way, and capsized it! There were only two men in it, and they could swim like ducks; but the river was full of alligators, and two sharp-set ones were on the scent instantly. It is my opinion that those two natives would, then and there, have been devoured, if we had not run in between and made such a splashing and hullaballoo with boat-hook, oars, and voices, that the monsters were scared away. I have never steered since that day."

"I don't wonder; and, with my consent, you shall not steer now," said Mabberly, laughing. "Why, Giles, I was under the impression that you understood everything, and could do almost anything!"

"Quite a mistake, Bob, founded in error or superstition. You have confused the will with the deed. I am indeed willing to try anything, but my capacity for action is limited, like my knowledge. In regard to the higher mathematics, for instance, I know nothing. Copper-mining I do not understand. I may say the same with reference to Tartar mythology, and as regards the management of infants under two years I am densely ignorant."

"But do you really know nothing at all about boats and ships, Giles?" asked Barret, who, being a good listener, did not always shine as a speaker.

"How can you ask such a question? Of course I know a great deal about them. They float, they sail and row, they steer -- "

"Rather badly sometimes, according to your own showing!" remarked Barret.

Having cleared the Pentland Firth, Mabberly consulted the skipper one morning as to the prospects of the weather. "Going to fall calm, I fear," he said, as McPherson came aft with his hands in his pilot-coat pockets.

"Ay, sir, that iss true, what-e-ver."

To pronounce the last word correctly, the central "e" must be run into a long-drawn, not an interjectional, sound.

"More-o-ver," continued the skipper, in his drawling nasal tone, "it's goin' to be thick."

Being a weather-wise man, the skipper proved to be right. It did come thick; then it cleared, and, as we have said, things became favourable until they got further out to sea. Then a fancy took possession of Mabberly -- namely, to have a "spin out into the Atlantic and see how it looked!" It mattered not to Jackman or Barret what they did or where they went; the first being exuberantly joyous, the other quietly happy. So they had their run out to sea; but twenty-four hours of it sufficed --  it became monotonous.

"I think we'd better go back now," suggested Mabberly.

"Agreed," said his companions.

"Iss it goin' back you'll be?" asked the skipper.

"Yes. Don't you think we may as well turn now?" said Mabberly, who made it a point always, if possible, to carry the approbation of the skipper with him.

"I think it wass petter if we had niver come oot."

"Why so, Captain?"

"Because it's comin' on to plow. Putt her roond, Shames."

James McGregor, to whom the order was given, and who was the other man of the crew, obeyed. The yacht, which had latterly been beating against a headwind, now ran gaily before it towards the Scottish coast, but when night closed in no outlying islands were visible.

"We wull hev to keep a sharp look-oot, Shames," remarked the skipper, as he stopped in his monotonous perambulation of the deck to glance at the compass.

"Oo, ay," responded McGregor, with the air of a man who knew that as well as his superior.

"What do you fear?" asked Mabberly, coming on deck at the moment to take a look at the night before turning in.

"I fear naething, sir," replied McPherson, gravely.

"I mean, what danger threatens us?"

"None that I ken o'; but we're makin' the land, an' it behooves us to ca' canny."

It may be well to remark here that the skipper, having voyaged much on all parts of the Scottish coast, had adopted and mixed up with his own peculiar English several phrases and words in use among the lowland Scots.

Next morning, when Mabberly again visited the deck, he found the skipper standing on the same spot where he had left him, apparently in the same attitude, and with the same grave, sleepless expression on his cast-iron features. The boy, Robin Tips, was at the helm, looking very sleepy. He was an English boy, smart, active, and wide-awake -- in the slang sense -- in which sense also we may add that he was "cheeky."

But neither the skipper nor Tips was very visible at the distance of three yards, owing to a dense fog which prevailed. It was one of those white, luminous, dry fogs which are not at all depressing to the spirits, though obstructive to the eyes, and which are generally, if not always, accompanied by profound calm.

"Has it been like this long?" asked Mabberly, after the first salutations.

"Ay, sir, a coot while."

"And have we made no progress during the night?"

"Oo, ay, a coot bit. We should nae be far off some o' the islands noo, but it's hard to say, wi' naither sun, moon, nor stars veesible to let us fin' oot where we are."

Jackman and Barret came on deck at the moment, closely followed by Quin, who, quietly ignoring the owner of the yacht, went up to his master and said -- 

"Tay's riddy, sor."

"Breakfast, you mean," said Mabberly, with a smile.

"Sure I wouldn't conterdick -- ye, sor, av ye was to call it supper -- but it was tay that I put in the pot."

At breakfast the conversation somehow turned upon boats -- ship's boats --  and their construction.

"It is quite disgraceful," said Jackman, "the way in which Government neglects that matter of boats. Some things, we know, will never be generally adopted unless men are compelled to adopt them. Another biscuit, Barret."

"Instance something, Giles," said Mabberly, "and pass the butter. I hate to hear sweeping assertions of an indefinite nature, which no one can either corroborate or confute."

"Well, there is the matter of lowering boats into the water from a ship's davits. Now, I'll be bound that the apparatus for lowering your little punt astern is the ordinary couple of blocks -- one at the stem, the other at the stern?"

"Of course it is. What then?"

"Why, then, don't you know what would happen if you were lowering that boat full of people in a rough sea, and the man at the bow failed to unhook his block at the exact same moment as the man at the stern?"

"Yes, I know too well, Giles, for I have seen it happen. The boat, on the occasion I refer to, was hung up by one of the blocks, all the people were dropped into the water, and several of the women and children drowned. But how is Government to remedy that?"

"Thus, Bob, thus. There is a splendid apparatus invented by somebody which holds fast the two blocks. By means of an iron lever worked by one man, the rod is disengaged from both blocks at the same instant. You cannot work it wrong if you tried to do so. Now, the Government has only to compel the adoption of that apparatus in the Royal and Merchant Navies, and the thing is done."

"Then, again," continued Jackman, devouring food more ravenously in proportion as he warmed with his subject, "look at the matter of rafts. How constantly it happens that boats get swamped and lost while being launched in cases of shipwreck at sea, and there is nothing left for the crews and passengers, after the few remaining boats are filled, save loose spars or a hastily and ill-made raft; for of course things cannot be well planned and constructed in the midst of panic and sudden emergency. Now, it has been suggested, if not actually carried out, that mattresses should be made of cork, with bands and straps to facilitate buckling them together, and that a ship's chairs, tables, camp-stools, etcetera, should be so constructed as to be convertible into rafts, which might be the means of saving hundreds of lives that would, under present arrangements, inevitably be lost. Why, I ask, does not Government see to this? have a special committee appointed to investigate, find out the best plan, and compel its adoption? Men will never do this. They are too obstinate. What's wanted is that our ladies should take it up, and howl with indignation till it is done."

"My dear Giles, ladies never howl," said Barret, quietly tapping the end of an egg; "they smile, and gently insinuate -- that is always sufficient, because irresistible!"

"Well, being a bachelor I cannot say much on that point," returned Jackman. "But I was not aware that you were married?"

"Neither am I; but I have a mother and sisters, aunts and cousins, and I know their ways."

"If such are their ways, I must get you to introduce me to them," said the woods-and-forester. "Come on deck, now, and I will give you a practical illustration of what might be done."

Jackman, being an enthusiast, always went at things, "with a will."

"Bring me a hen-coop, Quin," he said to the steward, who, having so far completed his morning work, and consumed his morning meal, was smoking his pipe, seated on the rail beside Tips. Tips was an admirer of the Irishman, and, in consequence, an imitator as far as he dared and was permitted.

"Lend a hand, ye spalpeen," said Quin, going forward, and quickly returning with the coop, from which a cackling of strong remonstrance issued.

"Will ye have the other wan too, sor?"

"Yes, and the main-hatch besides, and a lot of spun-yarn. Of course that's not strong enough for real service, but it will do for illustration."

In a few minutes the two hen-coops were placed face to face and lashed firmly together, despite the remonstrative poultry. Then the main-hatch was laid upon the top, and fixed there by means of the iron rings at its four corners.

"Now, Quin, fetch four of the cabin chairs," said the operator, "and observe, gentlemen, how much more easily and quickly this would have been accomplished if the coops, and hatch, and chairs had been made to fit into each other, with a view to this very purpose, with strong straps and buckles in handy positions. Now, then, for the chairs."

At each corner of this extemporised raft Jackman fastened one of the cabin chairs, pointing out, as he did so, that there was no limit to the extension of the raft.

"You see," he continued, "all you would have to do, if the ship were properly fitted out, would be to add chair to chair, bench to bench, cork mattress to mattress, until your raft was as big as you wanted; or you could make two or three rafts, if preferable."

"But sure, sor, it would be an unstiddy machine intirely, an' given to wobblin'," said Quin, who was one of those privileged men who not only work for their wages, but generously throw their opinions into the bargain.

"It would not be more unsteady than the waves, Quin; and as to wobbling, that would be an advantage, for a rigid raft in a rough sea would be more liable to be damaged than one that was pliable."

The discussion about rafts and ship's boats which thus began was continued with much interest till lunchtime, for it chanced that John Barret was one of those men whose tendency of heart and mind is to turn everything to its best uses, and generally to strive after the highest point of perfection in everything, with a view to the advancement of human felicity. This tendency called into exercise his inventive faculties, inducing him to search after improvements of all descriptions. Thus it was natural that he and Jackman should enter into a keen controversy, as to what was the best method of constructing the raft in detail; and that, when the faithful Quin announced lunch as being, "riddy, sor," the life-saving machine was left in an incomplete state on the deck.

The interest attaching to this discussion had helped the three comrades and crew alike, to tide over what might otherwise have proved a tedious forenoon, for during the whole of that day the dense fog and profound calm continued.

On returning to the deck the discussion was continued for a time, but gradually the interest flagged, then other subjects engaged attention, and the raft was finally allowed to lie undisturbed and forgotten.

"I don't know how it is," said Bob Mabberly; "but somehow I always feel a depression of spirits in a fog at sea."

"Explanation simple enough," returned Jackman; "are we not constantly reading in the papers of ships being run down in fogs? Where there is risk there is always in some minds anxiety -- in your case you call it depression of spirits."

"Your explanation, Giles, uncomplimentary to me though it be, might have some force if we were just now in the Channel, where being run down in fog is an event of frequent occurrence; but here, in a comparatively unfrequented sea, it would be strange indeed were I to be influenced by such possibilities. What say you, Captain?"

McPherson, who had sauntered towards the group, gazed in the direction where the horizon would have been visible had the fog been absent, and said: -- 

"Hm! -- weel -- " and then stopped, as if for the purpose of mature consideration. The audience waited for the announcement of the oracle's opinion.

"Oo ay -- weel, ye see, many persons are strangely influenced by possibeelities, what-e-ver. There is a maiden aunt o' my own -- she wass niver marrit, an' she wass niver likely to be, for besides bein' poor an' plain, an' mittle-aged, which are not in my opeenion objectionable, she had an uncommon bad temper. Yet she wass all her life influenced by the notion that half the young men o' the place wass wantin' to marry her! though the possibeelities in her case wass fery small."

"I should like to 'ave know'd that old gurl!" whispered Tips to Quin.

"Howld your tongue, ye spalpeen!" whispered his friend in reply.

"Have you any idea, Captain, where we are now?" asked Jackman.

"Oo ay, we're somewhere's wast'ard o' the Lewis. But whether wast, nor'-wast, or sooth-wast, I could not say preceesely. The nicht, ye see, wass uncommon dark, an' when the fog came doon i' the mornin', I could na' feel sure we had keep it the richt coorse, for the currents hereaboots are strang. But we'll see whan it comes clear."

"Do you believe in presentiments, Giles?" asked Barret, in an unusually grave tone.

"Of course I do," answered Jackman. "I have a presentiment just now that you are going to talk nonsense."

Barret was not, however, to be silenced by his friend's jest.

"Listen," he said, earnestly, as he rose and stood in an attitude of intense attention. "It may be imagination playing with the subjects of our recent conversation, but I cannot help thinking that I hear the beating of paddles."

"Keep a sherp look-oot, Shames," cried the skipper, suddenly, as he went forward with unwonted alacrity.

A few minutes more and the sound which had at first been distinguished only by Barret's sharp ear, became audible to all -- the soft regular patting of a paddle-wheel steamer in the distance, yet clearly coming towards them. Presently a shrill sound, very faint but prolonged, was heard, showing that she was blowing her steam-whistle as a precaution.

"Strange, is it not, that the very thing we have been talking about should happen?" said Mabberly.

"Nay," returned Jackman, lightly, "we were talking about being run down, and we have not yet come to that."

"The strangest thing of all to me," said Barret, "is that, with a wide ocean all round, vessels should ever run into each other at all, at least on the open sea, for there is only one line, a few feet wide, in favour of such an accident, whereas there are thousands of miles against it."

Jackman, who was a great theorist, here propounded a reason for this.

"If vessels would only hold straight on their courses, you see," he said, "the accident of collision would be exceedingly rare, for, although thousands of ships might pass near to each other, not one in ten thousand would meet; but when vessels come pretty near, their commanders sometimes become anxious, take fancies into their heads, as to each having forgotten the 'rules of the road,' and each attempting to correct the other -- as we do sometimes in the streets -- they bring about the very disaster they are trying to avoid."

"Had we not better ring the bell, Captain?" cried Mabberly, in rising excitement.

"Oo ay, if you think so, sir. Ring, poy!"

The boy, who was getting alarmed, seized the tongue of the ship's bell, and rang with all his might. Whether this had the effect to which Jackman had referred, we cannot tell, but next moment what appeared to be a mountain loomed out of the mist. The steam-whistle had been silent for some time, but as soon as the bell was heard it burst forth with increased fury. From the instant her form was dimly seen the fate of the yacht was sealed. There was a wild shouting on board the steamer, but there was no time for action.

"Starboard hard!" was the cry.

"Starboard it is!" was the immediate answer. But before the helm could act, the great rushing mass struck the Fairy amidships, and literally cut her in two!

The awful suddenness of a catastrophe, which those on board had just been arguing was all but impossible, seemed to have paralysed every one, for no one made the slightest effort to escape. Perhaps the appearance of the wall-like bow of the steamer, without rope or projection of any kind to lay hold of, or jump at, might have conveyed the swift perception that their case was hopeless. At all events, they all went under with the doomed yacht, and nothing was left in the wake of the leviathan but a track of foam on the mist-encumbered sea.

But they were not lost! One after another the wrecked party rose struggling to the surface, and all of them could swim except the boy.

Giles Jackman was the first who rose. Treading water and brushing the hair out of his eyes, he gazed wildly about. Barret came up close beside him, almost a moment later. He had barely taken breath, when the others rose at various distances. A cry not far from him caused him to turn. It was poor Robin Tips, struggling for life. A few powerful strokes carried Barret alongside. He got behind the boy, caught him under the armpits, and thus held him, at arm's length, until he could quiet him.

"There is a spar, thank God! Make for it, Barret, while I see to Quin," shouted Jackman.

As he spoke, they could hear the whistle of the steamer rushing away from them.

Barret, forcing himself breast-high out of the water, glanced quickly round, and caught sight of the floating spar, to which his companion had referred. Although only a few yards off, the fog rendered it almost invisible.

"Are you quiet now?" demanded Barret, in a stern voice, for the terrified boy still showed something like a hysterical determination to turn violently round, and grasp his rescuer in what would probably have turned out to be the grip of death.

"Yes, sir, oh! yes. But d-don't let me go! M-mind, I can't swim!"

"You are perfectly safe if you simply do nothing but what I tell you," returned Barret, in a quiet, ordinary tone of voice, that reassured the poor lad more than the words.

By way of reply he suddenly became motionless, and as limp as a dead eel.

Getting gradually on his back, and drawing Tips slowly on to his chest, so that he rested with his mouth upwards, and his head entirely out of the water, Barret struck out for the spar, swimming thus on his back.

On reaching it, he found to his surprise that it was the experimental raft, and that the captain, Mabberly, and McGregor were already clinging to it.

"Won't bear us all, I fear," said Mabberly; "but thank God that we have it. Put the boy on."

In order to do this, Barret had to get upon the raft, and he found that it bore him easily as well as the boy.

"Have you seen Jackman?" asked Mabberly.

"Yes," replied Barret, rising and looking round.

"Here he comes, towing Quin, I think, who seems to be stunned. Hallo! This way -- hi! Giles!"

But Giles suddenly ceased to swim, turned over on his back, and lay as if dead.

"Rescue, Bob, rescue!" shouted Barret, plunging into the water. Mabberly followed, and soon had hold of Giles and his man by the hair.

"All right!" said Jackman, turning round; "I was only taking a rest. No one lost, I hope?"

"No; all safe, so far."

"You can tow him in now. I'm almost used up," said Jackman, making for the raft. "He's only stunned, I think."

It was found that the Irishman had in truth been only stunned when they lifted him on to the raft, for he soon began to show signs of returning life, and a large bump on his head sufficiently explained the nature of his injury.

But when the whole party had cautiously clambered up on the raft it sank so deep that they scarcely dared to move. To make matters worse, they clearly distinguished the steamer's whistle going farther and farther away, as if she were searching for them in a wrong direction. This was indeed the case, and although they all shouted singly and together, the whistle grew fainter by degrees, and finally died away.

With feelings approaching to despair, the crew of the frail raft began to talk of the prospect before them, when they were silenced by a slight movement in the mist. The white curtain was lifted for a few yards, and revealed to their almost incredulous eyes a rocky shore, backed by a range of precipitous cliffs, with a wild mountainous region beyond.

As the sea was still perfectly calm, there was no surf. Our castaways, therefore, with the exception of Quin and the boy, quietly slipped into the water, and, with thankful hearts, propelled the raft vigorously towards the shore.



Chapter Three.

The Wreck Is Followed By Repose, Refreshment, Surprise, And Disaster.

The distance from land was not more than a few hundred yards; nevertheless, it occupied a considerable time to pass over that space, the raft being ill-adapted for quick progression through the water.

Close to the shore there was a flat rock, to which, as they approached it, their attention was drawn by the appearance of what seemed to be living creatures of some sort. Quin and Robin Tips, sitting on the raft, naturally saw them first.

"I do belave it's men, for they're liftin' their hids an' lookin' at us. Av it was the South Says, now, I'd say they was saviges peepin' at us over the rocks."

"P'raps they're boys a-bathin'," suggested Tips.

"Are they white?" asked Captain McPherson, who, being chin-deep in the water and behind the raft, could not see the rock referred to.

"No; sure they seem to be grey, or blue."

"Oo, they'll be seals," returned the skipper, nasally -- a tone which is eminently well adapted for sarcastic remark without the necessity of elaborate language.

"In coorse they is," said Tips; "don't you see they're a-heavin' up their tails as well as their 'eads?"

On advancing a few yards farther, all doubt upon the question was put at rest. The animals, of which about a dozen were enjoying themselves on the rock, raised themselves high on their flippers and gazed, with enormous eyes, at the strange-looking monster that was coming in from the sea! Thus they remained, apparently paralysed with astonishment, until the raft was within pistol-shot, and then, unable to endure the suspense longer, they all slipped off into the sea.

A few minutes later and the raft struck on the shore. And well was it for the party that the weather chanced to be so fine, for if there had been anything like a breeze, their frail contrivance would inevitably have been dashed to pieces. Even a slight swell from the westward would have raised such a surf on that rugged shore that it would have been impossible for the best of swimmers to have landed without broken limbs, if not loss of life. As it was, they got ashore not only without difficulty, but even succeeded in hauling the raft up on the beach without much damage to its parts -- though, of course, the unfortunate fowls in the hen-coops had all perished!

While Mabberly and the others were engaged in securing the raft, Barret was sent off along shore with directions to ascertain whether there was any habitation near. To his right the high cliffs came down so close to the sea that it seemed very improbable that any cottage or hamlet could be found in that direction. He therefore turned towards the left, where the cliffs receded some distance from the shore, leaving a narrow strip of meadow land.

Hurrying forward about a quarter of a mile, he stopped and looked about him. The sun was still high in the heavens -- for the days are long and nights brief in that region during summer -- and its rays had so far scattered the mists that all the low-lying land was clear, though the mountain-range inland was only visible a short distance above its base. The effect of this was to enhance the weird grandeur of the view, for when the eye had traced the steep glens, overhanging cliffs, rugged water-courses, and sombre corries upward to the point where all was lost in cloud, the imagination was set free to continue the scenery to illimitable heights.

The youth was still gazing upward, with solemnised feelings, when there was presented to him one of those curious aspects of nature which are sometimes, though rarely, witnessed in mountainous regions. Suddenly an opening occurred in the clouds -- or mist -- which shrouded the mountain-tops, and the summit of a stupendous cliff bathed in rich sunshine, was seen as if floating in the air. Although obviously part of the mountain near the base of which he stood, this cliff -- completely isolated as it was -- seemed a magical effect, and destitute of any real connection with earth.

While he was looking in wonder and admiration at the sight, he observed a bird hovering about motionless in the blue vault high above the cliffs. Although inexperienced in such scenery and sights, Barret knew well enough that nothing but an eagle -- and that of the largest size --  could be visible at all at such a distance. Suddenly the bird sailed downwards with a grand circular sweep, and was lost among the shadows of the perpendicular rocks. A few minutes more and the mists drifted over the opening, causing the vision to disappear.

This was Barret's first view of the Eagle Cliff, which was destined to exercise a powerful and lasting influence upon his fortunes!

A few yards beyond this the explorer came upon a sheep track, and a little farther on he found one of those primitive roads which are formed in wild out-of-the-way places by the passage of light country carts, with the aid of a few rounded stones where holes required to be filled up, or soft places strengthened. Following it a short distance to a spot where it ran between a precipice and the shore, he came suddenly in sight of a wilderness of fallen rocks, which were varied in size from mere pebbles to masses the size of an omnibus. These had all fallen from a steep spur of the mountains which projected towards the sea of that place. The whole of the level land at the base of the spur was strewn with them; some being old, moss-covered and weather-worn, others fresh and sharp in outline, as if they had fallen only the previous winter, as probably they had, for the places from which they had been dislodged could be seen still fresh and light-coloured, nearly a thousand feet up on the riven cliffs. It was a species of desolation that powerfully recalled some scenes in Dante's "Inferno," and had a depressing effect on the youth's spirits, for nothing seemed more unlikely than the existence of a human habitation in such a place.

A new view of the matter broke upon him, however, when he suddenly became aware that a spot in the confused scene which he had taken to be a clump of withered bracken was in reality a red cow! Looking a little more narrowly at objects he soon perceived a hut among the rocks. It was so small and rude and rugged as almost to escape detection. A furious barking soon told that he had been seen, and two collie dogs rushed towards him with demonstrations that threatened him with immolation on the spot. The uproar put life into a few more clumps of red bracken, and produced a lively display of sheep and cattle throughout the region.

Barret walked straight up to the door of the hut, and the collies withdrew from the attack -- as most noisy demonstrators do when treated with silent indifference.

"Is there any one inside?" he asked of a bare-legged, shaggy-headed boy, who came out and gazed at him, apparently with his mouth as well as his eyes.

"Na," answered the boy.

"Any other cottages or houses near this?"

"Ay; yonder."

The boy pointed in the direction of the sea, where, in a stony nook between two jutting masses of rock, nestled about a dozen huts built of boulder stones gathered from the sea-shore. So small were these huts, and so stupendous the rocks around them, that they might easily have been overlooked by a careless eye. So might the half-dozen fishing-boats that lay in the little cove beside them.

A stream or rivulet -- better known in Scotland as a burn -- ran past the hamlet, formed a pool just below it, and dropped into the cove close to the place where the boats lay.

Rejoiced to find even the poorest kind of shelter in such a place, Barret hastened down to the cove, and, tapping at the door of the largest of the cottages, was bidden "come in" by a soft voice.

Entering, he was surprised to find a neatly, though plainly, furnished room, which was evidently the kitchen of the house -- indeed, the sole room, with the exception of an off-shoot closet. The large open fireplace contained a peat fire on the hearth, over which hung a bubbling pot. There were two box-beds opposite the fire, and in the wall which faced the door there was a very small window, containing four panes of glass, each of which had a knot in the middle of it. One of them also presented the phenomenon of a flattened nose, for the boy with the ragged head had rushed down and stationed himself there to observe the result of the unexpected and singular visit.

Beside the window, in a homely arm-chair, sat an invalid girl with pale thin cheeks, bright blue eyes, and long flaxen hair. If not pretty, she was, at all events, extremely interesting, and possessed the great charm of a winning smile.

Apologising for causing her alarm by his damp, dishevelled, and sudden appearance, Barret asked if there were any men about the place.

No, there were none there at the moment; most of them being out after the sheep and cattle, and some gathering peat, or away in the boats.

"But surely they have not left you all by yourself?" said Barret, struck not only by the appearance of the girl, but by the comparative refinement of her language.

"Oh no!" she replied, with a slight smile; "they look well after me. Mrs Anderson has only gone to fetch some peats. But where have you come from, sir? Your clothes are all wet!"

"You are right. I have just been saved from drowning, through God's mercy, along with my companions."

Here Barret gave her a brief outline of the recent disaster, and then asked if Mrs Anderson was her mother.

"No; she is my aunt, but she is very good to me; takes as much care of me as if I was her own daughter. I don't belong to this place. They have sent me here for my health."

At this point they were interrupted by Mrs Anderson herself, who entered with a load of peat, which she flung down, shook her fist at the nose-flattener outside, and turned in astonishment to her visitor.

Of course our shipwrecked friend had to retail his story to the woman, and then learned from her that the island was a very large one, with a name unpronounceable by English lips, that it was very thinly inhabited, that it consisted almost entirely of pasture land, and that "the laird" owned a large portion of it, including the little fishing village of "Cove."

While the woman was speaking an elderly man entered, whom she introduced as her husband Ian. To him Barret had to re-repeat his story, and then asked if he and his friends could obtain shelter in the village for the night.

"Iss it shelter ye'll be wantin'? Ye'll hev that an' welcome, though it will be of the poorest. But in the mornin' ye'll gang up to the hoose, for the laird wud be ill-pleased if we keepit ye here."

"Pray, who is this laird?" asked Barret; "your wife has already mentioned him."

"Maister Gordon is his name. He lives near the heed o' Loch Lossie. It iss over eight mile from here," said Ian; "an' a coot shentleman he iss, too. Fery fond o' company, though it iss not much company that comes this way, for the steam-poats don't veesit the loch reg'lar or often. He'll be fery glad to see you, sir, an' to help ye to git home. But we'd petter be goin' to tell your freen's that we can putt them up for the nicht. I'll go pack with ye, an we'll take the poy to help an' carry up their things."

"You forget that we have been wrecked," returned Barret with a laugh, "and have no 'things' to carry, except our own damp carcases."

"That's true, sir, but we'll be none the worse o' the poy, what-e-ver. Come away, Tonal'," said Ian, as they started back along the shore. "It iss under the Eagle Cliff where ye came to laund, I make no doot?"

"Well, I suppose it was; at least, there is a range of cliffs close to the place where our raft struck."

"Oo ay -- but it iss not the wee precipices, it iss the big hull behind them that we ca' the Eagle Cliff."

"Oh, indeed! I saw that cliff in a peculiar manner as I came along," said Barret giving a description of the scene.

"Ay; it iss sometimes seen like that," said Ian; "an' we often see the eagle, but it's no' possible to git a shot at that crater. The laird is real keen to bring it doon, for it plays the mischief among the lambs, an' him an' his freen's hes aften tried, but they hev not manicht it yet."

Thus chatting they soon reached the raft, and found the disconsolate party waiting impatiently for them.

"Shall we leave it where it lies, or drag it further up on the beach?" asked Mabberly, referring to the raft.

"Ye petter haul it a wee higher up," said Ian, examining the machine with much interest; "for when it comes on to plow there's a heavy sea here. Weel, weel, but it iss a strange contrivance!"

"Ay; an' also a useful one," said the skipper, drily -- at least as duly as was possible in the circumstance.

"Noo, shentlemen, I think we had petter be goin'."

It was indeed time, for although the weather was warm and fine, the sun had set, and their damp garments began to feel uncomfortable.

At the Cove the whole party was accommodated in a single-roomed hut, which chanced to be empty at the time. Here the hospitable fishermen spread nets for bedding, and with plaids made up for the lack of blankets. They also kindled a large peat fire, and put on a pot of potatoes, and some splendid sea-trout, while Mrs Anderson prepared oat-cakes at her own fire, and sent them in as required.

"Noo, shentlemen, ye'll tak a tram?" said Ian, producing a black bottle.

Immeasurable was the astonishment of the Highlander when the gentlemen refused a dram.

"But -- but, ye'll catch yer death o' cauld, if ye don't!" he said, remonstratively, as he stood bottle and glass in hand.

"Thanks, friend," replied Jackman, "but we have taken in so much salt water during our swim to land that we are not sure whether the whisky would agree with it."

"Hoots! havers!" exclaimed Ian, pouring out some of the liquid; "ye're jokin'."

"In truth we are not, then," said Mabberly; "for we are all total abstainers."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Ian, who could not understand the principles or feelings of men who, after a long exhausting swim in their clothes, were capable of refusing whisky! For it is to be remembered that, although the time we write of is comparatively recent, that remote island had not been visited by any apostle of temperance or total abstinence in regard to alcohol. Of course Ian had heard something of such principles, but he did not believe in them, and certainly did not practise them. "Hooiver, shentlemen," he added, "if ye wunna tak it -- here's wushin' your fery coot health!"

Raising the glass, he drained it without winking, as if the contents had been water, smacked his lips and put the bottle away.

It must not be supposed that all the crew of the late unfortunate Fairy witnessed this proceeding unmoved, for, although they had all been engaged on the understanding that no strong drink was to be allowed or consumed while the voyage lasted, not one of them was a pledged abstainer, and now that the voyage was ended it did seem as if the laws of the voyage should no longer be binding. Still there remained a feeling that, as long as they continued a united party, the spirit of the agreement should not be broken; therefore the skipper and "Shames" let the bottle pass with a sigh, and Quin followed suit with an undertoned remark to Tips that, "he wouldn't have belaved tim'tation to be so strong av he hadn't wrastled wid it!"

By that time most of the men of the hamlet had returned, and a rig out of fisher clothes was lent to each of the unfortunates, so that they were enabled to pass the night in comfort while their own garments were in front of a good fire.

"Is that sick girl your daughter, Ian?" asked Giles Jackman that night, as he walked on the shore with his host before retiring to rest.

"No, sir; she's a niece -- the daughter of a brother o' mine who hes feathered his nest petter than me. He's a well-to-do grocer in Oban, an' hes geen his bairn a pretty good edication; but it's my opeenion they hev all but killed her wi' their edication, for the doctor has telt them to stop it altogither, an' send her here for a change o' air."

"Indeed! An interesting child, and so well-mannered, too," remarked Jackman.

"Humph! Nae doot she is. They do say that it's because my brither has gotten an English wife. But for my pairt, oor weemen seem to me to be as weel mainered as the weemen sooth o' the Tweed."

"Quite as well, I doubt not; though I have not seen much of your countrywomen, Ian. Besides, good manners are to be judged by varying standards. What is good in the opinion of the Eskimo may be thought very bad by the Hindoo, and vice versa. It is very much a matter of taste. The manners of your niece, at all events, are admirable. Now it is time to turn in. Good-night, Ian."

The sun was high next morning when the wrecked men awoke, and began to feel the outcries of nature with reference to breakfast. Long before that time the men of Cove had gone off to the hills, the peat-hags, or the sea, according to their respective callings. But Mrs Anderson had a sumptuous breakfast of oatmeal porridge and fresh milk ready for the strangers.

"Musha! but it'll make me mouth wather all the afthernoon thinkin' of it," said Quin, on finishing his second plateful.

"It's prime wittles," remarked Tips, as he helped himself to more.

"Now, Barret, have you finished?" asked Mabberly.

"No; why?"

"Because, in the first place, you are evidently eating too much for your health, and, in the second place, I want you to go up to what Ian calls the Hoose, as a deputation to the laird. You see, although we are forced, as it were, to throw ourselves on his hospitality, I don't quite like to descend on him all at once with the whole strength of our party. It will be better for one of us to break the ice, and as you are the best-looking and most hypocritically urbane, when you choose, I think we could not do better than devolve the duty upon you."

"Right, Bob, as usual; but don't you think," said Barret, helping himself to another ladleful of the porridge, "that my going may cut in two directions? Doubtless the laird would be agreeably surprised to meet with me; but then that will raise his expectations so high, that he will be woefully disappointed on meeting with you!"

"Come, friends," cried Jackman, "it is dangerous to play with edged tools immediately after a meal. My medical knowledge assures me of that. I quite approve of Barret forming the deputation, and the sooner he starts off the better. The rest of us will assist Ian to fish in his absence."

Thus authorised and admonished, Barret finished breakfast, put on his own garments -- which, like those of his companions, were semi-nautical --  and sallied forth for an eight miles' walk over the mountains to the mansion of the laird, which lay on the other side of the Eagle's Cliff ridge, on the shores of Loch Lossie.

He was guided the first part of the journey by Tonal' with the ragged head, who, with an activity that seemed inexhaustible, led him up into wild and rugged places such as he had never before dreamed of -- rocky fastnesses which, looked at from below, seemed inaccessible, even to goats, but which, on being attempted, proved to be by no means beyond the powers of a steady head and strong limbs.

Reaching the summit of a heather-clad knoll that projected from a precipitous part of the mountain-side, Barret paused to recover breath and look back at the calm sea. It lay stretched out far below him, looking, with its numerous islets in bird's-eye view, somewhat like a map. The mists had completely cleared away, and the sun was glittering on the white expanse like a line of light from the shore to the horizon. Never before had our Englishman felt so like a bird, both as to the point of vision from which he surveyed the glorious scene, and the internal sensation of joy which induced him not only to wish that he could fly, but to think that a very little more of such exultation of spirit would enable him to do so!

"Is that the Cove down there?" he asked of the ragged companion who stood beside him.

"Ay, that's the Cove!"

"Why, Donald, it looks like a mere speck in the scene from here, and the men look no bigger than crows."

As this observation called for no answer none was given, and Donald seemed to regard his companion as one who was rather weak-minded.

"Have we come half-way yet, Donald?"

"No -- no' near."

"Is it difficult to find the rest of the way from this point?"

"No; but it wad be diffeecult to miss it."

"Well, Donald, my boy, I have a strong desire to be alone -- that is, to try if I cannot go the rest of the way without guidance; so, if you will just give me a little direction, I'll let you go home, and many thanks for coming thus far. Now, point out the landmarks."

He turned, as he spoke, towards the grand mountain that still towered behind him.

"There's naethin' t' pint oot," returned the boy; "ye've only t' haud on by this sheep track till ee come close under the cliff yonder."

"The Eagle Cliff?"

"Ay. It'll bring ee to a cairt road, an' ye've only to follow that through the pass, an' haud on till ee come to the hoose. Ye can see the hoose frae the other side o' the pass."

"And what is the 'hoose' called?" asked Barret.

"Kinlossie."

"Thank you. Good-bye, my boy."

A few coppers sent the youth of the ragged head away in high spirits. The young man watched him till he was concealed by a clump of small birch trees that hung like a fringe on the top of a neighbouring precipice. Barret had just turned to continue the ascent to the Eagle Cliff, whose frowning battlements still rose high above him, when a wild shout from the boy made him turn and look anxiously back. The place which he had reached was strewn with great masses of rock that had fallen from the cliffs. He was about to clamber on to one of these, in order to obtain a better view, when the cause of the shout became obvious. A splendid stag, frightened from its lair by the boy, burst from the birchwood, and, with antlers laid well back, bounded up the slope towards him. It was closely followed by two does.

Barret crouched at once behind the mass of rock. The deer, thinking, doubtless, only of the danger behind, had failed to observe him.

"Oh for Giles, with his rifle!" thought the youth, as the agile creatures passed within less than a hundred yards of him, and headed straight for the pass of the Eagle Cliff.

Scarcely had the thought occurred, when a flapping noise behind caused him to turn quickly. It was the eagle himself, sailing majestically and slowly overhead, as though he knew full well that an Englishman without a gun was a harmless creature!

Considerably excited by these unexpected and, to him, stirring sights, Barret pushed steadily upward, and soon reached a part of the pass whence he could see the valley beyond, with a house in the far distance -- which, of course, must be Kinlossie -- standing in a clump of wood on the margin of an inlet of the sea, known by the name of Loch Lossie.

But a far more astonishing sight than anything he had beheld that morning was yet in store for Barret. On turning round a projecting rock at the foot of the Eagle Cliff, he suddenly came upon a young girl, lying on the road as if dead!

Springing towards her, he knelt and raised her head. There was no blood upon the face, which was deadly pale, and no apparent injury. She did not seem to breathe, but on feeling her pulse he fancied that he felt a flutter there. A feeling of desperate regret passed through him as he thought of his utter destitution alike of medical or surgical knowledge. But Barret was not by any means a helpless man. Running to one of the many streams of water which trickled from the cliff, he filled the top of his wideawake therewith, and, returning, laved the girl's face, and poured a little into her mouth.

His efforts were successful. She recovered consciousness, opened her eyes, and asked, with a confused look, what was the matter.

"You must have had a fall, dear child; but you'll be better presently. Let me raise you."

The girl tried to rise, but, with a sharp cry of pain, fell back again unconscious.

Barret soon ascertained that one of the poor girl's arms was severely bruised, perhaps broken. He knew not what to do, but he knew that the greatest present evil was delay. He therefore wrapped her in the shepherd's plaid which she wore, and raised her as gently as possible in his arms -- making use of the plaid as a sort of sling, with part of it round his own neck. Then, thanking God for the strong limbs and muscles with which he had been endowed, he set off with vigorous tread for Kinlossie House.



Chapter Four.

The Family At Kinlossie.

Serenity was the prevailing feature in the character of old Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie; but when that amiable, portly, grand, silver-headed old gentleman suddenly met an unknown young man of fine proportions carrying his favourite niece, wrapped up as a bundle in his arms, all his serenity disappeared, and he stared, glared, almost gasped, with mingled astonishment and consternation.

A very brief explanation, however, quickly sufficed to charge his susceptible spirit to overflowing with a compound of grave anxiety and heartfelt gratitude.

"Come in, my dear sir, come in; luckily our doctor is spending the day with me. But for you, my poor dear Milly might have been -- This way, to her own room. Are you sure the arm is broken?"

"I fear so," replied Barret, entering the mansion; but before he could proceed farther his words were drowned in a shriek of surprise from four little Gordons, aged from sixteen to four, who yelled rather than demanded to know what ailed their cousin -- ranging from Archie's, "What's wrong with Cousin Milly," to Flora's, "Wass wong wid Cuzn Miwy?"

By that time Mrs Gordon, a pleasant-voiced lady, with benignity in her, looks, appeared on the scene, followed quickly by a man and several maid servants, all of whom added to the confusion, in the midst of which Cousin Milly was conveyed to her room and deposited on her bed. The family doctor, a rotund little man of fifty-five, was speedily in attendance.

"So fortunate that the doctor happens to be here," said the laird, as he led Barret to the library and offered him a glass of wine. "No! you don't drink? Well, well, as you please. Here, Duncan, fetch milk, lemonade, coffee, hot, at once. You must be tired after carrying her so far, even though she is a light weight. But, forgive me; in my anxiety about my poor niece I have quite forgotten to ask either your name or how you came here, for no steamer has been to the island for a week past. Pray be seated, and, wherever you may be bound for ultimately, make up your mind that my house is to be your home for a week at least. We suffer no visitor ever to leave us under that period."

"You are very kind," returned the young man, smiling, "and I accept your proffered hospitality most gladly. My name is John Barret. I came to the other side of the island in a yacht, and swam on shore in my clothes with six companions, spent the night at Cove, and have walked over here to make known these facts to you."

"You speak in riddles, my young friend," returned the laird, with an amused look.

"Yet I speak the truth," returned Barret, who thereupon gave a circumstantial account of the disaster that had befallen himself and his friends.

"Excuse me," said Mr Gordon, rising; throwing up the window he shouted to a man who was passing at the moment, "Roderick, get the big waggonette ready to go to Cove, and bring it round here as fast as you can. You see," he added to Barret, "the road is considerably longer than the short cut by which you came, and we must have them all over here without delay. Don't distress yourself about room. We have plenty of accommodation. But come, I'll take you to your own room, and when you have made yourself comfortable, we will talk over your future plans. Just let me say, however, to prevent your mind running away on wrong ideas, that in the circumstances we won't allow you to leave us for two months. The post goes out to-morrow, so you can write to your father and tell him so."

Thus running on in a rich hearty voice, the hospitable Allan Gordon conducted Barret to a room in the southern wing of the rambling old edifice, and left him there to meditate on his good fortune, and enjoy the magnificent prospect of the island-studded firth, or fiord, from which the mansion derived its name.

While the waggonette was away for the rest of the wrecked party, the laird, finding that Milly's arm was not actually broken, though severely bruised, sat down to lunch with restored equanimity, and afterwards drove Barret in his dog-cart to various parts of his estate.

"Your friends cannot arrive for several hours, you see," he said on starting, "and we don't dine till seven; so you could not be better engaged than in making acquaintance with the localities of our beautiful island. It may seem a little wild to you in its scenery, but there are thousands of picturesque points, and what painters call 'bits' about it, as my sweet little Milly Moss will tell you when she recovers; for she is an enthusiastic painter, and has made innumerable drawings, both in water-colour and oils, since she came to stay here. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you, Mr Barret, for rescuing the poor girl from her perilous position."

"I count myself fortunate indeed in having been led to the spot so opportunely," said Barret; "and I sincerely hope that no evil effects may result from her injuries. May I ask if she resides permanently with you at Kinlossie?"

"I wish she did," said the laird, fervently; "for she is like a sunbeam in the house. No, we have only got the loan of her, on very strict conditions too, from her mother, who is a somewhat timid lady of an anxious temperament. I've done my best to fulfil the conditions, but they are not easy."

"Indeed! How is that?"

"Well, you see, my sister is firmly convinced that there is deadly danger in wet feet, and one of her conditions is that Milly is not to be allowed to wet her feet. Now you know it is not easy for a Londoner to understand the difficulty of keeping one's feet dry while skipping over the mountains and peat-hags of the Western Isles."

"From which I conclude that Mrs Moss is a Londoner," returned Barret, with a laugh.

"She is. Although a Gordon, and born in the Argyll Highlands, she was sent to school in London, where she was married at the age of seventeen, and has lived there ever since. Her husband is dead, and nothing that I have been able to say has yet tempted her to pay me a visit. She regards my home here as a wild, uninhabitable region, though she has never seen it, and besides, is getting too old and feeble to venture, as she says, on a long voyage. Certes, she is not yet feeble in mind, whatever she may be in body; but she's a good, amiable, affectionate woman, and I have no fault to find with her, except in regard to her severe conditions about Milly, and her anxiety to get her home again. After all, it is not to be wondered at, for Milly is her only child; and I am quite sure if I had not gone to London, and made all sorts of promises to be extremely careful of Milly and personally take her home again, she never would have let her come at all. See, there is one of Milly's favourite views," said the laird, pulling up, and pointing with his whip to the scene in front, where a range of purple hills formed a fine background to the loch, with its foreground of tangle-covered stones; "she revels in depicting that sort of thing."

Barret, after expressing his thorough approval of the young girl's taste in the matter of scenery, asked if Milly's delicate health was the cause of her mother's anxiety.

"Delicate health!" exclaimed the laird. "Why, man, sylph-like though she appears, she has got the health of an Amazon. No, no, there's nothing wrong with my niece, save in the imagination of my sister. We will stop at this cottage for a few minutes. I want to see one of my men, who is not very well."

He pulled up at the door of a little stone hut by the roadside, which possessed only one small window and one chimney, the top of which consisted of an old cask, with the two ends knocked out. A bare-legged boy ran out of the hut to hold the horse.

"Is your brother better to-day?" asked the laird.

"No, sir; he's jist the same."

"Mind your head," said the laird, as he stooped to pass the low doorway, and led his friend into the hut.

The interior consisted of one extremely dirty room, in which the confined air was further vitiated by tobacco smoke, and the fumes of whisky. One entire side of it was occupied by two box-beds, in one of which lay a brawny, broad-shouldered man, with fiery red hair and scarcely less fiery red eyes, which seemed to glare out of the dark den in which he lay.

"Well, Ivor, are ye not better to-day, man?"

There was a sternness in Mr Gordon's query, which not only surprised but grieved his young companion; and the surprise was increased when the sick man replied in a surly tone -- 

"Na, laird, I'm not better; an' what's more, I'll not be better till my heed's under the sod."

"I'm afraid you are right, Ivor," returned the laird, in a somewhat softer tone; "for when a man won't help himself, no one else can help him."

"Help myself!" exclaimed the man, starting up on one elbow, and gazing fiercely from under his shaggy brows. "Help myself!" he repeated. And then, as if resolving suddenly to say no more, he sank down and laid his head on the pillow, with a short groan.

"Here, Ivor, is a bottle o' physic that my wife sends to ye," said Mr Gordon, pulling a pint bottle from his pocket, and handing it to the man, who clutched it eagerly, and was raising it to his mouth when his visitor arrested his hand.

"Hoot, man," he said, with a short laugh, "it's not whisky! She bid me say ye were to take only half a glass at a time, every two hours."

"Poor't oot, then, laird -- poor't oot," said the man, impatiently. "Ye'll fin' a glass i' the wundy."

Fetching a wine-glass from the window Mr Gordon half filled it with a liquid of a dark brown colour, which the sick man quaffed with almost fierce satisfaction, and then lay down with a sigh.

"It seems to have done ye good already, man," said the laird, putting the bottle and glass on that convenient shelf -- the window-sill. "I've no idea what the physic is, but my good wife seems to know, and that's enough for me; and for you, too, I think."

"Ay, she's a good wumin. Thank her for me," responded Ivor.

Remounting the dog-cart the old gentleman explained, as they drove along, that Ivor Donaldson's illness was the result of intemperance.

"He is my gamekeeper," said the laird; "and there is not a better or more trustworthy man in the island, when he is sober; but when he takes one of his drinking fits, he seems to lose all control over himself, and goes from bad to worse, till a fit of delirium tremens almost kills him. He usually goes for a good while after that without touching a drop, and at such times he is a most respectful, painstaking man, willing to take any amount of trouble to serve one, but when he breaks down he is as bad as ever -- nay, even worse. My wife and I have done what we could for him, and have tried to get him to take the temperance pledge, but hitherto without avail. My wife has even gone the length of becoming a total abstainer, in order to have more influence over him; but I don't quite see my way to do that myself."

"Then you have not yet done all that you could for the man, though your wife has," thought Barret; but he did not venture to say so.

At this point in the conversation they reached a place where the road left the shores of the loch and ascended into the hills. Being rather steep at its lower end, they alighted and walked; the laird pointing out, as they ascended, features in the landscape which he thought would interest his young guest.

"Yonder," he said, pointing to a wood on the opposite side of the valley, "yonder is a good piece of cover for deer. The last time we had a drive there we got three, one o' them a stag with very fine antlers. It was there that a young friend of mine, who was not much accustomed to sporting, shot a red cow in mistake for a deer! The same friend knocked over five or six of my tame ducks, under the impression that they were wild ones, because he found them among the heather! Are you fond of sport?"

"Not particularly," answered Barret; "that is, I am not personally much of a sportsman, though I have great enjoyment in going out with my sporting friends and watching their proceedings. My own tastes are rather scientific. I am a student of natural history -- a botanist and geologist -- though I lay no claim to extensive knowledge of science."

"Ah! my young friend, then you will find a powerful sympathiser in my niece Milly -- that is, when the poor child gets well -- for she is half mad on botany. Although only two weeks have passed since she came to us, she has almost filled her room with specimens of what she calls rare plants. I sometimes tease her by saying it is fortunate that bracken does not come under that head, else she'd pull it all up and leave no cover for the poor rabbits. She has also half-filled several huge books with gummed-in specimens innumerable, though I can't see that she does more than write their names below them."

"And that is no small advance in the science, let me tell you," returned Barret, who was stirred up to defend his co-scientist. "No one can succeed in anything who does not take the first steps, and undergo the drudgery manfully."

"Womanfully, in this case, my friend; but do not imagine that I underrate my little niece. My remark was to the effect that I do not see that she does more, though I have no manner of doubt that her pretty little head thinks a great deal more. Now we will get up here, as the road is more level for a bit. D'you see the group of alders down in the hollow yonder, where the little stream that runs through the valley takes a sudden bend? There's a deep pool there, where a good many sea-trout congregate. You shall try it soon -- that is, if you care for fishing."

"Oh, yes, I like fishing," said Barret. "It is a quiet, contemplative kind of sport."

"Contemplative!" exclaimed the old gentleman with a laugh; "well, yes, it is, a little. Sometimes you get down into the bed of the stream with considerable difficulty, and you have to contemplate the banks a long time, occasionally, before deciding as to which precipice is least likely to give you a broken neck. Yes, it is a contemplative sport. As to quiet, that depends very much on what your idea of quietude may be. Our burn descends for two or three miles in succession of leaps and bounds. If the roaring of cataracts is quieting to you, there is no end of it down there. See, the pool that I speak of is partly visible now, with the waterfall above it. You see it?"

"Yes, I see it."

"We call it Mac's pool," continued the laird, driving on, "because it is a favourite pool of an old school companion of mine, named MacRummle, who is staying with us just now. He tumbles into it about once a week."

"Is that considered a necessary part of the process of fishing?" asked Barret.

"No, it may rather be regarded as an eccentric addition peculiar to MacRummle. The fact is, that my good friend is rather too old to fish now; but his spirit is still so juvenile, and his sporting instincts are so keen, that he is continually running into dangerous positions and getting into scrapes. Fortunately he is very punctual in returning to meals; so if he fails to appear at the right time, I send off one of my men to look for him. I have offered him a boy as an attendant, but he prefers to be alone."

"There seems to be some one down at the pool now," remarked Barret, looking back.

"No doubt it is MacRummle himself," said the laird, pulling up. "Ay, and he seems to be making signals to us."

"Shall I run down and see what he wants?" asked Barret.

"Do; you are active, and your legs are strong. It will do you good to scramble a little."

Leaping the ditch that skirted the road, the youth soon crossed the belt of furze and heather that lay between him and the river, about which he and his host had been conversing. Being unaccustomed to the nature of the Western Isles, he was a little surprised to find the country he had to cross extremely rugged and broken, and it taxed all the activity for which the laird had given him credit, as well as his strength of limb, to leap some of the peat-hags and water-courses that came in his way. He was too proud of his youthful vigour to pick his steps round them! Only once did he make a slip in his kangaroo-like bounds, but that slip landed him knee-deep in a bog of brown mud, out of which he dragged his legs with difficulty.

Gaining the bank of the river at last, he soon came up to the fisher, who was of sturdy build, though somewhat frail from age, and dressed in brown tweed garments, with a dirty white wideawake, the crown of which was richly decorated with casting-lines and hooks, ranging from small brown hackle to salmon-fly. But the striking thing about him was that his whole person was soaking wet. Water dripped from the pockets of his shooting coat, dribbled from the battered brim of his wideawake, and, flowing from his straightened locks, trickled off the end of his Roman nose.

"You have been in the water, I fear," said Barret, in a tone of pity.

"And you have been in the mud, young man," said the fisher, in a tone of good-humoured sarcasm.

The youth burst into a laugh at this, and the old fisherman's mouth expanded into a broad grin, which betrayed the fact that age had failed to damage his teeth, though it had played some havoc with his legs.

"These are what I style Highland boots," said the old man, pointing to the muddy legs.

"Indeed!" returned Barret. "Well, you see I have put them on at once, for I have only arrived a few hours since. My name is Barret. I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr MacRummle?"

"You have that pleasure, Mr Barret; and now, if you will do me the kindness to carry my rod and basket, I will lead you back to the dog-cart by a path which will not necessitate an additional pair of native boots! I would not have hailed you, but having tumbled into the river, as you see, I thought it would be more prudent to get driven home as quickly as possible."

"You have a good basket of fish, I see, or rather, feel," remarked Barret, as he followed the old man, who walked rather slowly, for his physical strength was not equal to his spirits.

"Ay, it is not so bad; but I lost the best one. Fishers always do, you know! He was a grilse, a six-pounder at the least, if he was an ounce, for I had him within an inch of my gaff when I overbalanced myself, and shot into the stream head foremost with such force, that I verily believe I drove him to the very bottom of the pool. Strange to say the rod was not broken; but when I scrambled ashore, I found that the grilse was gone!"

"How unfortunate! You were not hurt, I hope?"

"Not in the least. There was plenty of depth for a dive; besides, I'm used to it."

It became quite evident to John Barret that his new friend was "used to" a good many more things besides tumbling into the river, for as they went slowly along the winding footpath that led them through the peat-hags, MacRummle tripped over a variety of stumps, roots, and other excrescences which presented themselves in the track, and which on several occasions brought him to the ground. The old gentleman, however, had a fine facility in falling. Being slow in all his movements, he usually subsided rather than fell; a result, perhaps, of laziness as well as of unwillingness to struggle against fate. His frequent staggerings, also, on the verge of dark peat holes, caused his companion many a shock of alarm and many a start forward to prevent a catastrophe, before they gained the high road. They reached it at last, however, rather breathless, but safe.

MacRummle's speech, like his movements, was slow. His personal courage, considering the dangers he constantly and voluntarily encountered, was great.

"You've been in again, Mac, I see," exclaimed the laird heartily, extending his hand to his old friend with the view of hauling him up on the seat beside him. "Mind the step. Now then!"

"Yes, I've been in, but the weather is warm! Stop, stop! Don't pull quite so hard, Allan; mind my rheumatic shoulder. Give a shove behind, Mr Barret -- gently -- there. Thankee."

The old man sat down with something of a crash beside his friend. Barret handed him his rod, put the basket under his feet, and sprang up on the seat behind.

Returning at a swift pace by the road they had come, they soon reached Kinlossie, where the laird drove into the back yard, so as to deliver the still dripping MacRummle at the back door, and thus prevent his leaving a moist track from the front hall to his bedroom. Having got rid of him, and given the dog-cart in charge to the groom, Mr Gordon led his young friend round to the front of the house.

"I see your friends have already arrived," said the laird, pointing to the waggonette which stood in the yard. "No doubt we shall find them about somewhere."

They turned the corner of the mansion as he spoke, and certainly did come on Barret's friends, in circumstances, however, which seemed quite unaccountable at first sight, for there, in front of the open door, were not only Bob Mabberly, Giles Jackman, Skipper McPherson, James McGregor, Pat Quin, and Robin Tips, but also Mrs Gordon, the two boy Gordons --  named respectively, Eddie and Junkie -- Duncan, the butler, and little Flora, with a black wooden doll in her arms, all standing in more or less awkward attitudes, motionless and staring straight before them as if petrified with surprise or some kindred feeling.

Barret looked at his host with a slight elevation of his eyebrows.

"Hush!" said the laird, softly, holding up a finger of caution. "My boy Archie is behind that laurel bush. He's photographing them!"

"That'll do," in a loud voice from Archie, disenchanted the party; and while the operator rushed off to his "dark closet," the laird hurried forward to be introduced to the new arrivals, and give them hospitable greeting.

That evening the host and his wife entertained their guests to a genuine Highland feast in the trophied hall, and at a somewhat later hour Duncan, the butler, and Elsie, the cook, assisted by Roderick, the groom, and Mary, the housemaid, held their share of high revelry in the kitchen, with Quin, Tips, and "Shames" McGregor.

"You have come to the right place for sport, gentlemen," said the laird, as he carved with vigour at a splendid haunch of venison. "In their seasons we have deer and grouse on the hills; rabbits, hares, partridges, and pheasants on the low grounds. What'll you have, Mr Mabberly? My dear, what have you got there?"

"Pigeon pie," answered Mrs Gordon.

"Mac, that will suit your taste, I know," cried the host with a laugh.

"Yes, it will," slowly returned MacRummle, whose ruddy face and smooth bald head seemed to glow with satisfaction now that he had got into dry garments. "Yes, I'm almost as fond of pie as my old friend Robinson used to be. He was so fond of it that, strange though it may seem to you, gentlemen, he had a curious predilection for pie-bald horses."

"Come, now, Mac, don't begin upon your friend Robinson till after dinner."

"Has Archie's photography turned out well?" asked Mabberly at this point. "I do a little in that way myself, and am interested as to the result of his efforts to-day."

"We cannot know that before to-morrow, I fear," replied Mrs Gordon.

"Did I hear you ask about Archie's work, Mabberly?" said the laird, interrupting. "Oh! it'll turn out well, I have no doubt. He does everything well. In fact, all the boys are smartish fellows; a little self-willed and noisy, perhaps, like all boys, but -- "

A tremendous crash in the room above, which was the nursery, caused the laird to drop his knife and fork and quickly leave the room, with a look of anxiety, for he was a tender-hearted, excitable man; while his quiet and delicate-looking wife sat still, with a look of serenity not unmingled with humour.

"Something overturned, I suppose," she remarked.

In a few minutes her husband returned with a bland smile.

"Yes," he said, resuming his knife and fork; "it was Junkie, as usual, fighting with Flo for the black doll. No mischief would have followed, I daresay, but Archie and Eddie joined in the scrimmage, and between them they managed to upset the table. I found them wallowing in a sea of porridge and milk -- that was all!"



Chapter Five.

Plans, Prospects, And A Great Fight.

There is something very enjoyable in awaking in a strange bedroom with a feeling of physical strength and abounding health about one, with a glorious, early sunbeam irradiating the room -- especially if it does not shine upon one's face -- with a window opposite, through which you can see a mountain rising through the morning mists, until its summit appears to claim kindred with the skies, and with the consciousness that work is over for a time, and recreation is the order of the day.

Some such thoughts and feelings caused John Barret to smile as he lay flat on his back, the morning after his arrival, with his hands under his head, surveying the low-roofed but cosy apartment which had been allotted to him in the mansion of Kinlossie. But the smile gave place to a grave, earnest expression as his eyes fell upon a framed card, on which was printed, in scarlet and blue and gold, "The earth is the Lords and the fulness thereof."

"So it is," thought the youth; "and my power to enjoy it comes from the Lord -- my health, my strength, myself. Yet how seldom do I thank Him for the mere fact of a happy existence. God forgive me!"

Although Barret thus condemned himself, we would not have it supposed that he had been a careless unbeliever. His temperament was grave (not by any means gloomy) by nature, and a Christian mother's love and teaching had, before her early death, deepened his religious impressions.

He was beginning to wonder whether it was Mrs Gordon who had hung the text there, and whether it had been executed by Milly Moss, when the "get up" gong sent forth a sonorous peal, causing him to bound out of bed. The act brought before his eyes another bed -- a small one -- in a corner of the room reminding him of what he had forgotten, that, the house being full to overflow by the recent accession of visitors, little Joseph, better known as Junkie, shared the room with him.

Junkie was at the moment sleeping soundly, after the manner of the hedgehog -- that is, curled up in the form of a ball. It was plain that neither dressing gongs nor breakfast-bells had any effect upon him, for he lay still in motionless slumber.

"Hallo! Junkie, did you hear the gong?" said Barret, pushing the boy gently.

But Junkie answered not, and he had to push him three or four times gently, and twice roughly, before he could awaken the youngster. Uncoiling himself and turning on the other side, Junkie heaved a deep sigh, and murmured, -- "Leave m' 'lone."

"Junkie! Junkie! you'll be late for breakfast," shouted Barret in his ear.

"Don' -- wan' -- any -- br'kf'st," murmured the boy. "Leave m' 'lone, I say --  or'll wallop you!"

A laugh from Barret, and a still severer shake, roused the boy so far as to make him sit up and stare about him with almost supernatural solemnity. Then he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and smiled faintly.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" he said. "I thought it was Eddie, and -- "

Another yawn checked his utterance. Then he suddenly jumped up, and began to haul on his clothes with surprising rapidity. It was evident that Junkie had a will of his own, and was accustomed to exert it on all occasions. He continued to dress, wash himself, brush his hair and his teeth, without speaking, and with such vigour that he soon distanced his companion in the race. True, he did not do everything thoroughly. He did not render his little hands immaculately clean. He did not remember that the secret places behind his ears required to be particularly attended to, and, in brushing operations, he totally forgot that he was possessed of back-hair. Indeed, it is just possible that he disbelieved that fact, for he neglected it entirely, insomuch that when he had completed the operation to his own entire satisfaction, several stiff and independent locks pointed straight to the sky, and two or three to the horizon.

"That's a pretty text on the wall, Junkie," observed Barret, while the youngster was busy with the comb.

"Yes, it's pretty."

Barret wished to draw the boy out, but, like a tough piece of india-rubber, he refused to be drawn out.

"It is beautifully painted. Who did it?" asked the youth, making another attempt.

He had accidentally touched the right chord this time. It vibrated at once. Junkie looked up with sparkling eyes, and said that Milly did it.

"She does everything beautifully," he added, as he brushed away at his forelock -- a remarkably obstinate forelock, considering that it was the most highly favoured lock of his head.

"You like Milly, I see," said his friend.

"Of course I do. Everybody does."

"Indeed! Why does everybody like her so much?"

"'Cause she's so nice," said Junkie, dropping his brush on the floor --  not accidentally, but as the easiest way of getting rid of it. "And she sometimes says that I'm good."

"I'm glad to hear that, my boy, for if Milly says so it must be true."

"No, it's not true," returned the boy promptly, as he fastened his necktie in a complex knot, and thrust his arm through the wrong hole of his little vest. "Milly is mistaken, that's all. But I like her to say it, all the same. It feels jolly. But I'm bad -- awful bad! Everybody says so. Father says so, an' he must be right, you know, for he says he knows everything. Besides, I feel it, an' I know it, an' I don't care!"

Having given vent to this reckless statement, and wriggled into his jacket -- the collar of which he left half down and half up -- Junkie suddenly plumped down on his knees, laid his head on his bed, and remained perfectly still for the space of about one quarter of a minute. Then, jumping up with the pleased expression of one who felt that he had done his duty, he was about to rush from the room, when Barret stopped him.

"I'm glad to see that you say your prayers, at all events," he said.

"But I wouldn't say them if it wasn't for Milly," returned the urchin. "I do it to please her. An' I wash an' brush myself, an' all that, just 'cause she likes me to do it. I'd neither wash, nor pray, nor brush, nor anything, if it wasn't to please Milly -- and mother," he added, after a moment's reflection. "I like them, an' I don't care a button for anybody else."

"What! for nobody else at all?"

"Well, yes, I forgot -- I like Ivor, too."

"Is that the sick gamekeeper, Junkie?"

"Sick! no; he's the drunken keeper. Drunken Ivor, we call him -- not to his face, you know. Wouldn't we catch it if we did that! But I'm fond of drunken Ivor, an' he's fond of me. He takes me out sometimes when he goes to shoot rabbits and fish. Sometimes he's awful fierce, but he's never fierce to his old mother that lives in the hut close behind his -- 'cept when he's drunk. D'ee know" -- the boy lowered his voice at this point and looked solemn -- "he very nearly killed his mother once, when he was drunk, you know, an' when he came sober he cried -- oh, just as our Flo cries when she's bin whipped."

At this point the breakfast-bell pealed forth with, so to speak, a species of clamorous enthusiasm by no means unusual in Scottish country mansions, as if it knew that there was spread out a breakfast worth ringing for. At the first sound of it, Junkie burst from the room, left the door wide open, clattered along the passage, singing, yelling vociferously as he went -- and trundled downstairs like a retiring thunderstorm.

The arrangements for the day at Kinlossie were usually fixed at the breakfast hour, if they had not been settled the night before. There was, therefore, a good deal to consult about during the progress of the meal.

"You see, gentlemen," said the host, when the demands of nature were partially satisfied, "friends who come to stay with me are expected to select their occupations or amusements for the day as fancy or taste may lead them. My house is 'liberty hall.' Sometimes we go together on the hills after grouse, at other times after red-deer. When the rivers are in order, we take our rods and break up into parties. When weather and wind are suitable, some go boating and sea-fishing. Others go sketching or botanising. If the weather should become wet, you will find a library next to this room, a billiard-table in the west wing, and a smoking-room -- which is also a rod and gun-room -- in the back premises. We cannot take the men from their work to-day, so that a deer-drive is not possible, but that can be done any day. So, gentlemen, think over it, and make your choice."

"How is Milly this morning?" asked MacRummle, who came down late to breakfast, as he always did, and consequently missed morning prayers.

"Better, much better than we could have expected. Of course the arm is inflamed and very painful, but not broken, which is almost a miracle, considering the height from which she fell. But for you, Mr Barret, she might have lain there for hours before we found her, and the consequences might have been very serious. As it is, the doctor says she will probably be able to leave her room in a few days."

"Come, now, Mac," continued the host, "we have been talking over plans for the day. What do you intend to do?"

"Try the river," said the old gentleman, with quiet decision, as he slowly helped himself to the ham and egg that chanced to be in front of him. "There's a three-pounder, if not a four, which rose in the middle pool yesterday, and I feel sure of him to-day."

"Why, Mr MacRummle," said Mrs Gordon smilingly, "you have seen that three-pounder or four-pounder every day for a month past."

"I have, Mrs Gordon; and I hope to see him every day for a month to come, if I don't catch him to-day!"

"Whatever you do, Mac, don't dive for him," said the laird; "else we will some day have to fish yourself out of the middle pool. Have another cut of salmon, Mr Mabberly. In what direction do your tastes point?"

"I feel inclined to make a lazy day of it and go out with your son Archie," said Mabberly, "to look at the best views for photographing. I had intended to photograph a good deal among the Western Isles, this summer; but my apparatus now lies, with the yacht, at the bottom of the sea."

"Yes, in company with my sixteen-shooter rifle," said Giles Jackman, with a rueful countenance.

"Well, gentlemen, I cannot indeed offer you much comfort as regards your losses, for the sea keeps a powerful hold of its possessions; but you will find my boy's camera a fairly good one, and there are plenty of dry plates. It so happens, also, that I have a new repeating rifle in the house, which has not yet been used; so, in the meantime, at all events, neither of you will suffer much from your misfortunes."

It was finally arranged, before breakfast was over, that MacRummle was to go off alone to his usual and favourite burn; that Jackman and Quin, under the guidance of Junkie, should try the river for salmon and sea-trout; that Barret, with ex-Skipper McPherson, Shames McGregor, Robin Tips, Eddie Gordon, the laird's second son -- a boy of twelve -- and Ivor, the keeper -- whose recoveries were as rapid as his relapses were sudden -- should all go off in the boat to try the sea-fishing; and that Bob Mabberly, with Archie, should go photographing up one of the most picturesque of the glens, conducted by the laird himself.

As it stands to reason that we cannot accompany all of these parties, we elect to follow Giles Jackman, Quin, and Junkie up the river.

This expedition involved a preliminary walk of four miles, which they all preferred to being driven to the scene of action in a dog-cart.

Junkie was a little fellow for his age, but remarkably intelligent, active, bright and strong. From remarks made by various members of the Gordon family and their domestics, both Jackman and his servant had been led to the conclusion that the boy was the very impersonation of mischief, and were more or less on the look out for displays of his propensity; but Junkie walked demurely by their side, asking and replying to questions with the sobriety of an elderly man, and without the slightest indication of the latent internal fires, with which he was credited.

The truth is, that Junkie possessed a nature that was tightly strung and vibrated like an Aeolian harp to the lightest breath of influence. He resembled, somewhat, a pot of milk on a very hot fire, rather apt to boil over with a rush; nevertheless, he possessed the power to restrain himself in a simmering condition for a considerable length of time. The fact that he was fairly out for the day with two strangers, to whom he was to show the pools where salmon and sea-trout lay, was a prospect so charming that he was quite content to simmer.

"D'ee know how to fish for salmon?" he asked, looking gravely up in Jackman's face, after they had proceeded a considerable distance.

"Oh, yes, Junkie; I know how to do it. I used to fish for salmon before I went to India."

"Isn't that the place where they shoot lions and tigers and -- and g'rillas?"

"Well, not exactly lions and gorillas, my boy; but there are plenty of baboons and monkeys there, and lots of tigers."

"Have you shot them?" asked Junkie, with a look of keen interest.

"Yes; many of them."

"Did you ever turn a tiger outside in?"

Jackman replied, with a laugh, that he had never performed that curious operation on anything but socks -- that, indeed, he had never heard of such a thing being done.

"I knew it was a cracker," said Junkie.

"What d'you mean by a cracker, my boy?" inquired Jackman.

"A lie," said Junkie, promptly.

"And who told the cracker?"

"Ivor. He tells me a great, great many stories."

"D'you mean Ivor Donaldson, the keeper?"

"Yes; he tells me plenty of stories, but some of them are crackers. He said that once upon a time a man was walkin' through the jungle -- that's what they call the bushes, you know, in India -- an' he met a great big tiger, which glared at him with its great eyes, and gave a tremendous roar, and sprang upon him. The man was brave and strong. He held out his right arm straight, so that when the tiger came upon him his arm went into its open mouth and right down its throat, and his hand caught hold of something. It was the inside end of the tiger's tail! The man gave an awful pull, and the tiger came inside out at once with a tremendous crack!"

"Sure, and that was a cracker!" remarked Quin, who had been listening to the boy's prattle with an amused expression, as they trudged along.

"Nevertheless, it may not be fair to call it a lie, Junkie," said Jackman. "Did Ivor say it was true?"

"No. When I asked if it was, he only laughed, and said he had once read of the same thing being done to a walrus, but he didn't believe it."

"Just so, Junkie. He meant you to understand the story of the tiger as he did the story of the walrus -- as a sort of fairy tale, you know."

"How could he mean that," demanded Junkie, "when he said it was a tiger's tail -- not a fairy's at all?"

Jackman glanced at Quin, and suppressed a laugh. Quin returned the glance, and expressed a smile.

"Better luck next time," murmured the servant.

"Did you ever see walruses?" asked Junkie, whose active mind was prone to jump from one subject to another.

"No, never; but I have seen elephants, which are a great deal bigger than walruses," returned Jackman; "and I have shot them, too. I will tell you some stories about them one of these days -- not 'crackers', but true ones."

"That'll be nice! Now, we're close to the sea-pool; but the tide's too far in to fish that just now, so we'll go up to the next one, if you like."

"By all means, my boy. You know the river, and we don't, so we put ourselves entirely under your guidance and orders," replied Jackman.

By this time they had reached the river at the upper end of the loch. It ran in a winding course through a level plain which extended to the base of the encircling hills. The pool next the sea being unfishable, as we have said, owing to the state of the tide, Junkie conducted his companions high up the stream by a footpath. And a proud urchin he was, in his grey kilt and hose, with his glengarry cocked a little on one side of his curly head, as he strode before them with all the self-reliance of a Highland chieftain.

In a few minutes they came to the first practicable pool -- a wide, rippling, oily, deep hole, caused by a bend in the stream, the appearance of which -- suggestive of silvery scales -- was well calculated to arouse sanguine hopes in a salmon fisher.

Here Quin proceeded to put together the pieces of his master's rod, while Jackman, opening a portly fishing-book, selected a casting line and fly.

"Have you been in India, too?" asked Junkie of Quin, as he watched their proceedings with keen interest.

"Sure, an' I have -- leastways if it wasn't dhreamin' I've bin there."

"An' have you killed lions, and tigers, and elephants?"

"Well, not exactly, me boy, but it's meself as used to stand by an' howld the spare guns whin the masther was killin' them."

"Wasn't you frightened?"

"Niver a taste. Och! thriflin' craters like them niver cost me a night's rest, which is more than I can say of the rats in Kinlossie, anyhow."

A little shriek of laughter burst from Junkie on hearing this.

"What are ye laughin' at, honey?" asked Quin.

"At you not bein' able to sleep for the rats!" returned the boy. "It's the way with everybody who comes to stay with us, at first, but they get used to it at last."

"Are the rats then so numerous?" asked Jackman.

"Swarmin', all over! Haven't you heard them yet?"

"Well, yes, I heard them scampering soon after I went to bed, but I thought it was kittens at play in the room overhead, and soon went to sleep. But they don't come into the rooms, do they?"

"Oh, no -- I only wish they would! Wouldn't we have a jolly hunt if they did? But they scuttle about the walls inside, and between the ceilings and the floors. And you can't frighten them. The only thing that scared them once was the bag-pipes. An old piper came to the house one day and played a great deal, and we heard nothing more of the rats for two or three weeks after that."

"Sensible bastes," remarked Quin, handing the rod to his master; "an' a sign, too, that they've got some notion o' music."

"Why, Quin, I thought you had bag-pipes in Ireland," said Jackman, as he fastened a large fly to his line.

"An' that's what we have, sor; but the Irish pipes are soft, mellow, gentle things -- like the Irish girls -- not like them big Scotch bellows that screech for all the world like a thousand unwillin' pigs bein' forced to go to markit."

"True, Quin; there's something in that. Now then, both of you stand close to me -- a little behind -- so; it's the safest place if you don't want to be hooked, and be ready with the gaff, Junkie," said the fisher, as he turned a critical eye on the water, and made a fine cast over what he deemed the most likely part of the pool.

"Father never rose a fish there," said Junkie, with a demure look.

The fisher paid no attention to the remark, but continued to cast a little lower down stream each time.

"You're gettin' near the bit now," said Junkie, in the tone of one whose expectations are awakened.

"Th-there! That's him!"

"Ay, and a good one, too," exclaimed Jackman, as a fan-like tail disappeared with a heavy splash. Again the fisher cast, with the same result.

"He's only playin' wi' the fly," said Junkie in a tone of disappointment.

"That's often the way -- no! -- th-there! Got 'im!"

The rod bent like a hoop at that moment; the reel spun round to its own merry music, as the line flew out, and the fish finished its first wild rush with a leap of three feet into the air.

"Hooray!" yelled Junkie, now fairly aflame, as he jumped like the fish, flourished the big hook round his head, and gaffed Quin by the lappet of his coat!

"Have a care, you spalpeen," shouted the Irishman, grasping the excited youngster by the collar and disengaging himself from the hook. "Sure it might have been me nose as well as me coat, an' a purty objec' that would have made me!"

Junkie heeded not. When released he ran toward Jackman who was struggling skilfully with the fish.

"Don't let him take you down the rapid," he shouted. "There's no good place for landin' him there. Hold on, an' bring 'im up if you can. Hi!"

This last exclamation was caused by another rush of the fish. Jackman had wound up his line as far as possible, and was in hopes of inducing the salmon to ascend the stream, for he had run perilously near to the head of the rapid against which the boy had just warned him. But to this the fish objected, and, finding that the fisher was obstinate, had, as we have said, made a sudden rush across the pool, causing the reel to spin furiously as the line ran out, and finishing off with another splendid jump.

"A few more bursts like that will soon exhaust him," said Jackman, as he wound in the line again and drew the fish steadily towards him.

"Yes, but don't let him go down," said the boy earnestly.

It seemed almost as if the creature had heard the warning, for it turned at the moment and made a straight rush for the head of the rapid.

When a large salmon does this it is absolutely impossible to stop him. Only two courses are open to the fisher -- either to hold on and let him break the tackle; or follow him as fast as possible. The former alternative, we need hardly say, is only adopted when following is impracticable or involves serious danger. In the present case it was neither impossible nor dangerous, but it was difficult; and the way in which Giles Jackman went after that fish, staggering among pebbles, leaping obstructions, crashing through bushes and bounding over boulders, causing Quin to hold his sides with laughter, and little Junkie to stand transfixed and staring with admiration, was indescribable.

For Junkie had only seen his old father in such circumstances, and sometimes the heavy, rather clumsy, though powerful Ivor Donaldson. He had not till that day seen -- much less imagined -- what were the capacities of an Indian "Woods and Forester" of athletic build, superb training, and fresh from his native jungles!

"I say! what a jumper he is!" exclaimed Junkie, recovering presence of mind and dashing after him.

The rapid was a short though rough one. The chief danger was that the line might be cut among the foam-covered rocks, or that the hook, if not firmly fixed, might tear itself away; also that the fisher might fall, which would probably be fatal to rod or line, to say nothing of elbows and shins.

But Jackman came triumphantly out of it all. The salmon shot into the pool below the rapid, and turned into the eddy to rest. The fisher, at the same moment, bounded on to a strip of sand there -- minus only hat and wind -- and proceeded to reel in the line for the next burst.

But another burst did not occur, for the fish was by that time pretty well exhausted, and took to what is styled sulking; that is, lying at the bottom of a hole with its nose, probably, under a stone. While in this position a fish may recover strength to renew the battle. It is therefore advisable, if possible, to drive him or haul him out of his refuge by all or any means. A small fish may be hauled out if the tackle be strong, but this method is not possible with a heavy one such as that which Jackman had hooked.

"What's to be done now, Junkie?" he said, after one or two vain efforts to move the fish.

"Bomb stones at him," said the urchin, without a moment's hesitation.

"Bomb away then, my boy!"

Junkie at once sent several large stones whizzing into the pool. The result was that the salmon made another dash for life, but gave in almost immediately, and came to the surface on its side. The battle is usually about ended when this takes place, though not invariably so, for lively fish sometimes recover sufficiently to make a final effort. In this case, however, it was the close of the fight. Slowly and carefully the fisher drew the fish towards the shelving bank, where Junkie stood ready with the gaff. Another moment, and the boy bounded into the water, stuck the hook into the salmon's shoulder, and laid it like a bar of glittering silver on the bank.

"A twenty-pounder," said Junkie, with critical gravity.

"Twinty an' three-quarters," said Quin, as he weighed it.

"And a good job, too," returned the practical urchin; "for I heard mother say we'd have no fish for dinner to-morrow if somebody didn't catch something."



Chapter Six.

Dangerous Studies, Peculiar Art, And Splendid Fishing.

There was a glass conservatory in one corner of the garden at Kinlossie House, to which the laird was wont to retire regularly for the enjoyment of a pipe every morning after breakfast. In this retreat, which was rich in hot-house plants, he was frequently joined by one or more of the members of his family, and sometimes by the friends who chanced to be staying with him. Thither John Barret got into the way of going -- partly for the sake of a chat with the old man, of whom he soon became very fond, and partly for the sake of the plants, in which he was scientifically interested, botany being, as Mabberly said, his peculiar weakness.

One morning -- and a gloriously bright morning it was, such as induces one to thank God for the gift of sunshine and the capacity of enjoying it --  John Barret sauntered down to the garden, after breakfast, to have a quiet chat with his host. He had decided to remain at home that morning for the purpose of writing a letter or two, intending in the afternoon to follow up some of his companions, who had gone off to the hills.

Entering the conservatory, he found that the laird was not there; but, in his usual rustic chair, there sat a beautiful girl, sound asleep, with her fair cheek resting on her little hand, and her nut-brown hair straggling luxuriantly over her shoulders.

Barret was spell-bound. He could not move for a few seconds. Surprise may have had something to do with the sudden paralysis of his powers. It may have been curiosity, possibly admiration, certainly some sort of sensation that he could neither describe nor account for. He knew at a glance who the girl was, though he had not seen her since the day of her accident. Even if he had been so obtuse as not to know, the arm in a sling would have revealed that it was Milly Moss who slumbered there; yet he found it hard to believe that the neat little woman, with the lovely, benignant countenance before him was in very truth the dishevelled, dusty, scratched, and blood-sprinkled being whom he had carried for several miles over the heather a short time before.

As we have said, Barret stood immovable, not knowing very well what to do. Then it occurred to him that it was scarcely gallant or fair thus to take advantage of a sleeping beauty. Staring at her was bad enough, but to awake her would be still worse; so he turned slowly about, as a cat turns when afraid of being pounced on by a glaring adversary. He would retire on tiptoe as softly as possible, so as not to disturb her. In carrying out this considerate intention, he swept a flower-pot off its stand, which fell with a mighty crash upon the stone floor.

The poor youth clasped his hands, and glanced back over his shoulder in horror. The startled Milly was gazing at him with mingled surprise and alarm, which changed, however, into a flush and a look of restrained laughter as she began to understand the situation.

"Never mind, Mr Barret," she said, rising, and coming forward with a gracious manner. "It is only one of the commonest plants we have. There are plenty more of them. You came, I suppose, in search of my uncle? Excuse my left hand; the right, as you see, is not yet fit for duty."

"I did indeed come here in search of Mr Gordon," said Barret, recovering himself; "but permit me to lead you back to the chair; your strength has not quite returned yet, I see."

He was right. Although Milly had recovered much more rapidly than the doctor had expected, she could not stand much excitement, and the shock given by the breaking flower-pot, coupled, perhaps, with the unexpected meeting with the man who had rescued her, from what might well have caused her death, somewhat overcame her.

"Excuse me," she said, with a fluttering sigh, as she sank down into the rustic chair, "I do feel rather faint. It does seem so strange! I -- I suppose it is because I have had no experience of anything but robust health all my life till now. There -- I feel better. Will you kindly fetch me a glass of water? You will find a cistern with a tumbler beside it outside."

The youth hurried out, and, on returning with the glass, found that the deadly pallor of the girl's face had passed away, and was replaced by a tint that might have made the blush rose envious.

"You must understand," said Milly, setting down the glass, while Barret seated himself on a vacant flower-pot-stand beside her, "that this conservatory is a favourite haunt of mine, to which, before my accident, I have resorted every morning since I came here, in order to sit with Uncle Allan. The doctor thought me so much better this morning that he gave me leave to recommence my visits. This is why I came; but I had totally forgotten that uncle had arranged to go out with the shooting party to-day, so I sat down to enjoy my favourite plants, and paid them the poor compliment of falling asleep, owing to weakness, I suppose. But how does it happen, Mr Barret, that you have been left behind? They gave me to understand that you are a keen sportsman."

"They misled you, then, for I am but a poor sportsman, and by no means enthusiastic. Indeed, whether I go out with rod or gun, I usually convert the expedition into a search for plants."

"Oh, then, you are fond of botany!" exclaimed the girl, with a flush of pleasure and awakened interest. "I am so glad of that, because --  because -- "

"Well, why do you hesitate, Miss Moss?" asked Barret, with a surprised look and a smile.

"Well, I don't quite like to lay bare my selfishness; but the truth is, there are some rare plants in terribly inaccessible places, which can only be reached by creatures in male attire. In fact, I was trying to secure one of these on the Eagle Cliff when I fell, and was so nearly killed at the time you rescued me."

"Pray don't give the little service I rendered so dignified a name as 'rescue.' But it rejoices me to know that I can be of further service to you -- all the more that you are now so helpless; for if you found climbing the precipices difficult before, you will find it impossible now with your injured arm. By the way, I was very glad to find that I had been mistaken in thinking that your arm was broken. Has it given you much pain?"

"Yes, a good deal; but I am very, very thankful it was no worse. And now I must show you some of the plants I have been trying to bring up since I came here," said Milly, with animation. "Of course, I cannot walk about to show them to you, so I will point them out, and ask you to fetch the pots -- that is, if you have nothing better to do, and won't be bored."

Barret protested earnestly that he had nothing -- could have nothing --  better to do, and that even if he had he wouldn't do it. As for being bored, the idea of such a state of mind being possible in the circumstances was ridiculous.

Milly was rejoiced. Here she had unexpectedly found a friend to sympathise with her intelligently. Her uncle, she was well aware, sympathised with her heartily, but not intelligently; for his knowledge of botany, he told her frankly, was inferior to that of a tom-cat, and he was capable of little more in that line than to distinguish the difference between a cabbage and a potato.

At it, therefore, the two young people went with real enthusiasm -- we might almost say with red-hot enthusiasm -- for botany was only a superstructure, so to speak, love being the foundation of the whole affair.

But let not the reader jump to hasty conclusions. Barret and Milly, being young and inexperienced, were absolutely ignorant at that time of the true state of matters. Both were earnest and straightforward -- both were ardently fond of botany, and neither, up to that period, had known what it was to fall in love. What more natural, then, than that they should attribute their condition to botany? There is, indeed, a sense in which their idea was correct, for sympathy is one of the most precious seeds with which poor humanity is entrusted, and did not botany enable these two to unite in planting that seed, and is not sympathy the germ of full-blown love? If so, may they not be said to have fallen in love botanically? We make no assertion in regard to this. We merely, and modestly, put the question, leaving it to the intelligent reader to supply the answer -- an exceedingly convenient mode of procedure when one is not quite sure of the answer one's self.

To return. Having got "at it," Barret and Milly continued at it for several hours, during which period they either forgot, or did not care to remember, the flight of time. They also contrived, during that time, to examine, discuss, and comment upon, a prodigious number of plants, all of which, being in pots or boxes, were conveyed by the youth to the empty stand at the side of the fair invalid. The minute examination with a magnifying glass of corolla, and stamen, and calyx, etcetera, rendered it necessary, of course, that these inquiries into the mysteries of Nature should bring the two heads pretty close together; one consequence being that the seed-plant of sympathy was "forced" a good deal, and developed somewhat after the fashion of those plants which Hindoo jugglers cause magically to sprout, blossom, and bloom before the very eyes of astonished beholders -- with this difference, however, that whereas the development of the jugglers is deceptive as well as quick, that of our botanists was genuine and natural, though rapid.

The clang of the luncheon gong was the first thing that brought them to their senses.

"Surely there must be some mistake! Junkie must be playing with -- no, it is indeed one o'clock," exclaimed Milly, consulting in unbelief a watch so small that it seemed like cruelty to expect it to go at all, much less to go correctly.

As she spoke, the door of the conservatory opened, and Mrs Gordon appeared with affected indignation on her usually mild countenance.

"You naughty child!" she exclaimed, hurrying forward. "Did I not warn you to stay no longer than an hour? and here you are, flushed, and no doubt feverish, in consequence of staying the whole forenoon. Take my arm, and come away directly."

"I pray you, Mrs Gordon, to lay the blame on my shoulders," said Barret. "I fear it was my encouraging Miss Moss to talk of her favourite study that induced her to remain."

"I would be only too glad to lay the blame on your shoulders if I could lay Milly's weakness there too," returned the lady. "It is quite evident that you would never do for a nurse. Strong men like you have not sympathy enough to put yourself in the place of invalids, and think how they feel. I would scold you severely, sir, if you were not my guest. As it is, I will forgive you if you promise me not to mention the subject of botany in the presence of my niece for a week to come."

"The condition is hard," said Barret, with a laugh; "but I promise -- that is, if Miss Moss does not force the subject on me."

"I promise that, Mr Barret; but I also attach a condition."

"Which is -- ?"

"That you go to Eagle Cliff some day this week, and find for me a particular plant for which I have sought for a long time in vain, but which I am told is to be found there."

"Most willingly. Nothing could give me greater pleasure," returned the youth, with an air of such eager enthusiasm that he felt constrained to add, -- "you see, the acquisition of new and rare plants has been a sort of passion with me for many years, and I am quite delighted to find that there is a possibility of not only gratifying it here, but of being able at the same time to contribute to your happiness."

They reached the house as he made this gallant speech, and Milly went straight to her room.

The only members of the household who sat down to luncheon that day were Mrs Gordon, Archie, the enthusiastic photographer, and Flo, with her black doll; and the only guest, besides Barret, was McPherson, the skipper of the lost yacht. The rest were all out rambling by mountain, loch, or stream.

"Milly won't appear again to-day," said the hostess, as she sat down. "I knew that she had overdone it. The shock to her system has been far too severe to admit of botanical discussions."

Barret professed himself overwhelmed with a sense of guilt, and promised to avoid the dangerous subject in future.

"Mother," exclaimed Flo, who was a good but irrepressible child, "what d'ee t'ink? Archie have pofografft dolly, an' she's as like as -- as -- two peas. Isn't she, Archie?"

"Quite as like as that, Flo," replied Archie, with a laugh; "liker, if anything."

"By the way, how did you get on with your photographing yesterday afternoon, Archie?" asked Barret.

"Pretty well with some of the views; but I ruined the last one, because father would have me introduce Captain McPherson and his man McGregor."

"Is that so, captain?" asked Mrs Gordon.

"Oo, ay; it iss true enough," answered the skipper, with a grim smile. "He made a queer like mess o' me, what-e-ver."

"How was it, Archie?"

"Well, mother, this is how it was. You know the waterfall at the head of Raven's Nook? Well, I have long wanted to take that, so I went up with father and Mr Mabberly. We found the captain and McGregor sitting there smoking their pipes, and when I was arranging the camera, the captain said to me -- "

"No, Maister Archie," interrupted the skipper; "I did not say anything to Shames. You should be more parteekler. But Shames said something to me, what-e-ver."

"Just so; I forgot," continued Archie. "Well, McGregor said to the captain, 'What would you think if we wass to sit still an' co into the pictur'?'"

"Oo, ay; that was just it, an' fery like him too," said the skipper, laughing at Archie's imitation, though he failed to recognise the similarity to his own drawling and nasal tones. People always do thus fail. We can never see ourselves!

"Well," continued Archie, "father insisted that I was to take them, though they quite spoiled the view. So I did; but in the very middle of the operation, what did the captain do but insist on changing his -- "

"Not at all, Maister Archie," again interrupted the skipper; "you have not got the right of it. It wass Shames said to me that he thought you had feenished, an' so I got up; an' then you roared like a wild bullock to keep still, and so what could I do but keep still? an so -- "

"Exactly; that was it," cried Archie, interrupting in his turn; "but you kept still standing, and so there were three figures in the picture when it was done, and your fist in the standing one came right in front of your own nose in the sitting one, for all the world as if you were going to knock yourself down. Such a mess it was altogether!"

"That iss fery true. It wass a mess, what-e-ver!"

"You must show me this curious photograph, Archie, after lunch," said Barret; "it must be splendid."

"But it is not so splendid as my dolly," chimed in Flo. "I'll show you zat after lunch too."

Accordingly, after the meal was over, Archie carried Barret off to his workshop. Then Flo took him to the nursery, where she not only showed him the portrait of the nigger doll, which was a striking likeness -- for dolls invariably sit well -- but took special pains to indicate the various points which had "come out" so "bootifully" -- such as the nails which Junkie had driven into its wooden head for the purpose of making it behave better; the chip that Junkie had taken off the end of its nose when he tried to convert that feature into a Roman; the deep line drawn round the head close to the hair by Junkie, when, as the chief of the Micmac Indians, he attempted to scalp it; and the hole through the right eye, by which Junkie proposed to let a little more light into its black brain.

Having seen and commented on all these things, Barret retired to the smoking-room, not to smoke, but to consult a bundle of newspapers which the post had brought to the house that day.

For it must not be imagined that the interests and amusements by which he was surrounded had laid the ghost of the thin, little old lady whom he had mur -- at least run down -- in London. No; wherever he went, and whatever he did, that old lady, like Nemesis, pursued him. When he looked down, she lay sprawling -- a murdered, at least a manslaughtered, victim -- at his feet. When he looked up, she hung, like the sword of Damocles, by a single fibre of maiden's hair over his head.

It was of no use that his friend Jackman rallied him on the point.

"My dear fellow," he would say, "don't you see that if you had really killed her, the thing would have been published far and wide all over the kingdom, with a minute description, and perhaps a portrait of yourself on the bicycle, in all the illustrated papers? Even if you had only injured her severely, they would have made a sensation of it, with an offer, perhaps, of a hundred pounds for your capture, and a careful indication of the streets through which you passed when you ran away -- "

"Ay, that's what makes the matter so much worse," Barret would reply; "the unutterable meanness of running away!"

"But you repented of that immediately," Jackman would return in soothing tones; "and you did your utmost to undo it, though the effort was futile."

Barret was usually comforted a good deal by the remarks of his friend, and indeed frequently forgot his trouble, especially when meditating on botanical subjects with Milly. Still, it remained a fact that he was haunted by the little old lady, more or less, and had occasional bad dreams, besides becoming somewhat anxious every time he opened a newspaper.

While Barret and the skipper were thus taking what the latter called an easy day of it, their friend Mabberly, with Eddie and Junkie and the seaman McGregor, had gone over the pass in the waggonette to the village of Cove for a day's sea-fishing. They were driven by Ivor Donaldson.

"You'll not have been in these parts before, sir?" said Ivor, who was a quiet, polite, and sociable man when not under the influence of drink.

"No, never," answered Mabberly, who sat on the seat beside him; "and if it had not been for our misfortune, or the carelessness of that unknown steamer, I should probably never have known of the existence of your beautiful island. At least, I would have remained in ignorance of its grandeur and beauty."

"That proves the truth of the south-country sayin', sir, -- 'It's an ill wind that blaws nae guid.'"

"It does, indeed; for although the loss of my father's yacht is a very considerable one, to have missed the hospitality of the laird of Kinlossie, and the rambling over your magnificent hills, would have been a greater misfortune."

The keeper, who cherished a warm feeling for old Mr Gordon, and admired him greatly, expressed decided approval of the young man's sentiments, as was obvious from the pleased smile on his usually grave countenance, though his lips only gave utterance to the expression, "Fery true, sir; you are not far wrong."

At the Eagle Pass they halted a few minutes to breathe the horses. Eddie and Junkie, of course, jumped down, followed by James McGregor, with whom they had already formed a friendship.

"Come away, an' we'll show you the place where Milly fell down. Come along, quicker, Shames," cried Junkie, adopting the name that the skipper used; for the boy's love of pleasantry not infrequently betrayed him into impudence.

With a short laugh, Mabberly turned to Ivor, and asked if Shames was the Gaelic for James.

"No, sir" replied the keeper; "but James is the English for Shames."

"Ha! you are quoting now -- or rather, misquoting -- from the lips of some Irishman."

"Weel, sir, I never heard it said that quota-ashun wass a sin," retorted Ivor; then, turning to the stupendous cliff that frowned above them, "Hev ye heard of the prophecy, sir, aboot this cliff?"

"No. What is it?"

"It's said that the cliff is to be the scene of a ghost story, a love story, and a murder all at the same time."

"Is that all, Ivor? Did the prophet give no indication how the stories were to end, or who the murderer is to be, or the murdered one?"

"Never a word, sir; only they wass all to be aboot the same time. Indeed, the prophet, whether man or wuman, is not known. Noo, we better shump up."

In a few minutes the waggonette was rattling down the slopes that led to Cove, and soon afterwards they were exchanging greetings with old Ian Anderson, the fisherman.

"Iss it to fush, ye'll be wantin'?" asked Ian, as he ushered the party into his cottage, where Mrs Anderson was baking oat-cakes, and Aggy was busy knitting socks with her thin fingers as deftly and rapidly as if she had been in robust health.

"Yes, that is our object to-day," said Mabberly. "Good-day, Mrs Anderson; good-day, Aggy. I'm glad to see you looking so much better, though I can't see very well for your cottage is none of the lightest," he said, glancing at the small window, where a ragged head, with a flattened white nose, accounted for the obscurity.

"There might be more light," said Ian, seizing a thick thorn stick, and making a sudden demonstration towards the door, the instant effect of which action was an improvement in the light. It did not last long, however, for "Tonal'," after watching at the corner of the cottage long enough to make sure that the demonstration was a mere feint, returned to his post of observation.

"Yes, sir," remarked Mrs Anderson; "Aggy is much better. The fresh air is doin' her cood already, an' the peels that the shentleman -- your friend -- gave her is workin' wonders."

"They usually do, of one sort or another," returned Mabberly, with a peculiar smile. "I'm glad they happen to be wonders of the right sort in Aggy's case. My friend has been out in India, and his prescriptions have been conceived in a warm climate, you see, which may account for their wonder-working qualities. Can we have your boat to-day, Mr Anderson?"

"Oo, ay; ye can hev that, sir," said Ian, summoning Donald to his presence with a motion of his finger. "Tonal'," he said, when ragged head stood at the open door, "hev we ony pait?"

"Ay, plenty."

"Co doon, then, an' git the poat ready."

The boy disappeared without reply -- a willing messenger. A few minutes more, and Ivor and Ian were rowing the boat towards a part of the sea which was deemed good fishing ground, while the rest of the party busied themselves arranging the lines.

Strong brown lines they were, wound on little square wooden frames, each with a heavy leaden sinker and a couple of strong coarse hooks of whitened metal attached to the lines by stout whipcord; for the denizens of those western waters were not the poddlies, coddlings, and shrimps that one is apt to associate with summer resorts by the sea. They were those veritable inhabitants of the deep that figure on the slabs of Billingsgate and similar markets -- plaice and skate of the largest dimensions, congers that might suggest the great sea serpent, and even sharks of considerable size.

The surroundings were cognate. Curlews and sandpipers whistled on the shore, complaining sea-mews sailed overhead, and the low-lying skerries outside were swarming with "skarts" and other frequenters of the wild north.

"Oh, what a funny face!" exclaimed Junkie, as a great seal rose head and shoulders out of the sea, not fifty yards off, to look at them. Its observations induced it to sink promptly.

"Let co the anchor, Tonal'," said Ian; "the pottom should be cood here."

"Hand me the pait, Junkie," said McGregor.

"Shie a bit this way," shouted Eddie.

"There -- I've broke it!" exclaimed Junkie, almost whimpering, as he held up the handle of his knife in one hand, and in the other a mussel with a broken blade sticking in it.

"Never mind, Junkie. You can have mine, and keep it," said Mabberly, handing to the delighted boy a large buck-horn-handled knife, which bristled with appliances.

"An' don't try it on again," said Ian. "Here iss pait for you, my poy."

A few minutes more, and the lines were down, and expectation was breathlessly rampant.

"Hi!" burst from Eddie, at the same moment that "Ho!" slipped from McGregor; but both ceased to haul in on finding that the "tugs" were not repeated.

"Hallo!" yelled "Tonal'," who fished beside Junkie, on feeling a tug worthy of a whale; and, "Hee! hee!" burst from Junkie, whose mischievous hand had caused the tug when ragged head was not looking.

In the midst of these false alarms Ivor drew up his line, and no one was aware of his success until a fish of full ten pounds' weight was floundering in the boat. The boys were yet commenting on it noisily, when Ian put a large cod beside it.

"What a tug!" cried Eddie, beginning to haul up in violent haste.

"Hev a care, or the line will pairt," said McGregor.

At the same moment "Shames" himself gave a jerk, as if he had received an electric shock, and in a few seconds a large plaice and a small crab were added to the "pile!"

"I've got something at last," said Mabberly, doing his best to repress excitement as he hauled in his line deliberately.

The something turned out to be an eel about four feet long, which went about the boat as if it were in its native element, and cost an amazing amount of exertion, whacking, and shouting, to subdue.

But this was nothing to the fish with which Junkie began to struggle immediately after, and which proved to be a real shark, five feet long. After the united efforts of Ian and Donald had drawn it to the surface, Junkie was allowed to strike the gaff into it, and a loud cheer greeted the monster of the deep as it was hurled into the bottom of the boat.

Thus, in expectation, excitation, and animation, they spent the remainder of that memorable day.



Chapter Seven.

Amazing Deeds And Misdeeds At A Deer-Drive.

To some casts of mind there is no aspect of nature so enchanting or romantic as that which is presented, on a fine summer day from the vantage ground of a ridge or shoulder high up on the mountains of one of our western isles.

It may be that the union of the familiar and beautiful with the unfamiliar and wild is that which arouses our enthusiastic admiration. As we stand in the calm genial atmosphere of a summer day, surveying the land and sea-scape from a commanding height that seems to have raised us above the petty cares of life, the eye and mind pass like the lightning-flash from the contemplation of the purple heather and purple plants around -- and from the home-feelings thereby engendered -- to the grand, apparently illimitable ocean, and the imagination is set free to revel in the unfamiliar and romantic regions "beyond seas."

Some such thoughts were passing in the mind of Giles Jackman, as he stood alone, rifle in hand, on such a height one splendid forenoon, and contemplated the magnificent panorama.

Far down below -- so far that the lowing of the red and black specks, which were cattle, and the bleating of the white specks, which were sheep, failed to reach him -- a few tiny cottages could be seen, each in the midst of a green patch that indicated cultivation. Farther on, a snow-white line told where the wavelets kissed the rugged shore, but no sound of the kiss reached the hunter's ear. Beyond, as if floating on the calm water, numerous rocky islets formed the playground of innumerable gulls, skarts, seals, loons, and other inhabitants of the wild north; but only to the sense of vision were their varied activities perceptible. Among these islets were a few blacker spots, which it required a steady look to enable one to recognise as the boats of fishermen; but beyond them no ship or sign of man was visible on the great lone sea, over, and reflected in which, hung a few soft and towering masses of cloudland.

"If thus thy meaner works are fair, And beautiful beyond compare; How glorious must the mansions be Where Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!"

Jackman murmured rather than spoke the words, for no human ear was there to hear. Nevertheless there were human ears and tongues also, not far distant, engaged in earnest debate. It was on one of the ledges of the Eagle Cliff that our hunter stood. At another part of the same cliff, close to the pass where Milly Moss met with her accident, Allan Gordon stood with nearly all his visitors and several of his retainers around him.

"Higher up the pass you'll have a much better chance, Mr Barret. Is it not so, Ivor?"

The keeper, who, in kilt, hose, and bonnet, was as fine a specimen of a tall athletic Highlander as one could wish to see, replied that that was true.

"Nae doot," he said, "I hev put Mr Jackman in the best place of all, for, whativer way the deer come, they'll hev to pass close, either above or below him -- an' that's maybe as weel for him wi' his queer new-fashioned rifle; but at the heed o' the pass is the next best place. The only thing is that ye'll hev to tak' sure aim, for there's more room for them to stray, an' ye may chance to git only a lang shot."

"Well, then, it is not the place for me, for I am a poor shot," said Barret; "besides, I have a fancy to stay here, where I am. You say it is a very good spot, Ivor, I understand?"

"Weel, it's no' that bad as a spote," answered the keeper, with a grim smile, for he had not much opinion of Barret's spirit as a sportsman; "but it's ackward as the lawnd lies."

"Never mind. I'll stay here, and you know, laird, that I have some pleasant associations with it in connection with your niece."

"That is more than Milly has," returned the old gentleman, laughing. "However, have your way. Now, gentlemen, we must place ourselves quickly, for the beaters will soon be entering the wood. I will take you, Mr Mabberly, to a spot beyond the pass where you will be pretty sure of a shot. And MacRummle -- where shall we place him?"

"He can do nothing wi' the gun at a', sir," muttered the keeper, in a low voice, so that he might not be overheard. "I wad putt him doon at the white rock. He'll git a lang shot at them there. Of course he'll miss, but that'll do weel enough for him -- for he's easy pleased; ony way, if he tak's shootin' as he tak's fishin', a mere sight o' the deer, like the rise o' a salmon, 'll send him home happy."

"Very well, Ivor, arrange as you think best. And how about Captain McPherson and McGregor?"

"I'll tak' care o' them mysel', sir."

"Ye need na' fash yer heed aboot us, laird," said the skipper. "Bein' more used to the sea than the mountains, we will be content to look on. Iss that not so, Shames?"

"That iss so -- what-e-ver," returned the seaman.

"Well, come along then; the beaters must be at work now. How many did you get, Ivor?"

"I'm not exactly sure, sir," returned the keeper; "there's Ian Anderson an' Tonal' from Cove, an' Mister Archie an' Eddie, an' Roderick -- that's five. Oo, ay, I forgot, there's that queer English loon, Robin Tips --  he's no' o' much use, but he can mak' a noise -- besides three o' Mr Grant's men."

"That's plenty -- now then -- "

"Please, father," said Junkie, who had listened with open eyes and mouth, as well as ears, for this was his first deer-stalk, "may I stop with Mr Barret?"

"Certainly, my boy, if Mr Barret does not object."

Of course Mr Barret did not object, though he was rather surprised at this mark of preference.

"I say, me boy," whispered Pat Quin, "ask av I may stop wid ye."

Junkie looked at the Irishman doubtfully for a moment, then said -- 

"Father, Quin says he wants to stop with me."

"You mayn't do that, Quin," returned the laird with a smile; "but you may go and stay with your master. I heard him say that he would like you to be with him to keep you out of mischief."

"Thankee, sor. I was used to attend on 'im in the jungles to carry his spare guns, for it's ellyphints, no less, that we was used to bag out there; but I make no question he can amuse himsilf wid deer an' things like that where there's nothin' better. He was always aisy to plaze, like Mr MacRummle."

"Just so, Quin; and as MacRummle knows the hill, and has to pass the place where Mr Jackman has been left, you had better follow him."

This arranged, the different parties took up their positions to await the result of the beating of a strip of dwarf forest, several miles in extent, which clothed part of the mountain slopes below the Eagle Cliff.

On reaching the spot where Jackman was stationed, old MacRummle explained to him the various arrangements that had just been made for the comfort of all.

"I am sorry they gave me the best place," said Jackman. "I suppose it is because the laird thinks my experience in India entitles me to it; but I would much rather that Mabberly or Barret had got the chance, for I'm used to this sort of thing, and, after bagging elephants, I can afford to lay on my oars and see my friends go in and win."

"An' sure, aren't thim the very words I said, sor?" put in Quin.

"Have they given you a good place?" asked Jackman of MacRummle, taking no notice of his man's remarks.

"They've given me the worst," said the old man, simply; "and I cannot blame them, for, as the keeper truly remarked, I can do nothing with the gun," -- still less with the rifle, he might have added! "At the same time, I confess it would have added somewhat to the zest of the day if Ivor had allowed me some degree of hope. He thought I didn't overhear him, but I did; for they give me credit for greater deafness than I deserve."

There was something so pitiful, yet half amusing, in the way in which this was said, that Jackman suddenly grasped the old gentleman's hand.

"Mr MacRummle," he said firmly, "will you do me a favour?"

"Certainly, with pleasure -- if I can."

"You can -- and you shall. It is this: change places and rifles with me."

"My dear, kind sir, you don't know what you ask. My rifle is an old double-barrel muzzle loader, and at the white rock you wouldn't have the ghost of a chance. I know the place well, having often passed it in fishing excursions up the burns. Besides, I never used a repeating rifle in my life. I couldn't manage it, even if I were to try."

"Mr MacRummle, are you not a Highlander?"

"I believe I am!" replied the old man, drawing himself up with a smile.

"And is not that equivalent to saying that you are a man of your word?"

"Well -- I suppose it is so -- at least it should be so."

"But you will prove that it is not so, if you fail to do me a favour that lies in your power, after promising to do it. Come now, we have no time to lose. I will show you how to use the repeater. See; it is empty just now. All you have to do is to take aim as you would with any ordinary rifle, and pull the trigger. When the shot is off, you load again by simply doing this to the trigger-guard -- so. D'you understand?"

"Yes, perfectly; but is that all? no putting in of cartridges anywhere?"

"No, nothing more. Simply do that (open -- and the cartridge flies out), and that (shut -- and you are loaded and ready to fire)! Now, try it. That's it! Capital! Couldn't be better. Why, you were born to be a sportsman!"

"Yes, with fish," remarked the gratified old man, as he went through the motions of loading and firing to perfection.

"Now, then, I will load it thus. Watch me."

As he spoke, he filled the chamber under the barrel with cartridge after cartridge to the amazement of MacRummle and the amusement of Quin, who looked on.

"How many shots will it fire without reloading?" asked the old man at length.

"Sixteen," replied Jackman.

"What! sixteen? But -- but how will I ever know how many I've let off?"

"You don't require to know. Just blaze away till it refuses to fire! Now, I must be off. Where is this white rock that I have to go to?"

"There it is -- look. A good bit down the hill, on the open ground near the forest. If you have good eyes, you can see it from here. Look, just behind the ridge. D'you see?"

"I see. Great luck to you. Do good work, and teach that rascal Ivor to respect your powers with the rifle. Come along, Quin."

"But really, my young friend, it is too good, too self-denying of you to -- "

He stopped, for Jackman and Quin were already striding down the mountain on their way to the white rock.

MacRummle had been somewhat excited by the enthusiasm of his young friend and the novelty of his situation. To say truth, he would much rather have been pottering along the banks of one of his loved Highland streams, rod in hand, than crouching in the best pass of the Eagle Cliff in expectation of red-deer; but being an amiable and sympathetic man, he had been fired by the enthusiasm of the household that morning, and, seeing that all were going to the drive, including the laird, he made up his mind to brace himself up to the effort, and float with the current. His enthusiasm had not cooled when he reached the Eagle Cliff, and Jackman's kindness, coupled with hope and the repeating rifle, increased it even to white heat. In which condition he sat down on a rock, removed his hat, and wiped his bald, perspiring head, while a benignant smile illuminated his glowing features.

About the same time, Barret and Junkie having selected a convenient mass of rock as their outlook, so that they could command the pass for some distance in both directions without exposing themselves to view, rested the rifle against the cliff and began to talk. Soon the young man discovered that the little boy, like many other mischievous boys, was of an exceedingly inquiring disposition. Among other things, he not only began an intelligent inquiry about the locks of a rifle, but a practical inquiry with his fingers, which called for remonstrance.

"Do you know, Junkie, that this is the very spot where your Cousin Milly fell?" said Barret, by way of directing the urchin's thoughts into a safer channel.

"Is it? Oh, dear, what a thump she must have come down!"

"Yes, indeed, a dreadful thump -- poor thing. She was trying to get flowers at the time. Do you know that she is exceedingly fond of flowers?"

"Oh, don't I? She's got books full of them -- all pasted in with names printed under them. I often wonder what she sees in flowers to be so fond of them. I don't care a button for them myself, unless they smell nice. But I often scramble after them for her."

"There is a good deal to like in flowers besides the smell," said Barret, assuming an instructive tone, which Junkie resented on the spot.

"Oh, yes, I don't want to know; you needn't try to teach me," he said, firmly.

"Of course not. I wouldn't think of teaching you, my boy. You know I'm not a schoolmaster. I'm not clever enough for that, and when I was your age, I hated to be taught. But I could show you some things about flowers and plants that would astonish you. Only it would not be safe to do it just now, for the deer might come up and -- "

"No they won't," interrupted the boy; "it's a monstrous big wood they've got to pass through before they can come here, so we have time to look at some of the 'stonishin' things."

"Well, then, come. We will just go a little way up the cliff."

Leading Junkie away among the masses of fallen rock, which strewed that ledge of the cliff, the wily youth began to examine plants and flowers minutely, and to gradually arouse in the boy's mind an interest in such parts of botanical science as he was capable of understanding.

Meanwhile the small army of beaters had extended themselves across the distant end of the forest, which, being some miles off, and on the other side of a great shoulder of the mountain, was not only out of sight, but out of hearing of the stalkers who watched the passes of the Eagle Cliff.

All the beaters, or drivers, were well acquainted with the work they had to do, with the exception of Robin Tips, to whom, of course, it was quite new. But Ian Anderson put him under Donald's care, with strict injunctions to look well after him.

"Now, Tonal', see that ye don't draw together an' git ta-alkin' so as to forget what ye're about. Keep him at the right distance away from ye, an' as much in line as ye can."

"Oo, ay," returned ragged head, in a tone that meant, when translated into familiar English, "Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs!"

In a sequestered dell on the slope of the hills, a lordly stag and several hinds were enjoying themselves that morning among the bracken and bright mosses, partially screened from the sun by the over-arching boughs of birch and hazel, and solaced by the tinkling music of a neighbouring rill. Thick underwood concealed the dell on all sides; grey lichen-covered boulders surrounded it; no sound disturbed it save the faint cry of the plover and curlew on the distant shore, or the flap of a hawk's wing as it soared overhead. Altogether it looked like a safe and sure retreat, but it did not prove to be so.

Mingled with the plaintive cries of the wild fowl, there came a faint --  barely perceptible -- sound of the human voice. The stag pricked up his ears, and raised his antlered head. It was by no means a new sound to him. The shepherd's voice calling to his collie on the mountain-side was a familiar sound, that experience had taught him boded no evil. The converse of friends as they plodded along the roads or foot-paths that often skirted his lairs, had a tone of innocence about it which only induced caution -- not alarm. But there was nothing of this in the sounds that now met his ears. He raised himself higher, opened his nostrils wider, sniffed the tainted air, and then, turning his graceful head, made some remark -- we presume, though we cannot be positive on this point -- to his wives.

These, meek and gentle -- as females usually are, or ought to be -- turned their soft inquiring gaze on their lord. Thus they stood, as if spell-bound, while the sounds slowly but steadily increased in volume and approached their retreat. Presently a shoulder of the mountain was turned by the drivers, and their discordant voices came down on the gentle breeze with unmistakable significance.

We regret being unable to report exactly what the stag then said to his wives, but the result was that the entire family bounded from their retreat, and, in the hurry and alarm of the moment, scattered along various glades, all of which, however, trended ultimately towards those mountain fastnesses that exist about and beyond the Eagle Cliff.

Two of the hinds followed their lord in a direction which led them out of the wood within sight of, though a considerable distance from, the white rock behind which Jackman and Quin were concealed. The others fled by tracks somewhat higher on the hill-sides, where however, as the reader knows, the enemy was posted to intercept them.

"Sure it's a purty stag, afther all," whispered Quin, who, in spite of elephantine-Indian sport, was somewhat excited by this sudden appearance of the Scottish red-deer. "But they're a long way off, sor."

"Not too far, if the rifle is true," said Jackman, in a very low voice, as he put up the long-range sight.

"You'll git a good chance at the stag whin he tops the hillock forenent you, sor," remarked the somewhat garrulous Irishman.

"I won't fire at the stag, Quin," returned Jackman, quietly. "You and I have surely killed enough of bigger game abroad. We can afford to let the stag pass on to our friends higher up, some of whom have never seen a red-deer before, and may never have a chance of seeing one again."

All this was said by the sportsman in a low, soft voice, which could not have been heard three yards off, yet his sharp eye was fixed intently on the passing deer. Seeing that there was no likelihood of their coming nearer, he raised his rifle, took steady but quick aim, and fired. One of the hinds dropped at once; the other followed her terrified lord as he dashed wildly up the slope.

Partial deafness is a slight disadvantage in deer-stalking. So, at least, MacRummle discovered that day. After having wiped his forehead, as already described, he set himself steadily to fulfil the duties of his situation. These were not so simple as one might suppose, for, as had been explained to him by Jackman, he had to watch two passes -- one close above his post, the other close below it -- either of which might bring the deer within easy reach of his rifle, but of course there was the uncertainty as to which of the two passes the deer would choose. As it was a physical impossibility to have his eyes on both passes at once, the old gentleman soon found that turning his head every few seconds from one side to the other became irksome. Then it became painful. At last it became torture, and then he gave up this plan in despair, resolving to devote a minute at a time to each pass, although feeling that by so doing his chances were greatly diminished.

When Jackman fired his shot, MacRummle's ears refused to convey the information to his brain. He still sat there, turning his head slowly to and fro, and feeling rather sleepy. One of the scattered deer, which had gone higher up the mountain, passed him by the upper track. MacRummle was gazing at the lower track just then! Having given the allotted time to it, he turned languidly and beheld the hind, trotting rather slowly, for it was somewhat winded.

The sight sent sportsman-fire through the old gentleman's entire frame. He sprang, he almost tumbled up, but before he could fire, a jealous boulder intervened. Rushing up a few yards, he was just in time to see the animal bound over a cliff and disappear.

Depressed beyond measure, he returned to his post and resumed the rapid head-motion which he had foolishly discontinued. This was fortunate, for it enabled him to see in time the stag and hind which Jackman had sent bounding towards him. Another moment, and the affrighted creatures were within range. MacRummle sprang up, put the repeater to his shoulder, and then commenced a fusillade that baffles description. Bang, bang, bang, went the repeater; bang, bang, double-bang, and banging everywhere went the startled echoes of the mountain. Never since it sprang from the volcanic forces of nature had the Eagle Cliff sent forth such a spout of rattling reverberation. The old man took no aim whatever. He merely went through the operations of load and fire with amazing rapidity. Each crack delivered into the arms of echo was multiplied a hundredfold. Showers of bullets seemed to hail around the astounded quarry. Smoke, as of a battle, enshrouded the sportsman. The rifle became almost too hot to hold, and when at last it ceased to respond to the drain upon its bankrupt magazine, the stag and hind lay dead upon the track, and MacRummle lay exhausted with excitement and exertion upon the heather!

This unwonted fusillade took the various parties higher up the hill by surprise. To Ivor, indeed, it was quite a new experience, and he regarded it with a smile of grim contempt.

"There iss noise enough -- what-e-ver!" remarked Skipper McPherson, who sat beside the keeper with a double-barrelled gun charged with buckshot, which he had in readiness.

"Look! look!" exclaimed Ivor, pointing to another part of the pass, "your friend McGregor has got a fright!"

"Ay, that's true. Shames would be troubled in his mind, I think."

There was indeed some reason to suppose so. The worthy seaman, having got tired of waiting, had, against Ivor's advice, wandered a few yards along the pass, where, seeing something farther on that aroused his curiosity, he laid down the single-barrelled fowling-piece with which he had been provided, and began to clamber. Just as the repeater opened fire, two hinds, which had got ahead of the others, ran through the pass by different tracks. One of these McGregor saw before it came up, and he rushed wildly back for his gun. It was this act that his comrades rightly attributed to mental perturbation.

"Look out!" whispered the keeper.

As he spoke the other hind, doubling round a mass of fallen rock, almost leaped into McGregor's arms. It darted aside, and the seaman, uttering a wild shout, half raised his gun and fired. The butt hit him on the chest and knocked him down, while the shot went whizzing in all directions round his comrades, cutting their garments, but fortunately doing them no serious injury.

"Oh, Shames! ye was always in too great a hurry," remonstrated the skipper, oblivious of the fact that he himself had been too slow.

"Quick, man, fire!" cried Ivor, testily.

The captain tried to energise. In doing so he let off one barrel at the celestial orbs unintentionally. The other might as well have gone the same way, for all the execution it did.

When he looked at the keeper, half apologetically, he saw that he was quietly examining his leg, which had been penetrated by a pellet.

"Eh! man, are 'ee shot?" cried the captain, anxiously.

"Oo, ay, but I'm none the worse o' it! I had a presentiment o' somethin' o' this sort, an' loaded his gun wi' small shot," replied the keeper.

Profound were the expressions of apology from McGregor, on learning what he had done, and patronisingly cool were the assurances of Ivor that the injury was a mere flea-bite. And intense was the astonishment when it was discovered that a stag and a hind had fallen to old MacRummle with that "treemendious" repeater! And great was the laughter afterwards, at lunch time on the field of battle, when Junkie gravely related that Barret was upon a precipice, trying to reach a rare plant, when the deer passed, so that he did not get a shot at all! And confused was the expression of Barret's face when he admitted the fact, though he carefully avoided stating that his mind was taken up at the time with a very different kind of dear!

It was afternoon when the assembled party, including drivers, sat down to luncheon on the hill-side, and began to allay the cravings of appetite, and at the same time to recount or discuss in more or less energetic tones, the varied experiences of the morning. Gradually the victuals were consumed, and the experiences pretty well thrashed out, including those of poor Mabberly, who had failed to get even a chance of a shot.

"An' sure it's no wonder at all," was Pat Quin's remark; "for the noise was almost as bad as that night when you an' me, sor, was out after the elephants in that great hunt in the North-western provinces of Indy."

"Oh, do tell us about that," cried Junkie and his brothers, turning eagerly to Jackman.

"So I will, my boys; but not now. It will take too long. Some other time, in the house, perhaps, when a bad day comes."

"No, now, now!" cried Junkie.

Seeing that most of those present had lighted their pipes, and that the laird seemed to wish it, Jackman washed down his lunch with a glass of sparkling water, cleared his throat, and began.



Chapter Eight.

Jackman's Wonderful Elephant Story.

"Once upon a time," said Jackman, glancing at Junkie and Robin Tips, who sat before him open-mouthed and open-eyed, as if ready to swallow anything...

"Yes," murmured Junkie, nodding, "that's the right way to begin."

"But you must not interrupt, Junkie."

"No, I won't do it again; but first, tell me, is it true?"

"Yes, my boy; it is absolutely true in all its main points," replied Jackman.

"Well, as I said, once upon a time, not very long ago, I was sent up to the North-west provinces of India, to a place near the base of the Himalaya mountain-range. The country was swarming with elephants at that time. You see, previous to that, the elephants had been hunted and killed to such an extent that the Government had been obliged to pass an Elephant Preservation Act for their protection, and the Act worked so well that the elephants multiplied very fast. They roamed at will through the forests, and frequently, leaving these, made raids upon the cultivated lands, to the great damage of property and danger of human life from the 'rogues,' as old, solitary elephants which have been driven from the herds, are called. These 'rogues' are extremely ill-natured and dangerous, so it was found necessary to take steps to kill some of them, and thin the herds by capturing some of the females, which might be tamed and made useful.

"For this purpose of hunting and catching elephants a hunt upon a truly magnificent scale was instituted. Now, as it is very difficult to kill such huge creatures, and still more difficult to catch them, men are obliged to call to their aid tame elephants, which are trained for the purpose of what is called Khedda hunting. But I don't mean to tell you either about the killing or catching just now. I shall rather relate an extraordinary and thrilling incident that occurred before the hunt had properly begun.

"Great men from all parts of the country assembled at this hunt, some of them bringing troops of tame elephants and followers with them. There were governors and rajahs, and private secretaries, with some of their wives, military officers, forest officers, commissioners, collectors, superintendents, magistrates, surgeons, medical officers, and even clergymen, besides a host of smaller fry and servants. It was a regular army! The Maharajah of Bulrampore sent sixty-five catching elephants, and five koonkies or fighting elephants, among which was a famous warrior named Chand Moorut. Along with these came a body of men trained to that special work. A good contingent also came from Rampore. The Rajah of Khyrigarh came in person with thirteen elephants and a noted fighting animal, named Berchir Bahadur; other elephants were collected from the rajahs and native gentlemen around. Among the koonkies, or gladiators, were two tremendous fellows, both as to colossal size and courage, named respectively Raj Mungul and Isri Pershad.

"But far before them all in towering height and stupendous weight and unconquerable courage, as well as warlike tendency, was the mighty Chand Moorut, whom I first mentioned. This grand, slow-moving, sedate hero of a hundred fights, was a sort of elephantine bull-dog; a concentrated earthquake; an animal thunder-bolt; a suppressed volcano. Nothing in the forests had yet been found which could stand before his onset. And when we saw him stalk solemnly into camp with his mahowt, or guide, looking like a small monkey on his great neck, and remembered his fame as a fighter and his eager thirst at all times for battle, we felt that the keystone had been put to the arch of our arrangements.

"This great mixed multitude was put under the direction of a Conservator of Forests, a man celebrated for his exploits and daring adventures in the field, and it was as a friend of his that I joined the hunt with my man, Pat Quin there."

"Troth, sor, an' av it wasn't for Chand Moorut (blissin's on his great sowl, av he has wan, an' on his body av he hasn't) your man Pat Quin would have been left there as flat as a pancake. Excuse me, sor, for spakin', but me feelin's overcomed me."

"No doubt, Quin, you had a narrow escape; I'll come to that soon. Well, the spot at last chosen for pitching the camp was a splendid one, facing northward, where we had an extensive view of the great forests that stretched to the base of the irregular and rugged Sawalick hills. Behind these rose the mighty Himalayas themselves, their grand peaks seeming to push up into the very heavens, where the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy on their everlasting snows. The camp covered an immense piece of ground, which was partly open and partly dotted with clumps of trees. It was so large that the tents, etcetera, were arranged in streets, and our Director pitched his tent in the very centre of it, with all the tame elephants and their attendants around him.

"You may easily fancy that it was a noisy camp, with so many hundreds of men and animals around, full of excitement, more or less, about the coming fight; for we had a number of men, called trackers, out in the woods, who had brought in news that a herd of wild elephants had just been discovered in the Saharanpur and Dun forests, on the banks of the Ganges.

"The glens in these forests were known to be well suited for hunting purposes, so our hopes and expectations were raised to a high pitch. Towards evening we had got pretty well settled down, when a rumour got about the camp that one of the Khedda elephants had killed a man, and that it was highly probable he would run amuck to the great danger of every one. It happened thus: -- 

"A big tusker, named Mowla Buksh, was being taken by his mahowt to drink and bathe, according to custom, when it was observed that the elephant seemed to be out of temper. Just then one of the fodder-cutters chanced to pass by.

"'Keep out of his way,' cried the mahowt, in a warning tone. 'There's something wrong with him to-day. I won't bathe him, I think.'

"'Oh! he knows me well, and won't harm me,' returned the cutter.

"The words were scarcely out of the man's mouth, when the brute rushed at him, knocked him down, gored him with his tusks, and kicked him after the fashion of enraged elephants. Of course the poor man was instantly killed. When this deed was done, Mowlah Buksh seemed to feel that, having lost his character, he might as well go on in his course of mischief. He became wild with fury, and kept throwing his head back in a vain endeavour to seize his mahowt with his trunk and kill him also. In this effort he failed. The mahowt, though old, was active and strong. He managed to hold on and sit so far back on the elephant's hind quarters as to be just out of reach. Luckily the brute did not think of shaking him off.

"Had he attempted that, he would soon have succeeded. The poor man would have fallen to the ground and been killed. Finding that he could not accomplish his purpose, the infuriated animal rushed towards the camp, where the khedda or hunting elephants were, and where, as I have said, our Director had pitched his tent. My own tent was close beside his.

"The first I heard of what was going on was from Quin, who came running into my tent, where I was sitting quietly at the time, cleaning my rifle. Quin's eyes were starting out of his head, and there was, I assure you, nothing of the pleasant smile that rests on his face at this moment!

"'Och, sor!' gasped Quin, 'Bowla Muk -- no -- Mowla Buksh -- has gone mad entoirely!'

"I jumped up quickly, you may believe, for I didn't often see that look on Quin's face, and when I did, I knew well that something very serious was in the wind.

"'Where away is he?' I asked.

"'Sorrow wan o' me knows, sor,' said Quin.

"Rushing out with no very fixed purpose in view, I soon found that the shouting in the camp was a sufficient guide to the spot where the mischief was going on. In a few minutes I came on a cordon of musketeers who had been hastily drawn up, so as to prevent Mowla Buksh from getting at the other elephants, for if he had succeeded in doing so, he would certainly have gone knocking about the smaller ones, perhaps maiming them, and killing every man who might chance to come in his path. On the other hand, if the musketeers managed to turn him, there was the danger of his making for the main camp, and killing every one he could lay hold of in that direction.

"Of course the thought of turning out the big fighting elephants to master him occurred to every one; but even here there would be risk, for these gladiators would not rest content without knocking Mowla Buksh off his legs, in which case the mahowt would assuredly be killed. Besides, our Director chanced to be in the forest at the time, and no one else seemed ready to take the responsibility of ordering them out.

"When I came up to the musketeers, I saw the elephant rushing wildly about, trying to find a way through them, with the old mahowt sticking to his back like a burr.

"The Bulrampore men shouted to him to try and get the elephant to go to his standing-place, saying that if he could persuade him to sit down they would tie his legs up. After the brute had exhausted itself somewhat by rushing about, the mahowt did succeed in recovering control so far as to persuade him to move to his standing-place, which was not far distant, and to our great relief he sat down in the usual way. The Bulrampore men were as good as their word. Smart hands every one, they ran up with ropes and commenced tying up his hind legs. Being experts at the work, they manipulated the thick ropes with amazing rapidity, and had the panting animal almost secured when he partially recovered, and began to understand what was being done to him. He started up indignantly, just before the knots were properly fastened, and struck out right and left with his trunk, scattering the men in all directions.

"Although the ropes had not been quite secured, they were sufficiently fast to impede his movements. He therefore took to venting his rage on the surrounding trees, and, really, until that day, I had not realised the prodigious strength of this king of beasts. He knocked and smashed them down right and left with the greatest possible ease, although, I do assure you, some of them were fully eight inches in diameter. All this time the old mahowt was clinging to his back, not daring to slip off.

"The men now began to lay large rope-nooses about here and there, in the hope that he would accidentally put a foot into one of them. But Mowla Buksh was much too knowing to be caught in this way. Whenever he came across one of these nooses, he took it up with his trunk and tossed it contemptuously aside. Gradually he worked his way up to a cluster of trees, near the tent in which our Director's wife had been seated all the time -- with what feelings I will not pretend to guess. In this cluster he spent two hours, smashing down trees all the time, and occasionally, by way of variety, trying to lay hold of the poor mahowt, who was gradually becoming exhausted through terror and the exertion of holding on.

"Strange to say, now and then the man appeared to regain control over the beast, though only for a few seconds. During one of these intervals he even succeeded in making Mowla Buksh partially sit down.

"'Och! now or niver! Off wid ye!' yelled a splitting voice close to my ear! I need not tell you whose voice that was, or that its owner was skipping about like a gorilla, almost as mad as the elephant!"

"Ah! sor," interrupted Quin, "don't ye remimber how yourself was -- but I'll have mercy on ye! Go on, sor."

"Well, I confess," resumed Jackman, "that I was a little excited. However, the Bulrampore men echoed Quin's advice in eagerly expressed Hindustani. The mahowt took it, slipped to the ground, and ran for his life! Fortunately the excited Mowla either did not perceive or did not care. He rose up and recommenced his work of destruction.

"All this time he had been freeing himself from the ropes, with which he was imperfectly bound. At last he detached them entirely, and began to make furious rushes in every direction.

"At that critical moment our Director arrived on the scene. Seeing how matters stood he at once gave orders to have the fighting elephants brought to the front, as the only chance that remained to bring the mischief to an end. The orders were gladly and promptly obeyed.

"Before they arrived, however, Mowla Buksh, in one of his rushes, came straight to where Quin and I were standing -- "

"Skippin', sor, ye said."

"Well, skipping. But we stopped skipping at once, and took to running as hard as we could. We both ran through some soft reedy ground, where the brute overtook us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him knock Quin into the rushes and set his enormous foot on him -- "

"Oh! was he killed?" exclaimed Junkie with a look of consternation at the now heroic Quin!

There was a general burst of laughter, in which Junkie joined, for he saw the absurdity of the question, which sudden anxiety had forced from him.

"But why wasn't you killed?" he asked almost indignantly.

"Whisht! honey, an' ye'll hear, av ye'll howld your tongue."

"You must know," continued Jackman, "that the place he had tumbled into was wet, soft ground, and Quin has a sharp way of looking after his life! Although half stunned he rolled to one side, so that only the side of the great foot came down on his shoulder and thrust him deep into the mud. I stopped at once with a feeling of horror, but without the slightest conception of what I meant to do, and the horror was deepened as I saw the monster turn with the evident intention of completing his work.

"At that terrible moment the colossal forms of Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and the mighty Chand Moorut appeared, coming towards us. Mowla Buksh did not carry out his deadly intentions. There was 'method in his madness.' Seeing the koonkies approach, he retreated at once to the shelter of the cluster of trees, and waited.

"I rushed forward, expecting to find my man dead and flattened, but he rose slowly as I came up, and with an indescribable expression of countenance said, 'Arrah! then, but he was heavy!'"

"An' that must have been true -- what-ever" said McGregor, unable to restrain a comment at this point.

"What you remark is true likewise, Shames," said the skipper.

"Go on -- quick!" cried Junkie, eagerly.

"Well, our Director gave orders, to take Raj Mungul to the south side of the clump of trees, Isri Pershad to the west, and Chand Moorut to the east. It was impossible to let the last go in, though he was impatient to do so, for by that time it was getting dark, and his mahowt would have probably been swept off his back by the branches; and the risk of such a gladiator being let loose without a controlling hand was not to be thought of for a moment.

"The difficulty was got over by means of a ruse. Two men were sent to the north side of the clump with orders to talk and attract the attention of Mowla. The plan succeeded. The moment the still fuming brute heard their voices, he went at them furiously! Now was the chance for the heroic Chand Moorut; and that warrior was never known to let an opportunity slip. No British bull-dog ever gave or accepted a challenge with more hilarious alacrity than he. As soon as Mowla came out of the trees, Chand Moorut went at him with a rush that seemed incredible in such a mountain of usually slow and dignified flesh. But darkness, coupled perhaps with haste, interfered. He missed his mark, and Mowla Buksh, turning round, dashed straight at the tent, in front of which our Director and a friend were standing. The friend, who was a V.C. as well as a cool and intrepid sportsman, directed the light of a lantern full on the monster's face till it was close upon him, thus enabling the Director to plant a bullet in his head. Whether the shot gave him a headache or not, I cannot tell. The only certain effect it had was to turn the animal aside, and cause it to rush off in the direction of the main camp, closely followed by Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul. Chand Moorut was held back in reserve. Happily Raj Mungul managed to outstrip and turn the runaway, and as Mowla Buksh came back, Chand Moorut got another chance at him. Need I say that he took advantage of it? Charging in like a live locomotive, he sent the mad creature flying -- as if it had been a mere kitten -- head over heels into a small hollow!"

"Well done! Capital!" shouted Junkie, at this point unable to restrain himself, as, with glittering eyes, he glanced round the circle of listeners.

A laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to Junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to Jackman and earnestly bade him to "go on."

"There is not much to go on with now, my boy," continued the narrator; "for Mowla Buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. But as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of Chand Moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. This being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul, who did their work thoroughly. No sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than Isri Pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. Again Mowla Buksh rose, and this time Raj Mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash.

"There he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. They went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. As Quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him.

"Just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! It had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. I was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. But no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until Mowla Buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. Thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. Not a bad beginning, eh, Junkie?"

"Yes, but go on wi' the hunt," said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers.

"No, no, boys; you've had enough to digest for one day; besides, I see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. And perhaps your father has more work cut out for us."

"Well, not much," replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. "There is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though I don't expect much from it. However, we can try it. Come now, lads, we'll be going."

"Shames," said Captain McPherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, "I wonder if a good thrashin' like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?"

"Weel now, Captain Mcphairson, I don't think it would," replied McGregor after a pause for consideration.

"You are right, Shames," said Ian Anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. "It has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient."

"Then what for are ye always poonishin' me, an' tellin' me to be coot, when ye say it won't make me coot?" asked Donald.

"Because, Tonal', it iss my duty to tell ye to be coot, although I cannot make ye coot, ye rascal!" answered the fisherman, sternly; "but I can make ye obey me by poonishin' you -- ay, an' I wull do it too."

Donald knew too well from experience that it was not safe to attempt arguing the question, but he gave a peculiarly defiant shake of his ragged head, which said as plainly as words that the time was coming when "poonishment" would cease to secure even obedience -- at least in his case!

"You are right, Ian," said Jackman, turning round, for he had overheard the conversation. "Punishment compelled Mowla Buksh to walk to his standing-place and submit to be tied up, for he did not dare to disobey with Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul standing guard over him, but it certainly did not make him good. I went, with many others, to see him the next morning. On the way over to the elephant camp, I saw the huge trees which he had smashed down in his rage lying about in all directions, and on reaching his standing-place, found him looking decidedly vicious and bad-tempered. It was quite evident that any one venturing within reach of his trunk would receive harsh treatment and no mercy. A small red spot in his great forehead showed that our Director's aim had been a fairly good one, though it had not hit the deadly spot in the centre."

"But I want to know," said Junkie, who kept close to Jackman's side, thirsting for every word that fell from his lips, "why did the bullet not go in and kill Bowly Muksh?"

"Because the head of Mowla Buksh was too thick," said Jackman, laughing. "You see, to be a thick-head is not always a disadvantage."

"There, you ought to take comfort from that, Junkie," remarked his brother Archie, with that fine spirit of tenderness which is so often observable in brothers.

"Ha! ha! ha!" yelled Eddie, with that delicacy of feeling which is equally common.

"Hold your tongues!" growled Junkie -- the more classic "shut up" not having at that time found its way to the Western Isles.

"You must know, Junkie, that all parts of an elephant's head are not of equal thickness," said Jackman in that kindly confidential tone which tends so powerfully to soothe a ruffled spirit. "The only point in an elephant's forehead that can be pierced by a rifle ball is exactly in the centre. It is about the size of a saucer, and if you miss that, you might as well fire against the Eagle Cliff itself, for the ball would only stick in the skull."

With this explanation Junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. In regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom.

Now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of Loch Lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of Kinlossie House. In that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits Row and Smash, little Flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. Her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. On the table sat her favourite doll, Blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother's admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. Flo was in the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to Blackie to be "dood," when her mother entered hastily.

"Come with me, darling, to visit poor old Mrs Donaldson. She is not very well, I hear."

Flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the keeper's mother -- and love needs no persuasion.

As we have said, Mrs Donaldson's little cottage stood behind that of her son Ivor. It was very small, consisting of only one apartment with a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on it.

"What caused the bruise, Maggie?" asked Mrs Gordon, after much talk on the subject of fomentations and bandages. The old woman hesitated to tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic tone, -- "Weel, mem, it was na Ivor's fau't, but the day before yesterday he cam in -- fou -- ye ken he's fond o' his glass, mem, an' he was swingin' aboot his airms, poor falla, an' withoot the least intention, his haund cam doon wi' sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. But he kens na aboot it, so ye'll no speak o't to him -- or to the laird."

"You may depend upon it, poor Maggie, that I will not. My mentioning it could do no good. And, as you say, Ivor was not quite himself at the time."

"Thank'ee, mem, that's just it. An' he's the best sons to me -- whan he's sober."

Soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, Mrs Gordon and her sympathetic child returned to the house.



Chapter Nine.

A Quiet Day With A Stirring Termination.

What fisher does not know the charm, the calm delight, of a quiet day by the river-side, after, it may be, months of too much contact with society? On such an occasion a congenial comrade is an advantage, but unless the comrade be congenial, one is better alone.

This may sound selfish to some ears, but is it really so? When a man has all but immolated himself for ten or eleven months, it may be, on the altar of business, art, and social duty, is a tremendous thirst for Nature and solitude altogether selfish? We think not. And evidently MacRummle thought not, as he wandered one soft, delightful morning, rod in hand, down to the river-side.

The river-side! There is something restfully suggestive in the very words. The quiet pools, the gurgling deeps, the rushing rapids, the rippling shallows, the little cascades -- what ardent hopes, what wild suggestions, what grand possibilities these have for the young; what gentle excitations, what pleasant, even though sad, memories for the old!

Of course the non-fisher knows nothing of all this. His terrestrial joys are limited, poor thing! The painter, indeed, has some part in the matter -- as regards his own line, so to speak -- and when he goes on what is vulgarly termed his own hook. We have profound sympathy with the painter. But for the poor fellow who neither fishes nor paints, alas! To be sure he may botanise. Strange to say, we had almost forgotten that! and also geologise; but our concern at present is with fishers, or, rather, with that fishing enthusiast, MacRummle.

The sunshine of his face was second only to that of Nature. His visage beamed with satisfaction; his eyes gleamed with hope, as he sat down on the bank near to his first pool, and began to select flies.

We have probably given the impression that MacRummle was alone, but this is not strictly correct. In his own estimation he was, indeed, in absolute solitude, and, so far, his felicity was unbroken; but his steps had been dogged that morning, and the dogger was Junkie.

That eccentric youngster possessed a mind which it is not easy to analyse or describe. One strong element in it, however, was curiosity. Another was ambition. The blending of these two qualities produced wonder in Junkie -- wonder that he, though as ardent a sportsman as MacRummle, should go forth frequently to fish and catch little or nothing, while the old gentleman went out and was wont to return with baskets full to overflowing. There must be a secret of some sort. He did not like to ask what that secret was, so he made up his mind to follow the old man and watch him -- not of course with the slightest intention of doing anything sly or wrong, but secretly, because he was well aware that MacRummle did not like to be distracted by company --  especially his company!

Following, then, at a respectful distance, and relying for success very much on the fisher's partial blindness and deafness, Junkie went out to have a day of it. He even went so far, in the matter of forethought, as to provide himself with a massive slice of bread and cheese to sustain him while carrying on his investigations.

Before he had got far from the house, however, he encountered Donald of the ragged head, who had hung about the place in hopes of another deer-drive, and whom he styled "Tonal'," in semi-sarcastic imitation of old Ian. Him he at once took into his confidence.

"I'll co wuth ye," said Donald.

"Come along, then. But mind, if you make a noise, or show yourself; if you so much as cough or sneeze, I'll punch your head an' tumble you into the river."

"Fery coot," said Donald. And upon this clear understanding they advanced.

The other members of the company at the house, meanwhile, had scattered in various directions to fish, shoot, paint or botanise, according to fancy.

We may explain here that there were several trouting streams in the vicinity of the house, besides the "river" at the head of the loch. Thus it was that MacRummle had a stream all to himself.

At first the fisher tried fly, to which he was partial, but success did not attend his efforts. The water was not in the best condition for fly, being rather swollen by recent rains. Perseverance, however, was one of MacRummle's strong qualities. He was not to be easily beaten.

There was a certain big boulder about the size of a dog-cart near the mouth of the stream, which narrowed its bed considerably, and thus produced a formation of rock below water favourable to the shelter of fish. It also sent an oily ripple over the surface of the water, which was favourable to the operations of the fisher. The old gentleman seldom failed to raise or hook a good sea-trout there, and always made his first cast with eager expectation. But the fish were either obdurate or blind that morning. They could not or they would not see. With a slight, but by no means desponding, sigh, the old man changed his cast and tried again. He knew every stone and ledge of the pool, and cast again and again with consummate skill and unusual care. Still, without result.

"That's odd," he muttered, for, being naturally a sociable man, he found talking to himself an immense relief. "Try once more, just at the tail o' yon swirl, Dick, my boy."

His Christian name was Richard. No one would have presumed to call him Dick but himself.

No result following this appeal to the tail of the swirl, he sat down on the bank and once more changed his hook. The nature of change might have been heard by the insects among the heather close by, if they were listening, for Donald whispered to his companion, -- "He's coin' to try pait!"

"Didn't I bid ye hau'd your tongue?"

"Ay."

"Do't then."

MacRummle dropped a worm gently into the head of the pool, and let it go with the current. Instantly the line straightened, the rod bent, the reel spun, and from the other side of the pool there leaped a lovely bar of silver, which fell back to its native element with a considerable splash.

"A two-pounder!" gasped Donald, unable to restrain his excitable spirit, as he half rose.

Junkie had him by the throat in a moment, and crammed his ragged head down among the heather.

"Tonal'!" he whispered remonstratively.

"I forgot," whispered Donald, when the strong little hands relaxed. "I'll not do't again."

"Ye better no'," returned Junkie, with a shake of his fist that required no explanation.

By this time the fish had darted like a lightning flash twice up stream, once down, three times across, and twice into the air. At the same time the fisher had hurried up and down the bank, had tripped over two stumps and a root, had dropped his wideawake, and had very nearly gone head foremost into the pool; for his tackle was fine and his fish large. The fisher-boy gasped.

"Tonal'," said Junkie, in very low tones, "if ye don't behave better, I'll send ye away."

"It iss not easy, but I'll try," said he.

Donald could say no more. The best of men or boys could do no more than try. We may as well say here at once, however, that his efforts at self-control were crowned with success. He proved himself to be a great man in embryo by ruling his own spirit that day.

In a few minutes the trout was landed by means of a miniature gaff, which the fisher carried in his basket, for the purpose of securing fish that were too heavy to be pulled out by the line. It was afterwards found to be a two-and-a-half pounder, which, being an unusually good fish for that stream, was the occasion of much rejoicing on the part of the old gentleman, as he stood wiping his forehead and commenting on it.

"Capital! Not had such a fellow as that for more than a week. There's more where that came from; but you must give the pool a rest, Dick. Try the run higher up."

In obedience to his own orders, MacRummle went up to a part of the stream where a high cliff on one side and a steepish bank on the other caused it to flow in a deep channel, not much more than a couple of yards wide. At the head of the run was a ledge where fish were invariably captured. Towards this spot the old man hurried eagerly.

The two boys lay still in the heather, allowed him to pass, and then softly followed, bending low, and keeping as much as possible behind bushes and in hollows, until they were again close upon him. Ensconcing themselves in a convenient mass of heather, they raised their heads and saw the fisher stepping carefully from rock to rock, as he approached the run.

Rounded boulders, large or small, are never safe to walk on, even for the young and active. MacRummle found it so. His foot slipped, and he sat down, with undignified haste, in a small pool of water.

Down went the boys' heads, that they might explode their laughter as softly as possible among the roots of the heather.

"Wass it not funny?" whispered Donald.

"I hope he's not hurt," replied Junkie, raising his head cautiously.

He saw that MacRummle had risen, and, with a rueful expression of face, was making insane and futile efforts to look at himself behind. A beaming smile overspread the boy's face as he glanced at his companion, for he knew well that the old gentleman cared little or nothing for water. And this was obviously the case, for, after squeezing as much water out of his nether garments as chose to come, he proceeded to the head of the runs and resumed fishing.

"I'm beginnin' to see through't," murmured Junkie, after watching for some time. "See! he has hooked another. Ye see, Tonal', it must be lettin' the hook drift away down under the ledges that does it. Look! He's got 'im!"

"I'm thinking ye are right, Junkie. An' the creat thing to know iss where the ledges lie. He keeps well back from the watter also. There maun be somethin' in that, what-e-ver. Ye wull be tryin' it yoursel' the morn, maype."

To this Junkie vouchsafed no reply, for the fisher, having secured his fish, was proceeding further up stream. When he was sufficiently far in advance, the boys rose to their feet, and again followed him.

Thus the trio occupied themselves all the forenoon -- MacRummle gradually filling his basket with fine sea-trout, Junkie storing his inquisitive mind with piscatorial knowledge and "dodges," and Donald enjoying himself in the mere act of wallowing about in heather and sunshine.

About noon MacRummle suddenly ceased to gaze intently on the water, and placed his hand upon his waistcoat.

"Time, Dick?" he murmured, pulling out his watch. "I knew it. Commend me to nature. It's the best time-keeper, after all -- needs no regulating."

He was wrong, as was frequently the case, but it mattered little, for there was no one to contradict him.

"Let me see," he muttered, taking off his basket, and drawing a newspaper parcel from the pocket of his coat -- in which operation he was induced by memory to make a last futile attempt to see himself behind -- "what have they put up for me?"

The parcel, when opened, disclosed a tempting pile of meat sandwiches. The old gentleman spread them out on a flattish boulder, which served as an admirable table.

Having leaned his rod against a tree, he emptied the basket on a grassy spot, and arranged the silver bars in a row. Then he sat down on his basket beside the table, and gave himself up to food and contemplation.

"A goodly row," he muttered, as well as the ham sandwich would let him. "Not a bad beginning; and such a splendid dish. There's comfort in that, for I hate useless work of any kind. A sort of an illustration, this, of the fitness of things!"

Apparently the peculiar unfitness of simultaneous mastication and speech struck him, for he paused a few moments, then continued, -- "Yes, fitness. Supplies for the table absolutely needed. Healthy exercise a consequence. Result, felicity!"

The supplies checking speech again, MacRummle looked around him, with benignant good-will to man and beast expressed on his countenance.

Craning their necks over a bank, and seeing the old gentleman thus pleasantly engaged, the two boys sank into the heather, and disappeared from view as completely as did "Clan Alpine's warriors true," after they had been shown to Fitz James by Roderick Dhu. Like two sparrows in a purple nest they proceeded to enjoy themselves.

"Now, Tonal', we will grub," said Junkie. "Why, what's the matter with you?" he asked, on observing a sudden fall in his companion's countenance.

"The matter?" repeated the boy. "It iss the crub that's the matter, for I hev not a crumb with me."

"Now, isn't that awful?" said Junkie, with a hypocritically woeful look. "We will just have to starve. But there's plenty of water," he added, in a consoling tone. "Here, Tonal', take this leather cup an' fill it. Ye can git down to the river by the back o' the bluff without bein' noticed. See that ye make no noise, now. Mind what I said to ye."

While Donald went at a slow, sad pace to fetch water, Junkie spread his handkerchief on the ground, and on this tablecloth laid out the following articles, which he took from a small bag that he had carried, slung on his shoulder, -- a very large piece of loaf bread, a thick slice of cheese, two hard biscuits, an apple, a bit of liquorice, a mass of home-made toffee, inseparably attached to a dirty bit of newspaper, three peppermint lozenges, and a gully knife with a broken blade.

When Donald returned and beheld this feast, he opened his eyes wide. Then, opening his mouth, he was on the point of giving vent to a cheer, when Junkie stopped him with a glance and an ominous shake of the fist.

It is to this day an undecided question which of those feasters enjoyed himself most.

"I always bring with me more than I can eat, Tonal', so you're welcome to the half. 'Fair play,' as daddy says, although he sometimes keeps the fairest play to himself;" with which dutiful remark the urchin proceeded to divide the viands very justly.

It did not take long to consume the whole. But MacRummle was quicker even than they, possibly because he had enticing work still before him. The consequence was, that he had resumed his rod unnoticed by the boys, and in the process of his amusement, had reached that part of the bank on the top of which they lay concealed. Their devotion to lunch had prevented his approach being perceived, and the first intimation they had of his near presence was the clatter of pebbles as he made a false step, and the swish of his flies above their heads as he made a cast.

The boys gazed at each other for one moment in silence, then hastily stuffed the remnant of their feast into their pockets.

Suddenly the glengarry bonnet of Junkie leaped mysteriously off his head, and dropped on the heather behind him.

"Hanked again!" growled MacRummle from the river-bed below.

Every fisher knows the difficulty of casting a long line with a steep bank behind him. Once already the old gentleman had hanked on the bank a little lower down, but so slightly that a twitch brought the flies away. Now, however, the hank was too complicated to give way to a twitch, for the glengarry held hard on to the heather. In desperate haste, Junkie, bending low, tried to extract the hook. It need scarcely be said that a hook refuses to be extracted in haste. Before he could free it, the voice of MacRummle was heard in sighs and gasps of mild exasperation as he scrambled up the bank to disentangle his line. There was no time for consideration. Junkie dropped his cap, and, rolling behind a mass of rock, squeezed himself into a crevice which was pretty well covered with pendent bracken. Donald vanished in a somewhat similar fashion, and both, remaining perfectly still, listened with palpitating hearts to MacRummle's approach.

"Well, well!" exclaimed the fisher in surprise; "it's not every day I hook a fish like this. A glengarry! And Junkie's glengarry! The small rascal! Crumbs, too! ha! that accounts for it. He must have been having his lunch here yesterday, and was so taken up with victuals that he forgot his cap when he went away. Foolish boy! It is like his carelessness; but he's not a bad little fellow, for all that."

He chuckled audibly at this point. Junkie did the same inaudibly as he watched his old friend carefully disengage the hook; but the expression of his face changed a little when he saw his cap consigned to the fisher's pocket, as he turned and descended to the stream. Having given the fisher sufficient time to get away from the spot, Junkie emerged from his hiding-place.

"Tonal'," he said, in a low voice, looking round, "ye may come oot noo, man. He's safe away."

The ragged head, in a broad grin, emerged from a clump of bracken.

"It wass awful amusin', Junkie, wass it not?"

"Yes, Tonal', it was; but it won't be very amusin' for me to go all the rest of the day bareheaded."

Donald sympathised with his friend on this point, and assured him that he would have divided his cap with him, as Junkie had divided his lunch, but for the fact that he never wore a cap at all, and the ragged hair would neither divide nor come off. After this they resumed their work of dogging the fisher's steps.

It would require a volume to relate all that was said and done on that lovely afternoon, if all were faithfully detailed; but our space and the reader's patience render it advisable to touch only on two points of interest.

As the day advanced the heat became overpowering, and, to escape from the glare of the sun for a little, the fisher took shelter under some very tall bracken on the bank near a deep pool. In order to secure a slight feeling of pleasurable expectation while resting, he put on a bait-cast, dropped the worm into the deepest part of the pool, propped up his rod with several stones, and then lay down to watch. The turf happened to be soft and level. As a natural consequence the tired man fell sound asleep.

"What's to be done noo, Junkie?"

"I don't know, Tonal'."

To make matters more exasperating, at that moment the rod began to bend and the reel to spin jerkily.

"A fush!" exclaimed Donald.

"Looks like it," returned his friend drily.

"I better gee a yell an' wauken him," suggested Donald.

"Ye'd better no'," said Junkie, shaking his fist.

"Yonder iss the end o' yer bonnet stickin' oot o' his pooch, what-e-ver," said Donald.

"You'd better lie low an' keep still," said Junkie; and, without further explanation of his intentions, he went softly down the bank and crept towards the sleeper, taking advantage of every stone and root and bush as he went along. Really, for a first attempt, it was worthy of the child of a Pawnee brave.

MacRummle was a heavy sleeper, so Junkie had no difficulty in recovering his cap. Putting it on, he returned the way he had come.

"That wass cliver, man," said the admiring Donald, when his friend rejoined him.

Junkie accepted the compliment with a dignified smile, and then sat down to wait; but it was a severe trial of patience to both of them, for the old man slept steadily on, and even snored. He seemed, in short, to have fairly gone to bed for the night.

"What say ye to bomb stanes at 'um?" suggested Donald.

"An' kill 'im, maybe," returned Junkie, with sarcasm in his eye.

"Heave divits at 'um, then."

"Ay; that's better."

Accordingly, the two urchins tore up a mass of turf which was much too heavy to heave.

"Let's row'd," suggested the active-minded Donald.

As this also met the approval of Junkie, they carried the "divit," or mass of turf, to the bank just above the sleeper, and, taking a careful aim, let it go. The bank was not regular. A lump diverted the divit from its course, and it plunged into the pool, to the obvious discomposure of the fish, which was still at intervals tugging at the line. Another divit was tried, but with similar result. A third clod went still further astray. The bombardment then became exciting, as every kind of effort does when one begins to realise the beneficial effect of practice.

"I can see how it is," whispered Junkie, as he carefully "laid" the next gun. "If we keep more to the right, it'll hit that lump o' grass, glance into the hollow, and -- "

He stopped abruptly, and both boys stood in crab-like attitudes of expectation, ready to fly, for the divit took the exact course thus indicated, and bounding down the bank, hit MacRummle fair on his broad back.

The guilty ones dived like rabbits into the bracken.

"Bless me!" exclaimed the old gentleman, jumping up and shaking the dry earth off. "This is most remarkable. I do believe I've been asleep. But why the bank should take to crumbling down upon me is more than I can understand. Hallo! A fish! You don't deserve such luck, Dick, my boy."

Winding in the line in a way which proved that the divit had done him no harm, he gave utterance to an exclamation of huge disgust as he drew an eel to the bank, with the line entangled hopelessly about its shiny body. This was too much for MacRummle. Unable to face the misery of disentanglement, he cut the line, despatched the eel, attached a new hook, and continued his occupation.

At the head of the pool in question the bank was so precipitous and high that the boys could see only the top of the rod swinging gracefully to and fro as the patient man pursued his sport. Suddenly the top of the rod described a wild figure in the air and disappeared. At the same moment a heavy plunge was heard.

"Hech! he's tum'led in the pool," gasped Donald.

They rushed to the overhanging edge of the cliff and looked down. Sure enough MacRummle was in the water. They expected to see him swim, for Junkie knew he was an expert swimmer; but the poor man was floating quietly down with the current, his head under water.

"Banged his heed, what-e-ver!" cried Donald, jumping up and bounding down the bank to the lower and shallow end of the pool. Quick though he was, Junkie outran him; but the unfortunate MacRummle was unintentionally quicker than either, for they found him stranded when they got there.

Running into the water, they seized him by the hair and the collar of his coat, and dragged him into the shallow part easily enough, but they had not strength to haul him ashore.

"Fetch a divit, Tonal' -- a big one, an' I'll keep up his head."

One of the masses of recent artillery was fetched, and the fisher's head was gently pillowed on it, so as to be well out of the water.

"There's no cut that I can see," said Junkie, inspecting the head critically; "he's only stunned, I think. Noo, Tonal', cut away to the hoose. Run as ye never ran before and tell them. I'll stop beside him for fear his heed slips in again."

Donald went off like a shot. Junkie went a few steps with him, intending to fetch another divit. Looking back, he saw what made him sink into the heather, and give a low whistle. Donald heard it, stopped, and also hid himself, for MacRummle was seen trying to rise. He succeeded, and staggered to dry land, when, sitting down on a stone, he felt himself all over with an anxious expression. Then he felt a lump on the back of his head, and smiled intelligently. After that he squeezed as much water out of his garments as he could, quietly took down his rod, ascertained that the fish in his basket were all right, then looked with some perplexity at the big divit lying in the shallow close to where he stood, and finally, with a highly contented expression of countenance, wended his way homeward.

The two boys gave him time to get well out of sight in advance, and then followed his example, commenting sagely as they went, on the desirability of possessing pluck in old age, and on the value of the various lessons they had learned that day.



Chapter Ten.

A Wildish Chapter.

It was the habit of our three friends -- Bob Mabberly, John Barret, and Giles Jackman -- during their residence at Kinlossie, to take a stroll together every morning before breakfast by the margin of the sea, for they were fond of each other's company, and Mabberly, as a yachtsman, had acquired the habit of early rising. He had also learned to appreciate the early morning hours as being those which present Nature in her sweetest, as well as her freshest, aspect -- when everything seems, more than at other periods of the day, to be under the direct influence of a benignant Creator.

It was also the habit of Captain McPherson and his man, James McGregor, to indulge daily in similar exercise at about the same hour, but, owing probably to their lives having been spent chiefly on the sea, they were wont to ramble up a neighbouring glen in preference to sauntering on the shore.

One bright calm morning, however, when the sky was all blue and the loch was like a mirror, the two seamen took it into their heads to desert the glen and ramble along the shore. Thus it came to pass that, on returning homeward, they encountered our three friends.

"It iss fery strange that we should foregather this mornin', Mr Mabberly," said the skipper, after greeting the young men; "for Shames an' me was jist speakin' aboot ye. We will be thinkin' that it iss foolishness for hum an' me to be stoppin' here wastin' our time when we ought to be at oor work."

"Nonsense, Captain," said Mabberly; "surely you don't think that taking a holiday in a pleasant place like this is wasting time. Besides, I don't consider you free from your engagement to me. You were hired for the trip, and that includes land as well as water, so I won't give you your discharge till you have had a long rest, and recruited yourselves after the shock to your nervous systems occasioned by the wreck and the swim to shore!"

A grim smile played on the skipper's iron features when reference was made to his nerves, and a flicker of some sort illumined the wooden visage of McGregor.

"You are fery kind, sir," returned the skipper; "but we don't like to be receivin' pay for doin' nothin'. You see, neither Shames nor me cares much for fushin' in the burns, or goin' after the deer, an' there's no chance o' raisin' the yat from the pottom o' the sea, so, if you hev no objection, sir, we will be goin' by the steamer that arrives to-morrow. I thought I would speak to you to-day, for we will hev to start early in the mornin', before you're up, for it iss a long way we'll hev to go. Iss it not so, Shames?"

"Oo, ay," replied the seaman, with more than ever of the nasal twang; "it iss a coot many miles to where the poat comes in -- so the poy Tonal' wass tellin' me, what-e-ver."

Mabberly tried to persuade the men to remain a little longer, but they were obdurate, so he let them go, knowing well that his father, who was a wealthy merchant and shipowner, would see to the interests of the men who had suffered in his son's service.

As they retraced their steps to the house the skipper gave Giles Jackman some significant glances, which induced him to fall behind the others.

"You want to speak with me privately, I think, skipper?"

"Yes, sir, I do," replied the seaman, with some embarrassment. "But it iss not fery easy nor pleesant to do so. A man does not like to speak of another man's failin's, you see, but as I am goin' away I'm obleeged to do it. You will hev noticed, sir, that Ivor Tonalson iss raither fond of his tram?"

"I'm afraid that I have observed that -- poor fellow."

"He is a goot man, sir, is Tonalson -- a fery goot man -- when he iss sober, but he hes got no power to resist the tram. An' whiles he goes on the spree, an' then he gits wild wi' D.T. you know, sir. Noo, ever since we cam' here, Ivor an' me hes been great friends, an' it hes been heavy on my mind to see him like that, for he's a fine man, a superior person, is Ivor, if he would only let alone the whusky. So I hev spoken to him wance or twice -- serious like, you know. At first he was not pleased, but the last time I spoke, he took it kindly, an' said he would think aboot what I had been sayin'. Noo, it's heavy on me the thoucht o' goin' away an' leavin' him in that state, so I thoucht that maybe ye would tak the metter up, sir, an' see what ye can do wi' him. Git him, if ye can, to become a total abstainer, nothin' less than that wull do wi' a man in that condeetion."

Jackman was greatly surprised, not only at the tenor of the skipper's remarks, but at the evidently deep feeling with which he spoke, for up to that time the reticence and quiet coolness of the man had inclined him to think that his mind and feelings were in harmony with his rugged and sluggish exterior. It was, therefore, with something of warmth that he replied, -- "I shall be only too happy to do as you wish, Captain; all the more that I have had some serious thoughts and feelings in that direction. Indeed, I have made up my mind, as it happens, to speak to Ivor on that very subject, not knowing that you were already in the field. I am particularly sorry for his poor old mother, who has suffered a great deal, both mentally and physically, on his account."

"Ay, that's the warst o' it," said the skipper. "It wass the sicht o' the poor wumin ailin' in body an' broken heartit that first set me at Ivor."

"But how comes it, Captain, that you plead so earnestly for total abstinence?" asked Jackman with a smile. "Have I not heard you defend the idea of moderate drinking, although you consented to sail in a teetotal yacht?"

"Mr Jackman," said the skipper, with almost stern solemnity, "it iss all fery weel for men to speak aboot moderate drinkin', when their feelin's iss easy an' their intellec's iss confused wi' theories an' fancies, but men will change their tune when it iss brought home to themselves. Let a man only see his brither or his mither, or his faither, on the high road to destruction wi' drink, an' he'll change his opeenion aboot moderate drinkin' -- at least for hard drinkers -- ay, an' he'll change his practice too, unless he iss ower auld, or his stamick, like Timothy's, canna git on withoot it. An' that minds me that I would tak it kind if ye would write an' tell me how he gets on, for I hev promised to become a total abstainer if he wull."

That very afternoon, while out shooting on the hills, Jackman opened the campaign by making some delicate approaches to the keeper on the subject, in a general and indirect way, but with what success he could not tell, for Ivor was respectfully reserved.

About the same time John Barret went off alone for a saunter in one of the nearest and most picturesque of the neighbouring glens. He had declined to accompany his comrades that day, for reasons best known to himself. After writing a few letters, to keep up appearances, and to prevent his being regarded as a mere idler, he went off, as we have said, to saunter in the glen.

He had not sauntered far when he came upon a sight which is calculated, whenever seen, to arouse sentiments of interest in the most callous beholder -- a young lady painting! It would be wrong to say he was surprised, but he was decidedly pleased, to judge from the expression of his handsome face. He knew who the lady was, for by that time he had studied the face and figure of Milly Moss until they had been indelibly photographed on his -- well, on the sensitive-plate of his soul, wherever that lay.

Milly had quite recovered from her accident by that time and had resumed her favourite pursuits.

"I'm very glad to have caught you at work at last, Miss Moss," he said, on coming up to the picturesque spot on which her easel was erected. "I wish much to receive that lesson which you so kindly promised to give me."

"I thought it was just the other way. Did you not say that you would teach me some of those perplexing rules of perspective which my book lays down so elaborately -- and, to me, so incomprehensibly?"

"I did, but did not you promise to show me how to manipulate oils -- in regard to which I know absolutely nothing? And as practice is of greater importance than theory, you must be the teacher and I the pupil."

Upon this point they carried on a discussion until Milly, declaring she was wasting her time and losing the effects of light and shade, went seriously to work on the canvas before her. Barret, whose natural colour was somewhat heightened, stood at a respectful distance, looking on.

"You are quite sure, I hope," said the youth, "that it does not disturb you to be overlooked? You know I would not presume to do so if you had not promised to permit me. My great desire, for many a day, has been to observe the process of painting in oils by one who understands it."

How he reconciled this statement with the fact that he was not looking at the picture at all, but at the little white hand that was deftly applying the brush, and the beautiful little head that was moving itself so gracefully about while contemplating the work, is more than we can explain.

Soon the painter became still more deeply absorbed in her work, and the pupil more deeply still in the painter. It was a magnificent sweep of landscape that lay before them -- a glen glowing with purple and green, alive with flickering sunlight and shadow, with richest browns and reds and coolest greys in the foreground; precipices, crags, verdant slopes of bracken, pine and birch woods hanging on the hillsides, in the middle distance, and blue mountains mingling with orange skies in the background, with MacRummle's favourite stream appearing here and there like a silver thread, running through it all. But Barret saw nothing of it. He only saw a pretty hand, a blushing cheek and sunny hair!

The picture was not bad. There was a good deal of crude colour in the foreground, no doubt, without much indication of form; and there was also some wonderfully vivid green and purple, with impossible forms and amazing perspective -- both linear and aerial -- in places, and Turneresque confusion of yellow in the extreme distance. But Barret did not note that -- though by means of some occult powers of comprehension he commented on it freely! He saw nothing but Milly Moss.

It was a glorious chance. He resolved to make the most of it.

"I had no idea that painting in oils was such a fascinating occupation," he remarked, without feeling quite sure of what he said.

"I delight in it," returned the painter, slowly, as she touched in a distant sheep, which -- measured by the rules of perspective, and regard being had to surrounding objects -- might have stood for an average cathedral.

Milly did not paint as freely as usual that afternoon. There was something queer, she said, about the brushes. "I can't get it to look right," she said at last, wiping out an object for the third time and trying again.

"No doubt," murmured the youth, "a cottage like that must be difficult to -- "

"Cottage!" exclaimed Milly, laughing outright; "it is not a cottage at all; it's a cow! Oh! Mr Barret, that is a very poor compliment to my work and to your own powers of discernment."

"Nay, Miss Moss," retorted the pupil, in some confusion, "but you have wiped it out twice, confessing, as you did so, that you could not paint it! Besides, my remark referred to the cottage which I thought you were going to paint -- not to your unsuccessful representations of the cow."

The poor youth felt that his explanation was so lame that he was somewhat relieved when the current of their thoughts was diverted by a loud shouting in the road farther down the glen. A shade of annoyance, however, rested for a moment on the face of his companion, for she recognised the voices, and knew well that the quiet tete-a-tete with her willing and intelligent pupil must now be interrupted.

"My cousins," she remarked, putting a touch on the cow that stamped that animal a lusus naturae for all time coming.

Another whoop told that the cousins were drawing near. In a few minutes they appeared in the path emerging from a clump of hazel bushes.

"They are evidently bent on a photographic expedition," remarked Barret, as the boys approached, Junkie waving his hat with hilarious good-will when he discovered the painters.

"And Flo is with them," said Milly, "from which I conclude that they are having what Junkie calls a day of it; for whenever they are allowed to take Flo, they go in for a high holiday, carrying provisions with them, so as to be able to stay out from morning till night."

The appearance of the young revellers fully bore out Milly's statement, for they were all more or less burdened with the means or signs of enjoyment. Archie carried his box of dry plates in his left hand, and his camera and stand over his right shoulder; Eddie bore a colour-box and sketching-book; Junkie wielded a small fishing-rod, and had a fishing-basket on his back; and Flo was encircled with daisy chains and crowned with laurel and heather, besides which, each of the boys had a small bag of provisions slung on his shoulder.

"Hooray! hooray! Out for the day!"

sang, or rather yelled, Junkie, as he approached.

"Ramble and roam --  Never go home!"

added Archie, setting down his camera, and beginning to arrange it.

"All of us must Eat till we bust!

"Junkie teached me zat," said innocent Flo, with a look of grave surprise at the peals of laughter which her couplet drew from her brothers.

"Yes, that's what we're goin' to do," said Junkie; "we've had lunch at the foot of Eagle Glen, and noo we are going up to Glen Orrack to dine, and fish, an' paint, an' botanise. After that we'll cross over the Swan's Neck, an' finish off the bustin' business with supper on the sea-shore. Lots of grub left yet, you see."

He swung round his little wallet as he spoke, and held it up to view.

"Would you like some, Cousin Milly?" asked Eddie, opening his bag. "All sorts here. Bread, cheese, ginger snaps, biscuits, jam -- Oh! I say, the jam-pot's broken! Whatever shall we do?"

He dipped his fingers into his wallet as he spoke, and brought them out magenta!

Their hilarity was dissipated suddenly, and grave looks were bestowed on Eddie's digits, until Flo's little voice arose like a strain of sweet music to dissipate the clouds.

"Oh! never mind," she said; "I's got anuzzer pot in my bag."

This had been forgotten. The fact was verified by swift examination, and felicity was restored.

"What are you going to photograph?" asked Milly, seeing that Archie was busy making arrangements.

"You, Cousin Milly. You've no notion what a splendid couple you and Mr Barret look -- stuck up so picturesquely on that little mound, with its rich foreground of bracken, and the grey rock beside you, and the peep through the bushes, with Big Ben for a background; and the easel, too -- so suggestive! There, now, I'm ready. By the way, I might take you as a pair of lovers!"

Poor Milly became scarlet, and suddenly devoted herself to the lusus naturae! Barret took refuge in a loud laugh, and then said:

"Really, one would suppose that you were a professional, Archie; you order your sitters about with such self-satisfied presumption."

"Yes, they always do that," said Milly, recovering herself, and looking calmly up from the cow -- which now resembled a megatherium -- "but you must remember, Cousin Archie, that I am a painter, and therefore understand about attitudes, and all that, much better than a mere photographer. So, if I condescend to sit, you must take your orders from me!"

"Fire away then with your orders," cried the impatient amateur.

"See, sir, I will sit thus -- as if painting," said Milly, who was desperately anxious to have it over, lest Archie should make some awkward proposition. "Mr Barret will stand behind me, looking earnestly at the picture -- "

"Admiringly," interposed Barret.

"Not so -- earnestly, as if getting a lesson," said Milly, with a teacher's severity; "and Flo will sit thus, at my feet, taking care (hold it, dear,) of my palette."

"More likely to make a mess of it," said Junkie.

"Now, are you ready? Steady! Don't budge a finger," cried Archie, removing the little leather cap.

In her uncertainty as to which of her fingers she was not to budge, Flo nervously moved them all.

"You're movin', Flo!" whispered Junkie.

"No, I'm not," said Flo, looking round indignantly.

"There, I knew you couldn't hold your tongue, Junkie," cried the photographer, hastily replacing the cap. "However, I think I had it done before she moved."

"And look -- you've got the nigger in!" cried Junkie, snatching up the black doll, which had been lying unobserved on its owner's knee all the time.

"Never mind, that'll do no harm. Now, then, soldiers, form up, an' quick march," said Archie, closing up his apparatus. "We have got plenty of work before us, and no time to waste."

Obedient to this rather inaccurately given word of command, Archie's troops fell into line, and, with a whooping farewell, continued their march up the glen.

During the remainder of that beautiful afternoon, the artist and pupil continued at their "fascinating" work. Shall we take advantage of our knowledge to lift the curtain, and tell in detail how Milly introduced a few more megatheriums into her painting, and violated nearly all the rules of perspective, to say nothing of colour and chiaro-oscuro? Shall we reveal the multitude of absurd remarks made by the pupil, in his wild attempts at criticism of an art, about which he knew next to nothing? No; it would be unwarrantable -- base! Merely remarking that painter and pupil were exceedingly happy, and that they made no advance whatever in the art of painting, we turn to another scene in the neighbourhood of Kinlossie House.

It was a wide grass-field from which the haycocks had recently been removed, leaving it bare and uninteresting. Nevertheless, there were two points of interest in that field which merit special attention. One was a small black bull, with magnificent horns, the shaggiest of coats, and the wickedest of eyes. The other was our friend MacRummle, taking a short cut through the field, with a basket on his back, a rod in one hand, and an umbrella in the other.

We may at once account for the strange presence of the latter article, by explaining that, on the day before -- which was rainy -- the laird, had with an umbrella, accompanied his friend to his first pool in the river, at which point their roads diverged; that he had stayed to see MacRummle make his first two or three casts, during which time the sky cleared, inducing the laird to close his umbrella, and lean it against the bank, after which he went away and forgot it. Returning home the next day our angler found and took charge of it.

That he had been successful that day was made plain, not only by the extra stoop forward, which was rendered necessary by the weight of his basket, and the beaming satisfaction on his face, but by the protruding tail of a grilse which was too large to find room for the whole of itself, inside.

"You're a lucky man to-day, Dick," murmured the enthusiastic angler to himself, as he jogged across the field.

Had he known what was in store for him, however, he would have arrived at a very different estimate of his fortunes!

The field, as we have said, was a large one. MacRummle had reached the centre of it when the black bull, standing beside the wall at its most distant corner, seemed to feel resentment at this trespass on its domain.

It suddenly bellowed in that low thunderous tone which is so awfully suggestive of conscious power. MacRummle stopped short. He was naturally a brave man, nevertheless his heart gave his ribs an unwonted thump when he observed the bull in the distance glaring at him. He looked round in alarm. Nothing but an unbroken flat for a hundred yards lay around him in all directions, unrelieved by bush, rock, or tree, and bounded by a five-foot wall, with only one gate, near to where the bull stood pawing the earth and apparently working itself into a rage.

"Now, Dick," murmured the old gentleman, seriously, "it's do or die with you if that brute charges, for your legs are not much better than pipe-stems, and your wind is -- Eh! he comes!"

Turning sharply, he caused the pipe-stems to wag with amazing velocity --  too fast, indeed, for his toe, catching on something, sent him violently to the ground, and the basket flew over his head with such force that the strap gave way. He sprang up instantly, still unconsciously holding on to rod and umbrella.

Meanwhile, the bull, having made up its mind, came charging down the field with its eyes flashing and its tail on high.

MacRummle looked back. He saw that the case was hopeless. He was already exhausted and gasping. A young man could scarcely have reached the wall in time. Suddenly he came to a ditch, one of those narrow open drains with which inhabitants of wet countries are familiar. The sight of it shot a blaze of hope through his despair! He stopped at once, dropped his rod, and, putting up his umbrella, laid it on the ground. It was a large cotton one of the Gamp description. Under the shelter of it he stepped quietly into the ditch, which was not much more than knee-deep, with very little water in it.

Placing the umbrella in such a position that it came between himself and the bull, he laid himself flat down in the drain. The opening was far too narrow to admit his broad shoulders, except when turned sidewise. The same treatment was not applicable to other parts of his person, but, by dint of squeezing and collapsing, he got down, nestled under the bank, and lay still.

On came the bull till it reached the basket, which, with a deft toss, it hurled into the air and sent the silvery treasure flying. A moment more and it went head foremost into the umbrella. Whether it was surprised at finding its enemy so light and unsubstantial, or at the slipping of one of its feet into the drain, we cannot tell, but the result was that it came down and turned a complete somersault over the drain, carrying the umbrella along with it in its mad career!

When the bull scrambled to its feet again, and looked round in some surprise, it found that one of its legs and both its horns were through and entangled with the wrecked article.

It was a fine sight to witness the furious battle that immediately ensued between the black bull and that cotton umbrella! Rage at the man was evidently transmuted into horror at the article. The bull pranced and shook its head and pawed about in vain efforts to get rid of its tormenter. Shreds of the wreck flapped wildly in its eyes. Spider-like ribs clung to its massive limbs and poked its reeking sides, while the swaying handle kept tapping its cheeks and ears and nose, as if taunting the creature with being held and badgered by a thing so flimsy and insignificant!

Happily this stirring incident was not altogether unwitnessed. Far up the valley it was observed by four living creatures, three of whom immediately came tearing down the road at racing speed. Gradually their different powers separated them from each other. Archie came first, Eddie next, and Junkie brought up the rear. On nearing the field the first wrenched a stake out of a fence; the second caught up a rake, that had been left by the haymakers; and the last, unscrewing the butt of his rod, broke the line, and flourished the weapon as a cudgel. They all three leaped into the field one after another, and bore courageously down on the bull, being well accustomed to deal with animals of the sort.

Separating as they drew near, they attacked him on three sides at once. Short work would he have made with any of them singly; together they were more than his match. When he charged Junkie, Archie ran in and brought the stake down on his skull. When he turned on his assailant, Eddie combed his sides with the rake. Dashing at the new foe he was caught by the tail by Junkie, who applied the butt of his rod vigorously, the reel adding considerable weight to his blows. At last the bull was cowed -- if we may venture to say so -- and driven ignominiously into a corner of the field, where he vented his rage on the remnants of the umbrella, while the victors returned to the field of battle.

"But what's come of MacRummle?" said the panting Junkie as they gathered up the fish and replaced them in the basket. "I never saw him get over the wall. Did you?"

"No," replied Archie, looking round in surprise.

"I dare say he ran off while we were thumpin' the bull," suggested Eddie.

"I'm here, boys! I'm here, Junkie," cried a strange sepulchral voice, as if from the bowels of the earth.

"Where?" asked the boys gazing down at their feet with expressions of awe.

"He's i' the drain!" cried Junkie with an expanding mouth.

"Ay -- that's it! I'm in the drain! Lend a hand, boys; I can hardly move."

They ran to him instantly, but it required the united powers of all three to get him out, and when they succeeded he was found to be coated all over one side with thick mud.

"What a muddle you've made of yourself, to be sure!" exclaimed Junkie. "Let me scrape you."

But MacRummle refused to be scraped until they had placed the five-foot wall between himself and the black bull. Then he submitted with a profound sigh.



Chapter Eleven.

Peculiar Incidents Of A Sabbath Among The Western Isles.

One beautiful Sunday morning while the party assembled in Kinlossie House was at breakfast, a message was brought to the laird that he "wass wantit to speak wi' the poy Tonal'."

"Well, Donald, my lad, what want ye with me this fine morning?" asked the laird, on going out to the hall.

"I wass telt to tell ye the'll be no kirk the day, for the minister's got to preach at Drumquaich."

"Very well, Donald. Have you had breakfast?"

"Oo, ay."

"Go into the kitchen, then, and they will give you some more."

"Thenkee, sir."

"I find," said the laird on returning to his friends, "that we are to have no service to-day in our little church, as our minister has to take the duty at Drumquaich, on the other side of the loch. So those of you who are bent on going to church must make up your minds to cross the loch in the boat."

"Is Drumquaich the little village close under the pine wood, that we see on doubling Eagle Point?" asked Mabberly.

"The same. The little church there, like our own, is not supplied regularly. Sometimes a Divinity student is sent down to them. Occasionally they have a great gun from Edinburgh."

"I think some of the students are better than the great guns," remarked Mrs Gordon quietly.

"True, my dear, and that is most natural, for it stands to reason that some at least of the students must be the great guns of the future in embryo; and they have the freshness of youth to set against the weight of erudition."

"The student who preached to us here last Sunday," observed Barret, "must surely be an embryo great gun, for he treated his subject in a learned and masterly way that amazed me. From the look of him I would not have expected even an average discourse."

"That was partly owing to his modest air and reticence," returned the laird. "If you heard him converse on what he would call metapheesical subjects, you would perhaps have been still more surprised."

"Well, I hope he will preach to-day," said Barret.

"From which I conclude that you will be one of the boat party. My wife and Milly make three, myself four; who else?"

"No -- don't count me" interrupted the hostess; "I must stay with Flo; besides, I must visit poor Mrs Donaldson, who is again laid up. But I'll be glad if you will take Aggy Anderson. Ever since the poor girl came here for a little change of air she has been longing to go out in the boat. I really believe it is a natural craving for the free, fresh breezes of the sea. May she go?"

"By all means; as many as the boat will hold," returned the laird.

It was finally arranged that, besides those already mentioned, Mabberly, Jackman, MacRummle, Quin, the three boys, Roderick the groom, and Ian Anderson, as boatman in charge, should cross over to the little church at Drumquaich, about eight miles distant by water.

While they were getting ready, Mrs Gordon and Flo, with the beloved black dolly, paid a visit to old Molly, the keeper's mother. They found her in her arm-chair, sitting by the large, open chimney, on the hearth of which a very small fire was burning -- not for the sake of warmth, but for the boiling of an iron pot which hung over it.

The old woman was enveloped in a large, warm shawl -- a gift from the "Hoose." She also wore a close-fitting white cap, or "mutch," which was secured to her head by a broad, black ribbon. The rims of her spectacles were of tortoiseshell, and she had a huge family Bible on her knee, while her feet rested upon a three-legged stool. She looked up inquiringly as her visitors entered.

"Why, Molly, I thought you were in bed. They told me you were ill."

"Na, mem, I'm weel eneuch in body; it's the speerit that's ill. And ye ken why."

She spoke in a faint, quavering voice, for her old heart had been crushed by her wayward, self-indulgent son, and a few tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks; but she was too old and feeble to give way to demonstrative grief. Little Flo, whose heart was easily touched, went close to the poor old woman, and looked up anxiously in her face.

"My bonny doo! It's a pleasure to look at ye," said the old woman, laying her hand on the child's head.

Mrs Gordon drew in a chair and sat down by her side.

"Tell me about it," she said confidentially; "has he given way again, after all his promises to Mr Jackman?"

"Oo, ay; Maister Jackman's a fine man, but he canna change the hert o' my son -- though it is kind o' him to try. No, the only consolation I hev is here."

She laid her hand on the open Bible.

"Where is he just now?" asked the lady.

As she spoke, a fierce yell was heard issuing from the keeper's cottage, which, as we have said, stood close to his mother's abode.

"Ye hear till 'im," said the old woman with a sorrowful shake of the head. "He iss fery pad the day. Whiles he thinks that horrible craters are crawlin' ower him, an' whiles that fearful bogles are glowerin' at him. Sometimes he fancies that the foul fiend himsel' has gotten haud o' him, an' then he screeches as ye hear."

"Would it do any good, Molly, if I were to go and speak to him, think you?"

"Na, ye'd better let him lie. He's no' hissel' the now, and there's no sayin' what he might do. Oh! drink! drink!" cried the old creature, clasping her hands; "ye took my man awa', an' now ye're ruinin' my son! But," she added with sudden animation, "we can pray for him; though it iss not possible for you or Maister Jackman to change my bairn's hert, the Lord can do it, for wi' Him 'a' things are possible.'"

To this Mrs Gordon gave a hearty assent. Sitting still as she was, with hand resting on the old woman's arm, she shut her eyes and prayed fervently for the salvation of the enslaved man.

She was still engaged in this act of worship when another shriek was heard. At the same time the door of the keeper's cottage was heard to open, and Ivor's feet were heard staggering towards his mother's cottage. Poor Flo took refuge in great alarm behind Mrs Donaldson, while her mother, rising quickly, drew back a few paces.

Next moment the small door was burst open, and the keeper plunged, almost fell, into the room with something like a savage cheer. He was a terrible sight. With wildly dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, and distorted features, he stood for a few seconds glaring at his mother; his tall figure swaying to and fro, while he held a quart bottle aloft in his right hand. He did not appear to observe the visitors, but continued to stare at his mother with an expression that perplexed her, accustomed though she was to his various moods.

"See, mother," he shouted fiercely, "I have done wi' the accursed thing at last!"

He dashed the bottle on the hearth with tremendous violence as he spoke, so that it vanished into minute fragments, while its contents spurted about in all directions. Happily very little of it went into the fire, else the cottage would have been set ablaze.

With another wild laugh the man wheeled round, staggered out of the cottage, and went his way.

"You are not hurt, I trust?" said the lady, anxiously bending down over the poor old creature, who had remained calmly seated in her chair, without the slightest appearance of alarm.

"No, I'm not hurt, thank the Lord," she answered.

"Don't you think that that was an answer to our prayer?" asked the lady with some eagerness.

Old Molly shook her head dubiously. "It may be so," she replied; "but I hev often seen 'im i' that mind, and he has gone back to it again and again, like the soo that was washed, to her wallowin' i' the mire. Yet there did seem somethin' different aboot 'im the day," she added thoughtfully; "but it iss not the first time I hev prayed for him without gettin' an answer."

"Answers do not always come as we expect them," returned her visitor; "yet they may be granted even while we are asking. I don't know how it is, but I feel sure that Jesus will save your son."

Poor little Flo, who had been deeply affected by the terrible appearance of her favourite Ivor, and who had never seen him in such a plight before, quietly slipped out of old Molly's hut and went straight to that of the keeper. She found him seated on a chair with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his hands, and his strong fingers grasping his hair as if about to tear it out by the roots. Flo, who was naturally fearless and trustful, ran straight to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He started and looked round.

"Bairn! bairn!" he said grasping her little head, and kissing her forehead, "what brings ye here?"

"Muzzer says she is sure Jesus will save you; so I came to tell you, for muzzer never says what's not true."

Having delivered her consoling message, Flo ran back at once to Molly's cottage with the cheerful remark that it was all right now, for she had told Ivor that he was going to be saved!

While Mrs Gordon and Flo were thus engaged on shore, the boat party were rowing swiftly down the loch to the little hamlet of Drumquaich. The weather was magnificent. Not a breath of air stirred the surface of the sea, so that every little white cloud in the sky was perfectly reproduced in the concave below. The gulls that floated on the white expanse seemed each to be resting on its own inverted image, and the boat would have appeared in similar aspect but for the shivering of the mirror by its oars.

"Most appropriate type of Sabbath rest," said Jackman.

"Ay, but like all things here pelow," remarked Ian Anderson, who possessed in a high degree the faculty of disputation, "it's not likely to last long."

"What makes you think so, Ian?" asked Milly, who sat in the stern of the boat between John Barret and Aggy Anderson.

"Well, you see, muss," began Ian, in his slow, nasal tone, "the gless has bin fallin' for some time past, an' -- Tonal', poy, mind your helm; see where you're steerin' to!"

Donald, who steered, was watching with profound interest the operations of Junkie, who had slily and gravely fastened a piece of twine to a back button of MacRummle's coat, and tied him to the thwart on which he sat. Being thus sternly asked where he was steering to, Donald replied, "Oo, ay," and quickly corrected the course.

"But surely," returned Milly, "there is no sign of a rapid change, at least if we may judge from the aspect of Nature; and I am a fervent believer in Nature, whatever the glass may predict."

"I am not sure o' that, muss," said Ian. "You needn't pull quite so hard, Muster Mabberly; we hev plenty o' time. Tak it easy. Well, as I wass sayin', muss, I hev seen it as calm as this i' the mornin' mony a time, an' plowin' a gale at nicht."

"Let us hope that that won't be our experience to-day," said the laird. "Anyhow, we have a good sea-boat under us."

"Weel, the poat's no' a pad wan, laird, but I hev seen petter. You see, when the wund iss richt astern, she iss given to trinkin'."

"That's like Ivor," said Junkie with a laugh; "only he is given to drinkin', no matter how the wind blows."

"What do you mean?" asked Milly, much perplexed.

Barret here explained that a boat which takes in much water over the bow is said to be given to drinking.

"I'm inclined that way myself," said Jackman, who had been pulling hard at one of the oars up to that time.

"Has any one thought of bringing a bottle of water?"

"Here's a bottle," cried MacRummle, laughing.

"Ah, sure, an' there seems to be a bottle o' milk, or somethin' white under the th'ort," remarked Quin, who pulled the bow oar.

"But that's Milly's bottle of milk," shouted Junkie.

"And Aggy's," chimed in Eddie.

"Yes -- no one must touch that," said Junkie.

"Quite right, boys," said Jackman; "besides, milk is not good for quenching thirst."

On search being made, it was found that water had not been brought with them, so that the thirsty rowers had to rest content without it.

"Is that Eagle Cliff I see, just over the knoll there?" asked Barret.

"It is," answered the laird; "don't you see the eagle himself like a black speck hovering above it? My shepherd would gladly see the bird killed, for he and his wife make sad havoc among the lambs sometimes; but I can't say that I sympathise with the shepherd. An eagle is a noble bird, and there are none too many of them now in this country."

"I agree with you heartily," said Barret; "and I would regard the man who should kill that eagle as little better than a murderer."

"Quite as bad as a murderer!" said Milly with energy. "I am glad you speak out so clearly, Mr Barret; for I fear there are some among us who would not hesitate to shoot if the poor bird were to come within range."

"Pray don't look so pointedly at me, Miss Moss," said Jackman; "I assure you I have no intention of attempting murder -- at least not in that direction."

"Och! an' it's murder enough you've done already for wan man," said Quin in an undertone.

"Oh! I say, that reminds me. Do tell us the rest of the story of the elephant hunt, Mr Jackman," cried Junkie.

"Not just now, my boy. It's a long story. Besides, we are on our way to church! Some other time I will tell it you."

"It would take half the romance away from my mother's visit if the eagle were killed," remarked Milly, who did not overhear the elephant parenthesis.

"Has your mother, then, decided to come?" asked Barret.

"Yes. In spite of the sea, which she dreads, and steamers, which she hates, she has made up her mind to come and take me home."

"How charming that will be!" said Barret.

"Indeed!" returned Milly, with a significant look and smile.

"Of course I did not mean that," returned Barret, laughing. "I meant that it would be charming for you to have your mother out here, and to return home in her company. Is she likely to stay long?"

"I cannot tell. That depends on so many things. But I am sure of one thing, that she longs to see and thank you for the great service you rendered me on the day of your arrival here."

Barret began to protest that the service was a comparatively small one, and such as any man might gladly render to any one, when the arrival of the boat at the landing-place cut him short.

About thirty or forty people had assembled from the surrounding districts, some of whom had come four or even six miles to attend church. They formed a quiet, grave, orderly company of men and women in homespun garments, with only a few children among them. The arrival of the laird's party made a very considerable addition to the congregation, and, as the hour for meeting had already passed by a few minutes, they made a general move towards the church.

The building was wonderfully small, and in the most severely simple style of architecture, being merely an oblong structure of grey stone, with small square windows, and a belfry at one end of the roof. It might have been mistaken for a cottage but for this, and the door being protected by a small porch, and placed at one end of the structure, instead of at the side.

A few of the younger men remained outside in conversation, awaiting the advent of the minister. After a time, however, these dropped in and took their seats, and people began to wonder why the minister was so late. Presently a boy with bare legs and a kilt entered the church and whispered to a very old man, who turned out to be an elder. Having heard the boy's message, the elder crossed over to the pew in which the laird was seated and whispered to him, not so low, however, as to prevent Giles Jackman from hearing all that passed. The minister's horse had fallen, he said, and bruised the minister's legs so that he could not officiate.

"Very awkward," returned the laird, knitting his brows. "What's to be done? It seems absurd that so many of us should assemble here just to look solemn for a few minutes and then go home."

"Yes, sir, it iss akward," said the elder. "Could you not gif us a discoorse yoursel', sir, from the prezenter's dask?"

The latter part of the proposition was to guard himself from the imputation of having asked the laird to mount the pulpit.

"Me preach!" exclaimed the laird; "I never did such a thing in my life."

"Maype you'll read a chapter, what-e-ver," persisted the elder.

"Impossible! I never read a chapter since I was born -- in public, I mean, of course. But why not do it yourself, man?"

"So I would, sir, but my throat'll not stand it."

"Is there no other elder who could do it?"

"Not wan, sir. I'm afraid we will hev to dismiss the congregation."

At this point, to the laird's relief and no little surprise, Jackman leaned forward, and said in a low voice, "If you have no objection, I will undertake to conduct the service."

The elder gave the laird a look which, if it had been translated into words, would probably have conveyed the idea -- "Is he orthodox?"

"By all means, Mr Jackman," said the laird; "you will be doing us a great favour."

Accordingly Jackman went quietly to the precentor's desk and mounted it, much to the surprise of its proper occupant, a man with a voice like a brass trumpet, who thereupon took his seat on a chair below the desk.

Profound was the interest of the congregation when they saw this bronzed, broad-shouldered, big-bearded young man pull a small Bible out of his pocket and begin to turn over the leaves. And it was noted with additional interest by several of the people that the Bible seemed to be a well-worn one. Looking up from it after a few minutes, during which it was observed that his eyes had been closed, Jackman said, in an easy, conversational tone, that quite took the people by surprise -- 

"Friends, it has been my lot in life to wander for some years in wild and distant lands, where ministers of the Gospel were few and far between, and where Christians were obliged to conduct the worship of God as best they could. Your minister being unable to attend, owing to an accident, which I trust may not turn out to be serious, I shall attempt, with the permission of your elder, to lead your thoughts Godward, in dependence on the Holy Spirit. Let us pray."

The jealous ears of the rigorously orthodox heard him thus far without being able to detect absolute heresy, though they were sensitively alive to the unusual style and very unclerical tone of the speaker's voice. The same ears listened reverently to the prayer which followed, for it was, after the pattern of the Lord's Prayer, almost startlingly short; still it was very earnest, extremely simple, and, all things considered, undeniably orthodox.

Relieved in their minds, therefore, the people prepared themselves for more, and the precentor, with the brazen but tuneful voice, sang the first line of the psalm which the young preacher gave out -- "I to the hills will lift mine eyes" -- with rasping energy. At the second line the congregation joined in, and sang praise with reverent good-will, so that, when a chapter of the Word had been read and another psalm sung, they were brought to a state of hopeful expectancy. The text still further pleased them, when, in a quiet voice, while turning over the leaves of the well-used Bible, Jackman said, "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths."

Laying down his little Bible, and looking at the people earnestly and in silence for a few moments, the preacher said -- 

"I have travelled in Italy, France, Germany, Switzerland, and other places, and I never yet went in these countries without a guide-book. More than that, never in all my experience have I seen men or women travelling in these countries without a guide-book. The travellers always carried their guide-books in their hands, or in their pockets, and consulted them as they went along. In the evenings, round the tables or on the sofas of the salons, they would sometimes sit poring over the pages of their guide-books, considering distances and the best routes, and the cost of travelling and board. Any man who would have travelled without a guide-book, or who, having one, neglected to use it, would have been considered weak-minded at the least. Still further, I have noted that such travellers believed in their guide-books, and usually acted on the advice and directions therein given.

"But one journey I can tell of in which all this seems to be reversed --  the journey from earth towards heaven. And here is our guide-book for that journey," said the preacher, holding up the little Bible. "How do we treat it? I do not ask scoffers, who profess not to believe in the Bible. I ask those who call themselves Christians, and who would be highly offended if we ventured to doubt their Christianity. Is it not true that many of us consult our Guide-book very much as a matter of form and habit, without much real belief that it will serve us in all the minute details of life? We all wish to get on in life. The most obstinate and contradictory man on earth admits that. Even if he denies it with his lips, all his actions prove that he admits it. Well, what says our Guide-book in regard to what is called 'getting on'? 'In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths.' Now, what could be simpler -- we might even say, what could be easier -- than this? Him whom we have to acknowledge is defined in the previous verse as 'the Lord' -- that is, Jesus, Immanuel, or God with us."

From this point the sunburnt preacher diverged into illustration, leaning over the desk in a free-and-easy, confidential way, and thrilling his audience with incidents in his own adventurous career, which bore directly on the great truth that, as regards the Great End of life, success and blessedness result from acknowledging the Lord, and that failure and disaster inevitably await those who ignore Him.

While Jackman proceeded with his discourse, the sky had become overcast, dark thunderclouds had been gathering in the nor'-east, rain had also begun to descend; yet so intently were the people listening to this unusual style of preacher, that few of them observed the change until a distant thunder-clap awoke them to it.

Quietly, but promptly, Jackman drew his discourse to a close, and stepped out of the desk, remarking, in the very same voice with which he had preached, that he feared he had kept them too long, and that he hoped none of the congregation had far to go.

"We hev that, sir," said the old elder, shaking him warmly by the hand; "but we don't heed that, an' we are fery glad that we came, what-e-ver."

As the wind had also risen, and it seemed as if the weather was not likely to improve, the laird hurried his party down to the boat. Waterproofs were put on, umbrellas were put up, the sails were hoisted, and the boat put off.

"I fear the sea is very rough," remarked Milly Moss, drawing close to Aggy Anderson, so as to shelter her somewhat from the driving rain.

"Oo, ay; it iss a wee rough," assented Ian, who now took the helm; "but we wull soon rin ower. Haud you the main sheet, Mr Mabberly, an' pe ready to let co when I tell ye. It iss a wee thing squally."

It was indeed a little more than a "wee thing squally," for just then a vivid flash of lightning was seen to glitter among the distant crags of the Eagle Cliff. This was followed by a loud clap of thunder, which, leaping from cliff to crag, reverberated among the mountains with a succession of crashes that died away in ominous mutterings. At the same time a blue line towards the nor'-east indicated an approaching squall.

"Had we not better take in a reef, Ian?" asked the laird anxiously.

"We had petter weather the pint first," said the boatman; "efter that the wund wul pe in oor favour, an' -- but, ye're richt. Tak in a reef, Roderick an' Tonal'. Mind the sheet, Mr Mabberly, an' sit low in the poat, poys."

These orders were promptly obeyed, for the squall was rushing down the loch very rapidly. When it burst on them the boat leaned over till her lee gunwale almost ran under water, but Ian was a skilful boatman, and managed to weather the point in safety.

After that, as he had said, the wind was more favourable, enabling them to run before it. Still, they were not out of danger, for a wide stretch of foaming sea lay between them and the shores of Kinlossie, while a gathering storm was darkening the sky behind them.



Chapter Twelve.

Stirring Events Of More Kinds Than One.

The squall which blew the Kinlossie boat round the Eagle Point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling Ian Anderson to close reef his sails. Even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow.

Of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which Kinlossie House nestled among its trees.

"Come aft, poys," shouted Ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; "she's trinkin' too much; come aft, an' look sherp!"

The three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger.

Thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there.

Unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of Kinlossie Bay obliged Ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. This was a critical operation. Even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. John Barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round Milly's waist and whisper, "Don't be afraid, beloved, I'll take care of you!" but want of courage -- to say nothing of a sense of propriety -- kept his lips silent and his arm still.

"Noo, keep stiddy, all of ye," said Ian, as he shifted the helm a little.

An irrepressible shriek burst from Aggy Anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up.

"Tak anither haul o' the sheet, Maister Mabberly," cried Ian.

Assisted by Jackman, Mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as Quin said, "snorin'" past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. Another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. To the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. To make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. But Ian knew what he was about. With a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam.

Another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind.

"We're a' richt noo, what-e-ver," said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.

Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!

"Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an' help Rodereek to fend off," cried the boatman. "Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an' pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi' the halyards, Muster Airchie?"

"All right, Ian," replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.

They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.

"Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day," remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.

At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!

Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!

A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret's cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.

And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance, as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do -- at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm's length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him -- treading water while doing so. Then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. Thus the girl's face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, "Trust in God, dearest, He will save us!" while he struck out vigorously with his legs. Thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore.

Lest the reader should fancy that we are here merely inventing a mode of action, it may be well to state that we have conversed with a man styled "the Rescue," whose duty it was to watch the boys of Aberdeen while bathing on the dangerous coast there, and who told us that he had saved some hundreds of lives -- many of them in the manner above described.

Every one in the boat was fortunately able to swim, more or less, except Milly and Aggie Anderson. With the utmost anxiety to save the latter, her Uncle Ian made a desperate plunge when the boat upset, at the spot where, in the confusion, he thought he saw her go down. He grasped something under water, which clutched him violently in return. Rising to the surface he found that he had got hold of Giles Jackman, who, animated by the same desire to rescue the same girl, had also made a plunge at her. Flinging each other off almost angrily, they swam wildly about in search of her, for Giles had observed that Barret was sufficiently intent on Milly.

But poor Aggie was in even better hands. Ivor Donaldson had kept his eyes on her from the moment that he could distinguish faces in the approaching boat. He was a splendid swimmer. Even against wind and waves he made rapid headway, and in a few seconds caught the girl by the hair. In his case the absence of a plan of rescue was to some extent remedied by sheer strength of body, coupled with determination. The poor girl did her best to choke him, as drowning people will, but, happily, she was too weak for the purpose and he too strong! He suffered her to do her worst, and, with the arm which she left free made his way gallantly to the beach, where Duncan and all the domestics were ready to receive them.

Barret and Milly had landed just before them. Immediately after Archie and Eddie were swept in amid the foam, and Junkie himself -- who, like his brothers, could swim like a cork -- came careering in on the top of a wave, like a very water-imp! With all the energy of his nature he turned, the moment his feet touched ground, to lend a hand to his friend Tonal', who was not far behind him.

Thus, one by one, the whole party got safely to land, for the laird, although old, was still vigorous, and, like the others, able to swim. MacRummle came in last, and they had some difficulty in getting him out of the water, for he was rather sluggish, as well as heavy; but he was none the worse for his immersion, and to the anxieties afterwards expressed by his friends, he replied quietly that he had become pretty well used to the water by that time. It was a trying experience, however, for all of them, and, in the opinion of Ian Anderson, as he gave it to his wife when they met, "it was a queer way o' feenishin' off a fery extraor'nar Sawbath tay -- what-e-ver!"

One morning, not long after this incident, the gentlemen made up a shooting party to try the summit of the hill for mountain hares -- their hostess having twitted them with their inability to keep the household supplied with hare soup.

"I will accompany you, gentlemen, to the shoulder of the first hill," observed their host, as he finished his breakfast, "but not farther, for I am not so young as I once was, and cannot be expected to keep pace with a 'Woods and Forester.'"

"That is not a good reason for your stopping short, laird," retorted Jackman, with a smile, "because it is quite possible for the 'Woods and Forester' to regulate his pace to that of the Western Isles."

"Well, we shall see," returned his host. "And what does my reckless Milly intend to do with herself?"

"I mean to have a little picnic -- all by myself," said Milly; "that is to say with nobody but me and Aggy Anderson."

"D'you think that quite safe, so soon after her ducking?" asked Mrs Gordon.

"Quite safe, auntie, for she has not felt a bit the worse for that ducking; indeed, she seems much the better for it, and I am quite sure that hill air is good for her."

"Oh! then, you mean to have your very select picnic on the hills?" said the laird.

"Yes, but no one shall know to what part we are going, for, as I have said, we mean to have a day of it all to ourselves; only we will take Junkie to protect us, and carry our provisions."

There were two of the gentlemen who declined the shooting expedition. John Barret said he would start with them, but would at a certain point drop behind and botanise. MacRummle also preferred to make one more effort to catch that grilse which had risen so often to him of late, but was still at large in the big pool under the fall. The result of the morning's discussion was that only Mabberly and Jackman proceeded to assault the hares on the mountain-top, accompanied by Archie and Eddie, with Ivor Donaldson to guide them.

Up in the nursery -- that devastated region which suggested the idea of an hospital for broken furniture and toys -- poor little neglected Flo sat down on the floor, and, propping her favourite doll up against the remnant of a drum, asked that sable friend what she would like to do. Receiving no answer, she said, in a cheery, confidential tone, which she had acquired from her mother, "I'll tell you what, Miss Blackie, you an' I will go for a picnic too. Zere's plenty places for you an' me, as well as for Cuzn Miwy to go to, an' we will let muzzer go wid us -- if she's dood. So go, like a dood chile', an' get your things on."

As the day was particularly bright and warm, this minor picnic was splendidly carried into effect, in a little coppice close to the house. There Mrs Gordon knitted and sometimes read, and behaved altogether like a particularly "dood chile," while Flo and Blackie carried on high jinks around her.

The Eagle Cliff was the spot which Milly Moss had fixed on for her select little picnic with the niece of the fisherman. Strange to say, and without the slightest knowledge or suspicion of this fact (so he said), John Barret had selected the very same spot for his botanical ramble. It must be remembered, however, that it was a wide spot.

Seated in a secluded nook, not long after noon, Milly and Aggy, with Junkie, enjoyed the good things which were spread on a mass of flat rock in front of them.

"Now I call this jolly!" said Junkie, as well as he could, with a mass of jam-tart stopping the way.

"It is indeed," returned Milly; "but I don't feel quite sure whether you refer to the splendour of the scenery or the goodness of the tart."

"To both," returned the boy, inarticulately.

"Do you think you could eat any more?" asked Milly with a grave, earnest look that made Aggy giggle -- for Aggy was a facile giggler!

"No, I don't," said Junkie. "I'm stuffed!"

"Well, then, you are at leisure to fill the cup again at the spring; so run, like a good boy, and do it."

"How hard you are on a fellow, Cousin Milly," grumbled the youngster, rising to do as he was bid; but the expression of his jammy face showed that he was no unwilling slave.

"How old are you, Aggy?" asked Milly when he was gone.

"Sixteen last birthday," returned the girl.

"Ah! how I wish I was sixteen again!" said Milly, with a profound sigh, as she gazed over the rim of a tartlet she happened to be eating, at the glittering sea and the far-off horizon. She was evidently recalling some very sad and ancient memories.

"Why?" asked her companion, who exhibited a very slight tendency to laugh.

"Because I was so light-hearted and happy at that age."

"How old are you now, Miss Milly?" asked Aggy, in a tone of increased respect.

"Nineteen," replied the other with a sigh.

Again Aggy's pretty round face was rippled by a suppressed giggle, and it is highly probable that she would have given way altogether if Junkie had not returned at the moment and rescued her.

"Here's the water, Milly. Now, Aggy, have you had enough?"

"Yes, quite enough," laughed the highly convalescent invalid.

"Well, then, come along wi' me and I'll show you the place where Cousin Milly fell down. You needn't come, Milly. I want to show it to Aggy all by herself, an' we won't be long away."

"Very well, Junkie, as you please. I daresay I shall manage to pass the time pleasantly enough till you return."

She leant back on a thick heather bush as she spoke, and indulged herself in that most enjoyable and restful of occupations, on a bright warm day, namely, looking straight up into the sunny sky and contemplating the soft fleecy clouds that float there, changing their forms slowly but continually.

Now it so happened that John Barret, in his botanical wanderings about the Eagle Cliff, in quest of the "rare specimens" that Milly loved, discovered Milly herself! This was not such a matter-of-course discovery as the reader may suppose, for the Eagle Cliff occupied a vast space of the mountain-side, among the rugged ramparts and knolls of which several persons might have wandered for hours without much chance of observing each other, unless they were to shout or discharge the echo-disturbing gun.

Whether it was the mysterious attraction or the occult discernment of love that drew him, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Barret, standing on the upper edge of the cliff, glanced from the eagle -- which was watching him suspiciously -- downward to the base of the cliff, where the sheep appeared like little buff spots on the green grass, his startled eyes alighted on Milly, lying on her back, contemplating the heavens!

At that distance she might have been a mole or a rabbit, as far as regards Barret's power to discern her face or figure or occupation went; nevertheless, Barret knew at once that it was she, as his look and colour instantly indicated. There is something in such matters which we cannot understand, and, perhaps, had better not attempt to comprehend. It is sufficient to say that the young man instantly forgot his occupation, and began to descend the cliff by break-neck routes in a way that must have surprised -- if not alarmed -- the very eagle himself. He even trod some exceedingly rare "specimens" under foot in his haste. In a few minutes he drew near to the spot where Milly lay.

Then he suddenly stopped, for he remembered that she had that morning spoken of her picnic as a very private one; and was it not taking a base, unwarrantable advantage of her, thus to intrude on her privacy? But then -- ah! how fatally, if not fortunately, that "but then" often comes in to seal our fate -- "fix our flints," as backwoodsmen are fond of putting it! -- but then, was not the opportunity unsought -- quite accidental? Would it not be utterly absurd, as well as disingenuous, to pass her and pretend not to see her, with his botanical box full of her own favourite plants and flowers?

Love is proverbially blind. The argument was more than sufficient. He shut his eyes, metaphorically, and rushed upon his fate.

Milly heard him rushing -- in reality, walking -- and knew his step! Another instance of the amazing -- well -- She started up in some confusion, just in time to appear as if engaged in viewing with interest the majestic landscape spread out before her. Swooping downwards, and hovering overhead on grand expanded pinions, the eagle seemed to watch with keen interest the result of this meeting.

"Pardon this intrusion, Miss Moss. I really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago," said Barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. "I accidentally observed you, and I have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that I thought I might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. See, here!" he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; "just look at all this!"

"It is very kind of you to take so much trouble on my account, Mr Barret," said Milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. "And, oh, what a splendid specimen of the heliographipod. My dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as I am."

"Indeed! Do you expect her soon?"

"Yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now."

Milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on Barret's face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research.

Now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. But there is no reason against -- indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of -- our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us.

Far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the Eagle Cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. Even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. It might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was Allan Gordon, the laird of Kinlossie!

Serenity was stamped on the old man's brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with Mabberly and Jackman. The latter he had begun facetiously to style the "Woods and Forester." The shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward.

From his commanding point of observation the entire range of the Eagle Cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. The great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallen debris of ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. For some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. Presently a smile beamed on his countenance.

"Ha! my puss, is that you?" he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. "I guessed as much. The Eagle Cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the 'rare plants' you are so mad about. I think it is you, though at such a distance I might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you --  and, after all, that would be no mistake, for you are a dear!"

He did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes.

"Yes, I'm right -- and very comfortable you seem too, though I can't make out your party. Both Aggy and Junkie seem to have left you. Perhaps the rocks may hide them. It's so far off that -- hallo!"

A sudden frown clouded the laird's face as he gave vent to that hallo.

"The rascal!" he muttered between his compressed lips. "He heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that Milly wanted no intruders. Humph! I had given him credit for better taste than this implies. Eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!"

The laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. Applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker.

"For shame, you young scamp!" he continued to mutter, "taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that Milly would never have permitted but for that ridiculous science. Ha! they've let the whole concern fall -- serves 'em right -- and -- no! dropped it on purpose. What! Do you dare to grip my niece's hand, and -- and -- she lets you! Eh! your arm round -- Stop!" shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. But his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. Like his anger, it was unavailing. Thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. Happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before Junkie and the highly convalescent Aggy Anderson re-appeared upon the scene.

That afternoon, before dinner, John Barret asked Mr Gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library.

"Certainly, sir," said the laird sternly; "and all the more that I had very much desired some private conversation with you."

Barret was not a little surprised at the old man's tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for Milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted -- on condition that her mother did not object.

"And now, Mr Gordon," added the youth, earnestly, "I have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. It had been my full intention, I do assure you, to wait until I had Mrs Moss' sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a -- a -- sudden opportunity, which I had not sought for or expected -- for, of course, I knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be -- this -- this -- opportunity, I say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard -- and -- and -- in short, love -- Oh! you know well enough the power of love, Mr Gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!"

The old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young Allan Gordon had himself acted precipitately.

But, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth's confession.

"Observe, Mr Gordon," continued Barret, drawing himself up slightly, "the only wrong-doing for which I ask pardon is undue haste. My position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling Milly has a right to accept whom she will. If it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, I am willing to wait. If she were to change her mind in the meantime, I would accept the inevitable --  but I have no fear of that!"

The laird's features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether.

"Well, well, Barret," he said, "since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, I hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. But, my young friend," he added, in more serious tones, "I must strictly forbid any further reference to this with Milly, till her mother comes. She is under my care and, being responsible for her, I must see that nothing further takes place till I am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. I will explain this to Milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. Meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour -- naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child's life. Ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and I'm glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. Come along."



Chapter Thirteen.

A Chapter Of Catastrophes.

It was the very next day after the conversation in the library that the waggonette was sent over to Cove to meet the steamer and fetch Mrs Moss, who was expected to arrive. As Ian Anderson and Donald with the ragged head had to return home that day, they were offered a lift by their friend Roderick.

"I wad raither waalk, Rodereek," said Ian; "but I dar' say I may as weel tak a lift as far as the Cluff; chump up, Tonal'."

Donald was not slow to obey. Although active and vigorous as a mountain goat, he had no objection to repose under agreeable conditions.

"What think ye o' the keeper this time, Rodereek?" asked the boatman as they drove away.

"Oo, it wull be the same as last time," answered the groom. "He'll haud on for a while, an' then he wull co pack like the soo to her wallowin' i' the mire."

"I doubt ye're richt," returned Ian, with a solemn shake of the head. "He's an unstiddy character, an' he hes naither the fear o' Cod nor man pefore his eyes. But he's a plees'nt man when he likes."

"Oo, ay, but there iss not in him the wull to give up the trink. He hes given it up more than wance before, an' failed. He will co from pad to worse in my opinion. There iss no hope for him, I fear."

"Fery likely," and on the strength of that opinion Ian drew a flask from his pocket, and the two cronies had what the groom called a "tram" together.

Farther up the steep road they overtook John Barret and Giles Jackman, who saluted them with pleasant platitudes about the weather as they passed. Curiously enough, these two chanced to be conversing on the very subject that had engaged the thoughts of Ian and the groom.

"They say this is not the first time that poor Ivor has dashed his bottle to pieces," said Barret. "I fear it has become a disease in this case, and that he has lost the power of self-control. From all I hear I have little hope of him. It is all the more sad that he seems to have gained the affections of that poor little girl, Aggy Anderson."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Giles, laughing; "a fellow-feeling makes you wondrous sharp, I suppose, for I had not observed that interesting fact. But why do you speak in such pitiful tones of Aggy?"

"Because she is an invalid, and her lover is a drunkard. Sufficient reasons, I should think."

"No, not quite, because she has almost recovered her usual health while here, and poor Ivor is, after all, only one of the sinners for whom Jesus Christ died. I have great hopes of him."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, Jackman, though I don't see that the fact of our Saviour's dying for us all proves his case to be hopeful. Are there not hundreds of men of whom the same may be said, yet they are not delivered from drunkenness, and don't seem likely to be?"

"That is unquestionably true," rejoined his friend; "but such men as you refer to have not been brought to the condition of renouncing self, and trusting only in our Saviour. They want to have some credit in the matter of their own salvation -- hence they fail. Ivor, I have good reason to believe, has been brought to that condition -- a condition which insures success -- hence my great hopes of him. I became aware of his state of mind, partly from having had a long talk with him the other day, and partly from the report of his good old mother. She told me yesterday that Ivor had come to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, 'Mither, I've lost all hope o' mysel' noo,' to which the old woman answered, 'That's the best news I've heard for mony a day, my son, for noo the Lord wull let ye see what He can do for ye.' Ivor's reply to that was, 'I believe ye're richt, mither.' Now I think that was a great deal to come from two such undemonstrative Celts."

At this point in the conversation they reached a part of the road where a footpath diverged down to the river, the road itself rising abruptly towards the Eagle Cliff.

"We separate here," said Jackman. "I need scarcely ask where you are going, or what going to do! Botany, coupled with inaccessible cliffs, seems to be your mania just now. Oh! John Barret, my friend, may I not with truth, in your case, paraphrase a well-known couplet, -- 

"Milly in the heart breeds Milly in the brain, And this reciprocally that again?"

"Your paraphrases are about equal to your compositions, Jackman, and, in saying that, I don't compliment you. Pray, may I ask why you have forsaken your favourite weapon, the gun, and taken to the rod to-day?"

"Because of amiability -- pure and simple. You know I don't care a rush for fishing, but, to my surprise, this morning MacRummle expressed a wish to try my repeating rifle at the rabbits, and offered to let me try his rod, and -- I might almost add -- his river. Wasn't it generous of him? So I'm off to have a try for 'that salmon,' and he is off no one knows where, to send the terrified rabbits into their holes. Good-bye, old fellow -- a pleasant day to you."

Left alone, Barret began to devote himself to the cliffs. It was arduous work, for the said cliffs were almost perpendicular, and plants grew in such high-up crevices, and on such un-get-at-able places, that it seemed as if "rare specimens" knew their own value, as well as the great demand for them, and selected their habitations accordingly.

It was pleasant work, and our hero revelled in it! To be in such exceptional circumstances, with the grand cliffs above and below him, with no one near, save the lordly eagle himself, to watch his doings, with the wild sweeps of mountain-land everywhere, clothed with bracken, heather, and birch, and backed by the island-studded sea; with the fresh air and the bright sun, and brawling burns, and bleating sheep, and the objects of his favourite science around him, and the strong muscular frame and buoyant spirits that God had given to enable him to enjoy it all, was indeed enough to arouse a feeling of gratitude and enthusiasm; but when, in addition to this, the young man knew that he was not merely botanising on his own account, but working at it for Milly, he felt as though he had all but attained to the topmost pinnacle of felicity!

It is sad to think that in human affairs this condition is not unfrequently the precursor of misfortune. It is not necessarily so. Happily, it is not always so. Indeed, we would fain hope that it is not often so, but it was so on this occasion.

Barret had about half filled his botanical box with what he believed to be an interesting collection of plants that would cause the eyes of Milly Moss to sparkle, when the position of the sun and internal sensations induced him to think of his midday meal. It was tied up in a little square paper package. There was a spring at the bottom of the cliffs. It was near the stone where he had met Milly, and had given way to precipitancy. Not far from the spot also where he had made Milly up into a bundle, with a plaid, and started with her towards Kinlossie. No place could be better than that for his solitary luncheon. He would go there.

Descending the cliffs, he gained the road, and was walking along towards the selected spot, when the sound of wheels arrested him. Looking up, he saw the waggonette turn sharp round the projecting cliff, and approach him at a walk. He experienced a little depression of spirit, for there was no one in it, only the groom on the box. Milly would be sorely disappointed!

"Mrs Moss has not come, I see," he said, as the groom reined up.

"Oo, ay, sir, she's come. But she iss a queer leddy. She's been chumpin' in an' oot o' the waginette a' the way up, like a whutret, to admire the scenery, as she says. When we cam' to the heed o' the pass she chumped oot again, an' telt me to drive on slow, an wait at the futt o' the first hull for her. She's no far ahint."

"I'll go and meet her. You can drive on, slowly."

Barret hurried forward with feelings of considerable uncertainty as to whether this chance of meeting his mother-in-law to be (he hoped!) alone, and in these peculiar circumstances, would be an advantage or otherwise. She might be annoyed by a sudden interruption in "admiring the scenery." There would be the awkwardness of having to introduce himself, and she might be fatigued after all her "chumpin'" in and out of the waggonette.

He was still pondering these points while he walked smartly forward, turned the projecting cliff above referred to, and all but overturned the identical little old lady whom he had run down on his bicycle, weeks before, in London!

To say that these two drew back and gazed at each other intently -- the lady quivering and pale, the youth aghast and red -- is to give but a feeble account of the situation.

"Young man," she said, indignantly, in a low, repressed voice, "you have a peculiar talent for assaulting ladies."

"Madam," explained the youth, growing desperate, "you are right. I certainly have a talent -- at least a misfortune -- of that sort -- "

He stopped short, for, being quite overwhelmed, he knew not what to say.

"It is sad," continued the little old lady in a tone of contempt, "that a youth like you should so much belie your looks. It was so mean of you to run away without a word of apology, just like a bad little boy, for fear of being scolded -- not that I cared much for being run down with that horrid bicycle, for I was not hurt -- though I might have been killed -- but it was the cowardly way in which you left me lying helpless among bakers, and sweeps, and policemen, and dirty boys. Oh! it was disgraceful."

Poor Barret became more and more overwhelmed as she went on.

"Spare me, madam," he cried, in desperation. "Oh; if you only knew what I have suffered on your account since that unlucky day! Believe me, it was not cowardice -- well, I cannot say that exactly -- but it was not the fear of your just reproaches that made me fly. It was the approach of the police, and the fear of being taken up, and a public trial, and the disgrace of -- of -- and -- then I felt ashamed before I had fled more than a few hundred yards, and I returned to the spot, but you were gone, and I had no means of -- of -- "

"That will do, young man. There is no need to keep me standing in this wild place. You are living somewhere in this neighbourhood, I suppose?"

"Yes. I am living in the neighbourhood," said Barret bitterly.

"Well, I am going to stay at Kinlossie House. You know Kinlossie House, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, I know it."

"There is no occasion to look so fierce or bitter, young sir. I am going to be at Kinlossie for some time. If you choose to call there, I shall be ready to listen to your explanations and apologies, for I have no desire to appear either harsh or unforgiving. Meanwhile, I wish you good morning."

Saying which, and with a sweeping bow of a rather antiquated style, the offended lady passed on.

For a considerable time Barret stood motionless, with folded arms, "admiring the scenery" with a stony stare. A stone about the size of his fist lay at his foot. He suddenly kicked that violently into space. Had it been the size of his head, he would probably not have kicked it! Then he gave vent to a wild laugh, became suddenly grave, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked up the road with clenched teeth and a deadly stride.

Mrs Moss heard the laugh as it echoed among the great cliffs.

"What a dreadful young man!" she muttered, hurrying forward.

She thought of asking her driver who he was, but she had found Roderick to be a very taciturn Highlander. He had not shown much disposition to converse on the way up, and his speech had not been very intelligible to her English -- or Anglicised -- ears. She re-entered the waggonette, therefore, in silence. Roderick drove on also in silence, although much surprised that the "young shentleman" had not returned with the "leddy." But that was none of his business "what-e-ver."

As the little old lady brooded over the matter, she resolved to say nothing of the meeting to Milly. She happened to possess a spice of humour, and thought it might be well to wait until the youth should call, and then, after forgiveness sought and obtained, introduce him at Kinlossie as the young man who ran her down in London!

Meanwhile Barret walked himself into a better state of mind, clambered to a nook on the face of one of the cliffs, and sat down to meditate and consider what was best to be done.

Although he had not gone out that day to shoot, but to botanise, he carried a light double-barrelled shot gun, in case he might get a chance at a hare, which was always acceptable to the lady of Kinlossie.

While the incidents just described were being enacted at the base of the Eagle Cliff higher up, on a distant part of the same cliff, MacRummle might have been seen prowling among the grey rocks, with the spirit of Nimrod, and the aspect of Bacchus.

It was the habit of MacRummle, being half blind, to supplement his vision with that peculiar kind of glasses which support -- or refuse to support -- themselves on the human countenance by means of the nose. These, although admirably adapted for reading, and even for quietly fishing by the river-side, he found to be miserably unsuited for sporting among the cliffs, for they were continually tumbling off as he stumbled along, or were twitched off by his rifle when he was in the act of making false points.

Perseverance was, however, the strong point in the old man's character --  if it had a strong point at all. He replaced the glasses perpetually, and kept pointing persistently. He did little more than point, because the thing that he pointed at, whatever it was, usually got out of the way before MacRummle obtained a reliable aim. With a shot gun he might have done better, for that weapon admits of snap-shooting, with some chance of success, even in feeble hands. But the old man was ambitious. His object was to "pot" something, as he expressed it, with a single ball. Of course it was not all pointing. He did fire occasionally, with no other result than awaking the echoes and terrifying the rabbits. But the memory of his former success with the same weapon was strong upon him, and perseverance, as we have said, was rampant. On the whole, the fusillade that he kept up was considerable, much to the amusement of Barret (before meeting Mrs Moss!), who rightly guessed the cause of all the noise.

About midday, like Barret, he prepared to comfort himself with lunch, and, unlike our unfortunate hero, he enjoyed it in comfort, sitting on a green patch or terrace, high up near the summit of the cliffs, and a full mile distant from the spot where the peculiar meeting took place.

Like a giant refreshed MacRummle rose from lunch, a good deal more like Bacchus, and much less like Nimrod. A rabbit had been watching him from the cliff above nearly all the time he was eating. It moved quietly into its burrow when he rose, though there was no occasion to do so, because, although within easy rifle shot, MacRummle did not see it. When the sportsman was past, the rabbit came out and looked after him.

Fixing his glasses firmly he advanced in that stooping posture, with the rifle at the "ready," which is so characteristic of keen sportsmen! Next moment a rabbit stood before him -- an easy shot. It sat up on its hind legs even, as if inviting its fate, and gazed as though uncertain whether the man was going to advance or not. He did not advance, but took a steady, deadly aim, and was on the point of pulling the trigger when the glasses dropped off.

MacRummle was wonderfully patient. He said nothing. He merely replaced his glasses and looked. The rabbit was gone. Several surrounding rabbits saw it go, but did not follow its example. They evidently felt themselves safe.

Proceeding cautiously onward, the sportsman again caught sight of one of the multitude that surrounded him. It was seated on the edge of its burrow, ready for retreat. Alas! for that rabbit, if MacRummle had been an average shot, armed with a shot gun. But it was ignorant, and with the characteristic presumption of ignorance, it sat still. The sportsman took a careful and long -- very long -- aim, and fired! The rabbit's nose pointed to the world's centre, its tail to the sky, and when the smoke cleared away, it also was gone.

"Fallen into its hole! Dead, I suppose," was the remark with which the sportsman sought to comfort himself. A bullet-mark on a rock, however, two feet to the left of the hole, and about a foot too high, shook his faith a little in this view.

It was impossible, however, that a man should expend so much ammunition in a region swarming with his particular prey without experiencing something in the shape of a fluke. He did, after a time, get one shot which was effectual. A young rabbit sat on the top of a mound looking at him with an air of impudence which is sometimes associated with extreme youth. A fat old kinsman -- or woman -- was seated in a hollow some distance farther on. MacRummle fired at the young one, missed it, and shot the kinsman through the heart. The disappointment of the old man when he failed to find the young one, and his joy on discovering the kinsman, we leave to the reader's imagination.

Thus he went on, occasionally securing something for the pot, continually alarming the whole rabbit fraternity, and disgusting the eagle, which watched him from a safe distance in the ambient atmosphere above.

By degrees he worked his way along till he came to the neighbourhood of the place where poor John Barret sat in meditative dejection. Although near, however, the two friends could neither see nor get at each other, being separated by an impassable gulf -- the one being in a crevice, as we have said, not far from the foot of the cliff, the other hidden among the crags near the summit. Thus it came to pass that although Barret knew of MacRummle's position by his noise, the latter was quite ignorant of the presence of the former.

"This is horrible!" muttered the youth in his crevice below.

"Now I call this charming!" exclaimed the old man on his perch above.

Such is life -- viewed from different standpoints! Ay, and correctly estimated, too, according to these different standpoints; for the old man saw only the sunny surrounding of the Present, while the young one gazed into the gloomy wreck of the Future.

Being somewhat fatigued, MacRummle betook himself to a sequestered ledge among the cliffs, and sat down under a shrub to rest. It chanced to be a well concealed spot. He remained quietly there for a considerable time, discussing with himself the relative advantages of fishing and shooting. It is probable that his sudden disappearance and his prolonged absence induced the eagle to imagine that he had gone away, for that watchful bird, after several circlings on outstretched and apparently motionless wings, made a magnificent swoop downwards, and again resumed its floating action in the lower strata of its atmospheric world. There it devoted its exclusive attention to the young man, whose position was clearly exposed to its view.

As he sat there in gloomy thought, Barret chanced to raise his eyes, and observed the bird high above him -- far out of gunshot.

"Fortunate creature!" he said aloud; "whatever may be the troubles of your lot, you are at least safe from exasperating rencontres with your future mother-in-law!"

We need not point out to the intelligent reader that Barret, being quite ignorant of the eagle's domestic relations, indulged in mere assumptions in the bitterness of his soul.

He raised his fowling-piece as he spoke, and took a long, deliberate aim at the bird.

"Far beyond range," he said, lowering the gun again; "but even if you were only four yards from the muzzle, I would not fire, poor bird! Did not Milly say you were noble, and that it would be worse than murder to kill you? No, you are safe from me, at all events, even if you were not so wary as to keep yourself safe from everybody. And yet, methinks, if MacRummle were still up there, he would have the chance of giving you a severe fright, though he has not the skill to bring you down."

Now it is well-known to trappers and backwoodsmen generally that the most wary of foxes, which cannot by any means be caught by one trap, may sometimes be circumvented by two traps. It is the same with decoys, whether these be placed intentionally, or place themselves accidentally. On this occasion Barret acted the part of a decoy, all unwittingly to that eagle or to MacRummle.

In its extreme interest in the youth's proceedings the great bird soared straight over his head, and slowly approached the old man's position. MacRummle was not on the alert. He never was on the alert! but his eyes chanced to be gazing in the right direction, and his glasses happened to be on. He saw it coming -- something big and black! He grasped his repeater and knocked his glasses off.

"A raven, I think! I'll try it. I should like it as a trophy -- a sort of memorial of -- "

Bang!

The man who was half blind, who had scarcely used gun or rifle all his life, achieved that which dead shots and ardent sportsmen had tried in vain for years -- he shot the eagle right through the heart, and that, too, with a single bullet!

Straight down it fell with a tremendous flutter, and disappeared over the edge of its native cliff.

MacRummle went on his knees, and, craning his neck, replaced his glasses; but nothing whatever could be seen, save the misty void below. Shrinking back from the giddy position, he rose and pulled out his watch.

"Let me see," he muttered, "it will take me a full hour to go round so as to reach the bottom. No; too late. I'll go home, and send the keeper for it in the morning. The eagle may have picked its bones by that time, to be sure; but after all, a raven is not much of a trophy."

While he was thus debating, a very different scene was taking place below.

Barret had been gazing up at the eagle when the shot was fired. He saw the spout of smoke. He heard the crashing shot and echoes, and beheld the eagle descending like a thunder-bolt. After that he saw and heard no more, for, in reaching forward to see round a projecting rock that interfered with his vision, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong from the cliff. He had not far to fall, indeed, and a whin bush broke the force of the shock when he did strike; but he was rendered insensible, and rolled down the remainder of the slope to the bottom. There he lay bruised, bleeding, and motionless on the grass, close to the road, with his bent and broken gun beneath him, and the dead eagle not more than a dozen yards from his side!

"It is not like Barret to be late," observed the laird that evening, as he consulted his watch. "He is punctuality itself, as a rule. He must have fallen in with some unusually interesting plants. But we can't wait. Order dinner, my dear, for I'm sure that my sister must be very hungry after her voyage."

"Indeed I am," returned the little old lady, with a peculiar smile. "Sea-sickness is the best tonic I know of, but it is an awful medicine to take."

"Almost as good as mountain air," remarked MacRummle, as they filed out of the drawing-room. "I do wish I had managed to bring that raven home."

At first the party at dinner was as merry as usual. The sportsmen were graphic in recounting the various incidents of the day; Mrs Moss was equally graphic on the horrors of the sea; MacRummle was eulogistic of repeating rifles, and inclined to be boastful about the raven, which he hoped to show them on the morrow, while Milly proved herself, as usual, a beautiful and interested listener, as well as a most hearty laugher.

But as the feast went on they became less noisy. Then a feeling of uneasiness manifested itself, but no one ventured to suggest that anything might have occurred to the absentee until the evening had deepened into night. Then the laird started up suddenly. "Something must have happened to our friend," he exclaimed, at the same time ringing the bell violently. "He has never been late before, and however far he may have gone a-field, there has been more than time for him to return at his slowest pace. Duncan," (as the butler entered), "turn out all the men and boys as fast as you can. Tell Roderick to get lanterns ready -- as many as you have. Gentlemen, we must all go on this search without another moment's delay!"

There is little need to say that Barret's friends and comrades were not slow to respond to the call. In less than a quarter of an hour they were dispersed, searching every part of the Eagle Cliff, where he had been last seen by Giles Jackman.

They found him at last, pale and blood-stained, making ineffectual efforts to crawl from the spot where he had fallen, both the eagle and the broken gun being found beside him.

"No bones broken, thank God!" said Giles, after having examined him and bound up his wounds. "But he is too weak to be questioned. Now, lads, fetch the two poles and the plaid. I'll soon contrive a litter."

"All right, old fellow! God bless you!" said Barret, faintly, as his friend bent over him.

Roderick and Ivor raised him softly, and, with the eagle at his side, bore him towards Kinlossie House. Soon after, their heavy tramp was heard in the hall as they carried him to his room, and laid him gently in bed.



Chapter Fourteen.

Suspicions, Revelations, And Other Matters.

With a swelled and scratched face, a discoloured eye, a damaged nose, and a head swathed in bandages -- it is no wonder that Mrs Moss failed to recognise in John Barret the violent young man with the talent for assaulting ladies!

She was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident, for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a matter of precaution. When she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had tumbled her over in the streets of London, and almost run her down in the Eagle Pass.

Of course Barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing at all about the matter in the meantime. Indeed, the grateful old lady gave him no time to make a "clean breast of it," as he had at first intended to do.

"Oh! Mr Barret," she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair and looked on benignly, "I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not been killed, and how very grateful I am to you for all your bravery in saving my darling Milly's life. Now, don't say a word about disclaiming credit, as I know you are going to do -- "

"But, dear madam," interrupted the invalid, "allow me to explain. I cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours -- "

"Sail under false colours! Explain!" repeated Mrs Moss, quickly. "What nonsense do you talk? Has not my daughter explained, and she is not given to colouring things falsely."

"Excuse me, Mrs Moss," said Barret; "I did not mean that. I only -- "

"I don't care what you mean, Mr Barret," said the positive little woman; "it's of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble, courageous manner, and I won't listen to anything to the contrary; so you need not interrupt me. Besides, I have been told not to allow you to speak much; so, sir, if I am to remain beside you at all, I must impose silence."

Barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his fate.

So much for the mother. Later in the same day the daughter sat beside his couch. The laird was not present on that occasion. They were alone.

"Milly," said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, "have you mentioned it yet to your mother?"

"Yes, John," replied Milly, blushing in spite of -- nay, rather more in consequence of -- her efforts not to do so. "I spoke to her some days ago. Indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going to get well. And she did not disapprove."

"Ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me -- since this morning?"

"Yes, John."

"And she is still of the same mind -- not shocked or shaken by my appearance?"

"She is still of the same mind," returned Milly; "and not shocked in the least. My darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles -- I -- I mean by scratches and bruises. She judges of people by their hearts."

"I'm glad to hear that, Milly, for I have something shocking to tell her about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else."

"Indeed!" said Milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty eyebrows.

"Yes. You have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran into her with his bicycle in London some time ago?"

"Yes; she wrote to me about it," replied Milly, with an amused smile. "You mean, I suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down, had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement? Mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and rightly, I think. But how came you to know about it, John?"

"Milly," said Barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking solemnly, "I am that cowardly man!"

"Now, John, you are jesting."

"Indeed -- indeed I am not."

"Do you really mean to say that it was you who ran against my -- Oh! you must be jesting!"

"Again I say I am not. I am the man -- the coward."

"Well, dear John," said Milly, flushing considerably, "I must believe you; but the fact does not in the least reduce my affection for you, though it will lower my belief in your prudence, unless you can explain."

"I will explain," said Barret; and we need scarcely add that the explanation tended rather to increase than diminish Milly's affection for, as well as her belief in, her lover! But when Barret went on further to describe the meeting in the Eagle Pass, she went off into uncontrollable laughter.

"And you are sure that mother has no idea that you are the man?" she asked.

"Not the remotest."

"Well, now, John, you must not let her know for some time yet. You must gain her affections, sir, before you venture to reveal your true character."

Of course Barret agreed to this. He would have agreed to anything that Milly proposed, except, perhaps, the giving up of his claim to her own hand. Deception, however, invariably surrounds the deceiver with more or less of difficulty. That same evening, while Milly was sitting alone with her mother, the conversation took a perplexing turn.

There had been a pretty long pause, after a rather favourable commentary on the character of Barret, when the thin little old lady had wound up with the observation that the subject of their criticism was a remarkably agreeable man, with a playfully humorous and a delightfully serious turn of mind -- "and so modest" withal!

Apparently the last words had turned her mind into the new channel, for she resumed -- 

"Talking of insolence, my dear -- "

"Were we talking of insolence, mother?" said Milly, with a surprised smile.

"Well, my love, I was thinking of the opposite of modesty, which is the same thing. Do you know, I had a meeting on the day of my arrival here which surprised me very much? To say truth, I did not mention it sooner, because I wished to give you a little surprise. Why do you change your seat, my love? Did you feel a draught where you were?"

"No -- no. I -- I only want to get the light a little more at my back -- to keep it off my face. But go on, mother. What was the surprise about? I'm anxious to know."

If Milly did not absolutely know, she had at least a pretty good idea of what was coming!

"Well, of course you remember about that young man -- that -- that cowardly young man who -- "

"Who ran you down in London? Yes, yes, I know," interrupted the daughter, endeavouring to suppress a laugh, and putting her handkerchief suddenly to her face. "I remember well. The monster! What about him?"

"You may well call him a monster! Can you believe it? I have met him here -- in this very island, where he must be living somewhere, of course; and he actually ran me down again -- all but." She added the last two words in order to save her veracity.

"You don't really mean it?" exclaimed Milly, giving way a little in spite of herself. "With a bicycle?"

It was the mother's turn to laugh now.

"No, you foolish thing; even I have capacity to understand that it would be impossible to use those hideous -- frightful instruments, on the bad hill-roads of this island. No; but it seems to be the nature of this dis-disagreeable -- I had almost said detestable -- youth, to move only under violent impulse, for he came round a corner of the Eagle Cliff at such a pace that, as I have said, he all but ran into my arms and knocked me down."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Milly, turning her back still more to the light and working mysteriously with her kerchief.

"Yes, dreadful indeed! And when I naturally taxed him with his cowardice and meanness, he did not seem at all penitent, but went on like a lunatic; and although what he said was civil enough, his way of saying it was very impolite and strange; and after we had parted, I heard him give way to fiendish laughter. I could not be mistaken, for the cliffs echoed it in all directions like a hundred hyenas!"

As this savoured somewhat of a joke, Milly availed herself of it, set free the safety-valve, and, so to speak, saved the boiler!

"Why do you laugh so much, child?" asked the old lady, when her daughter had transgressed reasonable limits.

"Well, you know, mother, if you will compare a man's laugh to a hundred hyenas -- "

"I didn't compare the man's voice," interrupted Mrs Moss; "I said that the cliffs -- "

"That's worse and worse! Now, mother, don't get into one of your hypercritical moods, and insist on reasons for everything; but tell me about this wicked -- this dreadful young man. What was he like?"

"Like an ordinary sportsman, dear, with one of those hateful guns in his hand, and a botanical box on his back. I could not see his face very well, for he wore one of those ugly pot-caps, with a peak before and behind; though what the behind one is for I cannot imagine, as men have no eyes in the back of their heads to keep the sun out of. No doubt some men would make us believe they have! but it was pulled down on the bridge of his nose. What I did see of his face seemed to be handsome enough, and his figure was tall and well made, unquestionably, but his behaviour -- nothing can excuse that! If he had only said he was sorry, one might have forgiven him."

"Did he not say he was sorry?" asked Milly in some surprise.

"Oh, well, I suppose he did; and begged pardon after a fashion. But what truth could there be in his protestations when he went away and laughed like a hyena."

"You said a hundred hyenas, mother."

"No, Milly, I said the cliffs laughed; but don't interrupt me, you naughty child! Well, I was going to tell you that my heart softened a little towards the young man, for, as you know, I am not naturally unforgiving."

"I know it well, dear mother!"

"So, before we parted, I told him that if he had any explanations or apologies to make, I should be glad to see him at Kinlossie House. Then I made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man that ran me down in London! This was the little surprise I had in store for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come."

"No, and he never will come!" said Milly, with a hearty laugh.

"How do you know that, puss?" asked Mrs Moss, in surprise.

Fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying Milly in jumping up. Giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the room.

"Strange girl!" muttered Mrs Moss as she turned, and occupied herself with some mysterious -- we might almost say captious -- operations before the looking-glass. "The mountain air seems to have increased her spirits wonderfully. Perhaps love has something to do with it! It may be both!"

She was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question -- in front of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked with an opponent -- when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the adjoining room. It was Barret's sitting-room, in which his friends were wont to visit him. She could distinguish that the laughter proceeded from himself, Milly, and Giles Jackman, though the walls were too thick to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard.

"Milly," said Mrs Moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in the drawing-room, "what were you two and Mr Jackman laughing at so loudly? Surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?"

"Of course I did, mother. I did not know you intended to keep the matter secret. And it did so tickle them! But no one else knows it, so I will run back to John and pledge him to secrecy. You can caution Mr Jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt."

As Barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. He usually held his levees costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self, as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition on the part of Mrs Moss.

Nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him.

One day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when Mrs Moss remarked on this curious feeling.

"I cannot tell what it is, Mr Barret, that makes the sound of your voice seem familiar to me," she said; "yet not exactly familiar, but a sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a dream; though, after all, I don't think I ever did hear a voice in a dream."

Jackman and Milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the safety-valve to her mouth while Barret replied -- 

"I don't know," he said, with a very grave appearance of profound thought, "that I ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any kind. As to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar, don't you think that has something to do with classes of men? No man, I think, is a solitary unit in creation. Every man is, as it were, the type of a class to which he belongs -- each member possessing more or less the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his particular class. You are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the class to which I belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice before."

"Philosophically put, Barret," said Mabberly; "I had no idea you thought so profoundly."

"H'm! I'm not so sure of the profundity," said the little old lady, pursing her lips; "no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then, young man, I have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore, according to your principle, I should have some strange memories connected with Mr Jackman's voice, and Mr Mabberly's, and the laird's, and everybody's."

"Well said, sister; you have him there!" cried the laird with a guffaw; "but don't lug me into your classes, for I claim to be an exception to all mankind, inasmuch as I have a sister who belongs to no class, and is ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and baby linen. Come now, Barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go out with us in the boat to-morrow?"

"Quite. Indeed, I would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but Doctor Jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me. However, I have my revenge, for I compel him to sit with me a great deal, and entertain me with Indian stories."

"Oh!" exclaimed Junkie, who happened to be in the room, "he hasn't told you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?"

"No, not yet, Junkie," returned Barret; "he has been faithful to his promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are present."

"Well, but tell it now, Mr Jackman, and I'll go an call Eddie and Archie," pleaded the boy.

"You will call in vain, then," said his father, "for they have both gone up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. I never saw such a boy as Archie is to photograph. I believe he has got every scene in the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the cattle of late -- What think ye was the last thing he tried? I found him in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!"

"That must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?" asked MacRummle.

"Well, it was ingenious. He tried to get Pat Quin to manipulate the instrument while he sat; but Quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when Archie cried 'Now,' for him to cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. So what does the boy do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument with a string tied to the little cap. Then he sits down on the chair, puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. Off comes the cap! He counts one, two -- I don't know how many -- and then makes a sudden dash at the camera an' shuts it up! What the result may be remains to be seen."

"Oh, it'll be the same as usual," remarked Junkie in a tone of contempt. "There's always something goes wrong in the middle of it. He tried to take Boxer the other day, and he wagged his tail in the middle of it. Then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. Then Flo, and she laughed in the middle. Then me, an' I forgot, and made a face at Flo in the middle. It's a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be better, I think. But won't you tell about the elephants to us, Mr Jackman? There's plenty of us here -- please!"

"Nay, Junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. When we are all assembled together you shall have it -- some wet day, perhaps."

"Then there'll be no more wet days this year, if I've to wait for that," returned the urchin half sulkily.

That same day, Milly, Barret, and Jackman arranged that the mystery of the cowardly young man must be cleared up.

"Perhaps it would be best for Miss Moss to explain to her mother," said Giles.

"That will not I," said Milly with a laugh.

"I have decided what to do," said Barret. "I was invited by her to call and explain anything I had to say, and apologise. By looks, if not by words, I accepted that invitation, and I shall keep it. If you could only manage somehow, Milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that I might find your mother alone in -- "

"She's alone now," said Milly. "I left her just a minute ago, and she is not likely to be interrupted, I know."

"Stay, then; I will return in a few minutes."

Barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete.

"'Richard's himself again!' Allow me to congratulate you," cried Jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. "But, I say, don't you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?"

Barret looked at Milly.

"I think not," said Milly. "As uncle often says of dear mother, 'she is tough.'"

"Well, I'll go," said Barret.

In a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before Mrs Moss, who was reading a book at the time. She laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up.

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; "there you are at last! And you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. You are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that I ever met with."

"I thought, madam," said Barret in a low voice, "that you would know me better with my cap on -- "

He stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm.

"Forgive me," cried Barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug.

"Quick! hallo! Milly -- Giles! Ass that I am! I've knocked her down again!" he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room.

They had not been far off. In a few more minutes Mrs Moss was reviving on the sofa, and alone with her daughter.

"Milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, I might almost call it a shock," she said, in a faint voice.

"Indeed it has been, darling mother," returned Milly in sympathetic tones, as she smoothed her mother's hair; "and it was all my fault. But are you quite sure you are not hurt?"

"I don't feel hurt, dear," returned the old lady, with a slight dash of her argumentative tone; "and don't you think that if I were hurt I should feel it?"

"Perhaps, mother; but sometimes, you know, people are so much hurt that they can't feel it."

"True, child, but in these circumstances they are usually unable to express their views about feeling altogether, which I am not, you see --  no thanks to that -- th-to John Barret."

"Oh! mother, I cannot bear to think of it -- "

"No wonder," interrupted the old lady. "To think of my being violently knocked down twice -- almost three times -- by a big young man like that, and the first time with a horrid bicycle on the top of us -- I might almost say mixed up with us."

"But, mother, he never meant it, you know -- "

"I should think not!" interjected Mrs Moss with a short sarcastic laugh.

"No, indeed," continued Milly, with some warmth; "and if you only knew what he has suffered on your account -- "

"Milly," cried Mrs Moss quickly, "is all that I have suffered on his account to count for nothing?"

"Of course not, dear mother. I don't mean that; you don't understand me. I mean the reproaches that his own conscience has heaped upon his head for what he has inadvertently done."

"Recklessly, child, not inadvertently. Besides, you know, his conscience is not himself. People cannot avoid what conscience says to them. Its remarks are no sign of humility or self-condemnation, one proof of which is that wicked people would gladly get away from conscience if they could, instead of agreeing with it, as they should, and shaking hands with it, and saying, 'we are all that you call us, and more.'"

"Well, that is exactly what John has done," said Milly, with increasing, warmth. "He has said all that, and more to me -- "

"To you?" interrupted Mrs Moss; "yes, but you are not his conscience, child!"

"Yes, I am, mother; at least, if I'm not, I am next thing to it, for he says everything to me!" returned Milly, with a laugh and a blush. "And you have no idea how sorry, how ashamed, how self-condemned, how overwhelmed he has been by all that has happened."

"Humph! I have been a good deal more overwhelmed than he has been," returned Mrs Moss. "However, make your mind easy, child, for during the last week or two, in learning to love and esteem John Barret, I have unwittingly been preparing the way to forgive and forget the cowardly youth who ran me down in London. Now go and send Mr Jackman to me; I have a great opinion of that young man's knowledge of medicine and surgery, though he is only an amateur. He will soon tell me whether I have received any hurt that has rendered me incapable of feeling. And at the same time you may convey to that coward, John, my entire forgiveness."

Milly kissed her mother, of course, and hastened away to deliver her double message.

After careful examination and much questioning, "Dr" Jackman pronounced the little old lady to be entirely free from injury of any kind, save the smashing of a comb in her back-hair, and gave it as his opinion that she was as sound in wind and limb as before the accident, though there had unquestionably been a considerable shock to the feelings, which, however, seemed to have had the effect of improving rather than deranging her intellectual powers. The jury which afterwards sat upon her returned their verdict in accordance with that opinion.

It was impossible, of course, to prevent some of all this leaking into the kitchen, the nursery, and the stable. In the first-mentioned spot, Quin remarked to the housemaid, -- "Sure, it's a quare evint entirely," with which sentiment the housemaid agreed.

"Aunt Moss is a buster," was Junkie's ambiguous opinion, in which Flo and the black doll coincided.

"Tonal'," said Roderick, as he groomed the bay horse, "the old wumman iss a fery tough person."

To which "Tonal'" assented, "she iss, what-e-ver."



Chapter Fifteen.

Elephants Again -- Followed By Something More Awful.

There came a rainy day at last at Kinlossie House. Such days will come at times in human experience, both in metaphor and fact. At present we state a fact.

"It will bring up the fush," was Roderick's remark, as he paused in the operation of cleaning harness to look through the stable door on the landscape; "an' that wull please Maister MacRummle."

"It will pe good for the gress too, an' that will please Muss Mully," said Donald, now permanently appointed to the stables.

"H'm! she wull pe carin' less for the gress, poy, than she wass used to do," returned the groom. "It iss my opeenion that they wull pe all wantin' to co away sooth pefore long."

We refer to the above opinions because they were shared by the party assembled in Barret's room, which was still retained as a snuggery, although its occupant was fully restored to normal health and vigour.

"You'll be sure to get 'that salmon' next time you try, after all this rain, MacRummle," said Mabberly. "At least, I hope you will before we leave."

"Ay, and you must have another try with the repeater on the Eagle Cliff, Mac. It would never do to leave a lone widdy, as Quin calls it, after murdering the husband."

"Perhaps I may have another day there," answered the old gentleman, with a pleased smile; for although they roasted him a good deal for mistaking an eagle for a raven, and only gave him credit for a "fluke," it was evident that he congratulated himself not a little on his achievement.

"Archie is having an awful time skinning and stuffing it," said Eddie, who sat by the window dressing trout flies.

Junkie, who was occupied at another window, mending the top of his rod, remarked that nothing seemed to give Archie so much pleasure as skinning and stuffing something. "He's always doing it," said the youngster. "Whatever happens to die, from a tom-cat to a tom-tit, he gets hold of. I do believe if he was to die, he would try to skin and stuff himself!"

At that moment Archie entered the room.

"I've got it nearly done now," he said, with a pleased expression, while he rubbed his not-over-clean hands. "I'll set him up to-night and photograph him to-morrow, with Flo under his wings to show his enormous size."

"Oh! that minds me o' the elephants," cried Junkie, jumping up and running to Jackman, who was assisting. Barret to arrange plants for Milly. "We are all here now -- an' you promised, you know."

A heavy patter of rain on the window seemed to emphasise Junkie's request by suggesting that nothing better could be done.

"Well, Junkie, I have no objection," said the Woods-and-Forester, "if the rest of the company do not object."

As the rest of the company did not object, but rather expressed anxiety to hear about the hunt, Jackman drew his chair near to the fire, the boys crowded round him, and he began with, -- "Let me see. Where was I?"

"In India, of course," said Junkie. "Yes; but at what part of the hunt?"

"Oh! you hadn't begun the hunt at all. You had only made Chand somethin' or other, Isri Per-what-d'ee-call-it, an' Raj Mung-thingumy give poor Mowla Buksh such an awful mauling."

"Just so. Well, you must know that next day we received news of large herds of elephants away to the eastward of the Ganges, so we started off with all our forces -- hunters, matchlock-men, onlookers, etcetera, and about eighty tame elephants. Chief among these last were the fighting elephants, to which Junkie gave such appropriate names just now, and king of them all was the mighty Chand Moorut, who had never been known to refuse a fight or lose a victory since he was grown up.

"It was really grand to see this renowned mountain of living flesh towering high above his fellows. Like all heroes, he was calm and dignified when not in action -- a lamb in the drawing-room, a lion in the field. Even the natives, accustomed as they were to these giants, came to look at him admiringly that morning as he walked sedately out of camp. He was so big that he seemed to grow bigger while you looked at him, and he was absolutely perfect in form and strength -- the very Hercules of brutes.

"The trackers had marked down a herd of wild elephants, not three miles distant, in a narrow valley, just suited to our purpose. On reaching the ground we learned that there was, in the jungle, a 'rogue' elephant -- that is, an old male, which had been expelled from the herd. Such outcasts are usually very fierce and dangerous. This one was a tusker, who had been the terror of the neighbourhood, having killed many people, among them a forester, only a few days before our arrival.

"As these 'rogues' are always very difficult to overcome, and are almost sure to injure the khedda, or tame elephants of the hunt, if an attempt is made to capture them, we resolved to avoid him, and devote our attention entirely to the females and young ones. We formed a curious procession as we entered the valley -- rajah and civilians, military men and mahowts, black and white, on pads and in howdahs -- the last being the little towers that you see on elephants' backs in pictures.

"Gun-men had been sent up to the head of the valley to block the way in that direction. The sides were too steep for elephants to climb. Thus we had them, as it were, in a trap, and formed up the khedda in battle array. The catching, or non-combatant elephants, were drawn up in two lines, and the big, fighting elephants were kept in reserve, concealed by bushes. The sides of the valley were crowded with matchlock-men, ready to commence shouting and firing at a given signal, and drive the herd in the direction of the khedda.

"It was a beautiful forenoon when we commenced to move forward. All nature seemed to be waiting in silent expectation of the issue of our hunt, and not a sound was heard, the strictest silence having been enjoined upon all. Rich tropical vegetation hung in graceful lines and festoons from the cliffs on either side, but there was no sign of the gun-men concealed there. The sun was -- "

"Oh! bother the sun! Come on wi' the fight," exclaimed the impatient Junkie.

"All in good time, my boy. The sun was blazing in my eyes, I was going to say, so, you see, I could not make out the distant view, and therefore, can't describe it," ("Glad of it," murmured the impertinent Junkie); "but I knew that the wild elephants were there, somewhere in the dense jungle. Suddenly a shot was heard at the head of the valley. We afterwards learned that it had been fired over the head of a big tusker elephant that stood under a tree not many yards from the man who fired. Being young, like Junkie, and giddy, it dashed away down the valley, trumpeting wildly; and you have no conception how active and agile these creatures can be, if you have seen only the slow, sluggish things that are in our Zoos at home! So terrible was the sound of this elephant's approach, that the ranks of the khedda elephants were thrown into some confusion, and the mahowts had difficulty in preventing them from turning tail and running away. Our leader, therefore, ordered the gladiator, Chand Moorut, to the front. Indeed, Chand ordered himself to the front, for no sooner did he hear the challenge of the tusker, than he dashed forward alone to accept it, and his mahowt found it almost impossible to restrain him. Fortunately the jungle helped the mahowt by hiding the tusker from view.

"When the wild elephant caught sight of the line of the khedda, he went at it with a mighty rush, crashing through bush and brake, and overturning small trees like straws, until he got into the dry bed of a stream. There he stopped short, for the colossal Chand Moorut suddenly appeared and charged him. The wild tusker, however, showed the white feather. He could not, indeed, avoid the shock altogether, but, yielding to it, he managed to keep his legs, turned short round, and fled past his big foe. Chand Moorut had no chance with the agile fellow in a race. He was soon left far behind, while the tusker charged onward. The matchlock-men tried in vain to check him. As he approached the line, the khedda elephants fled in all directions. Thrusting aside some, and overturning others that came in his way, he held on his course, amid the din of shouting and rattling of shots, and finally, got clear away!"

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Junkie.

"But that did not matter much," continued Jackman; "for news was brought in that the herd we had been after were not in that valley at all, but in the next one, and had probably heard nothing of all the row we had been making; so we collected our forces, and went after them.

"Soon we got to the pass leading into the valley, and then, just beyond it, came quite suddenly on a band of somewhere about thirty wild elephants. They were taken quite by surprise, for they were feeding at the time on a level piece of ground of considerable extent. As it was impossible to surround them, away the whole khedda went helter-skelter after them. It was a tremendous sight. The herd had scattered in all directions, so that our khedda was also scattered. Each hunting elephant had two men on its back -- one, the nooseman, sitting on its neck, with a strong, thick rope in his hands, on which was a running noose; the other, the driver, who stood erect on the animal's back, holding on by a loop with one hand, and in the other flourishing an instrument called the mungri, with sharp spikes in it, wherewith to whip the poor animal over the root of his tail; for of course an ordinary whip would have had no more effect than a peacock's feather, on an elephant's hide!

"I ordered my mahowt to keep near one of the noosemen, whom I knew to be expert in the use of the giant-lasso. His name was Ramjee. Both Ramjee and his driver were screaming and yelling at the pitch of their voices, and the latter was applying his mungri with tremendous energy. The elephant they were after was a small female. It is always necessary that the chasing elephant should be much heavier than the one chased, else evil results follow, as we soon found. Presently the khedda elephant was alongside. Ramjee lifted the great loop in both hands, and leaned over till he almost touched the wild animal. Frequently this noosing fails from various reasons. For one thing, the wild creatures are often very clever at evading the noose: sometimes they push it away with their trunks; occasionally they step right through it, and now and then get only half through it, so that it forms a sort of tow rope, and the other end of this rope being made fast to the neck of the tame elephant, the wild one drags it along violently, unless the tame one is much heavier than itself. This is exactly what happened to Ramjee. He dropped the noose beautifully over the creature's head, but before it could be hauled tight -- which was accomplished by checking the tame animal -- the active creature had got its forelegs through. The loop caught, however, on its hind quarters, and away it went, dragging the tame elephant after it, Ramjee shrieking wildly for help. Two of the other tame elephants, not yet engaged, were sent to his assistance. These easily threw two more nooses over the wild creature, and, after a good run, she was finally exhausted, secured with ropes, and driven back to camp, there to be subjected to coercive treatment until she should become tame.

"Meanwhile, other captures were being made in the field. I was just moving off, after seeing this female secured, when a tremendous shouting attracted me. It was a party chasing a fine young tusker. He was very cunning, and ran about, dodging hither and thither, taking advantage of every tree and bush and inequality, while the mahowts failed again and again to noose him. I made my mahowt drive our animal so as to turn him back. We had no appliances to capture, as I was there only to look on and admire. At last a good throw noosed him, but he slipped through, all except one hind leg. On this the noose luckily held, and in a few minutes we had him secure. Of course, in driving our prisoners to camp, the tame elephants were used to guide them, stir them up, push them on, and restrain or punish them, as the case might require. This was easy with the smaller females and young ones, but it was a very different matter with big males, especially with rogues, as we found out before the close of that day.

"We were getting pretty well used up towards the afternoon, and had sent ten full-grown elephants and three calves into camp, when we received news that the rogue, which had been so long a terror to the district, was in the neighbouring valley. So we resolved to go for him. Of course there was no possibility of noosing such a monster. The ordinary elephants could never have been brought to face him. Our only hope therefore lay in our gladiators; and our plan was to make them knock him down repeatedly, until, at length, he should be tired out.

"I need not waste time with details. It is sufficient to say that, after about an hour's search, we came upon the rogue in a dense part of the jungle. He was, as I have said, unusually big, as well as fierce. But our hero, Chand Moorut, had never yet met his match, so we resolved to risk an encounter. There was the dry bed of a river, which the rogue would have to cross when driven down the valley by the gun-men. Here our gladiator was placed, partially concealed and ready to meet the rogue when he should appear. Fifty yards back the other fighting elephants were placed in support, and behind these were drawn up the rest of the khedda in three lines. Then the spectators, many of whom were ladies, were placed on a ledge of rock about forty feet above the river-bed, which commanded a good view of the proposed field of battle.

"Up to this time perfect silence had been maintained in our ranks. My elephant was stationed near the centre of the line, from which point I could see Chand Moorut standing calmly near the river-bed, with what I could almost fancy was a twinkle in his eye, as though he suspected what was coming.

"Suddenly a single shot was heard from up the valley. As it came echoing towards us, it was mingled with the spattering fire, shouting and yelling of the beaters, who began to advance. Chand Moorut became rigid and motionless, like a statue. He was evidently thinking! Another instant, and the rogue's shrill trumpet-note of defiance rang high above the din. Trembling and restive the ordinary khedda elephants showed every symptom of alarm; but the fighters stood still, with the exception of Chand, who, becoming inflated with the spirit of war, made a sudden dash up the valley, intent on accepting the challenge! Fifty yards were passed before his mahowt, with voice, limb, and prod managed to reduce the well-trained warrior to obedience. Solemnly, and with stately gait, he returned to his position, his great heart swelling, no doubt, with anticipation.

"Scarcely had he taken up his position when the bushes higher up were seen to move, and the huge black form of the rogue appeared upon the scene. Unlike the lively young elephant that had escaped us in the morning, this old rogue marched sedately and leisurely down the hill-side, apparently as much unconcerned about the uproar of shooting and shouting in his rear as if it had been but the buzzing of a few mosquitoes. I confess that doubts as to the issue of the combat arose in my mind when I first saw him, for he appeared to be nearly, if not quite, as big as Chand Moorut himself, and of course I knew that the hard and well-trained muscles of a wild elephant were sure to be more powerful than those of a tame one. I stupidly forgot, at the moment, that indomitable pluck counts for much in a trial of mere brute force.

"Ignorant of what was in store for him, with head erect, and an air of quiet contempt for all animate creation, the rogue walked into the dry bed of the river, and began to descend. Expectation was now on tiptoe, when to our disgust he turned sharp to the right, and all but walked in amongst the spectators on the ledge above, some of whom received him with a volley of rifle balls. As none of these touched a vital spot, they might as well have been rhubarb pills! They turned him aside, however, and, breaking through the left flank of the khedda, he took refuge in the thickest jungle he could find. The whole khedda followed in hot pursuit, crashing through overgrowth of canes, creepers, and trees, in the midst of confusion and rumpus utterly inconceivable, therefore beyond my powers of description! We had to look out sharply in this chase, for we were passing under branches at times. One of these caught my man Quin, and swept him clean off his pad. But he fell on his feet, unhurt, and was quickly picked up and re-seated.

"In a short time we came in sight of the rogue, who suddenly turned at bay and confronted us. The entire khedda came to a most inglorious halt, for our heavy fighters had been left behind in the race, and the others dared not face the foe. Seeing this, he suddenly dashed into the midst of us, and went straight for the elephant on which our director and his wife were seated! Fortunately, a big tree, chancing to come in the rogue's way, interfered with his progress. He devoted his energies to it for a few moments. Then he took to charging furiously at everything that came in his way, and was enjoying himself with this little game when Chand Moorut once more appeared on the scene! The rogue stopped short instantly. It was evident that he recognised a foeman, worthy of his steel, approaching. Chand Moorut advanced with alacrity. The rogue eyed him with a sinister expression. There was no hesitation on either side. Both warriors were self-confident; nevertheless, they did not rush to the battle. Like equally-matched veterans they advanced with grim purpose and wary deliberation. With heads erect, and curled trunks, they met, more like wrestlers than swordsmen, each seeming to watch for a deadly grip. Suddenly they locked their trunks together, and began to sway to and fro with awful evidence of power, each straining his huge muscles to the uttermost -- the conflict of Leviathan and Behemoth!

"For only a few minutes did the result seem doubtful to the hundreds of spectators, who, on elephant-back or hill-side, gazed with glaring eyes and bated breath, and in profound silence. The slightly superior bulk and weight of our gladiator soon began to tell. The rogue gave way, slightly. Chand Moorut, with the skill of the trained warrior or the practised pugilist, took instant advantage of the move. With the rush of a thunder-bolt he struck the rogue with his head on the shoulder. The effect was terrific. It caused him to turn a complete somersault into the jungle, where he fell with a thud and a crash that could be heard far and near, and there he lay sprawling for a few moments, nothing but struggling legs, trunk, and tail being visible above the long grass!"

"Hooray!" shouted Junkie, unable to restrain himself.

"Just what my man Quin said," continued Jackman. "Only he added, 'Musha!' 'Thunder-an'-turf,' and 'Well, I niver!' And well he might, too, for none of us ever saw such a sight before. But the victory was not quite gained yet, for the rogue sprang up with amazing agility, and, refusing again to face such a terrible foe, he ran away, pursued hotly and clamorously by the whole khedda. I made my mahowt keep as close to Chand Moorut as possible, wishing to be in at the death. Suddenly a louder uproar in advance, and a shrill trumpeting assured me that the rogue had again been brought to bay.

"Although somewhat exhausted and shaken by his flight and the tremendous knock down, he fought viciously, and kept all his smaller foes at a respectful distance by repeated charges, until Chand Moorut again came up and laid him flat with another irresistible charge. He staggered to his feet again, however, and now the other fighting elephants, Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and others, were brought into action. These attacked the rogue furiously, knocking him down when he attempted to rise, and belabouring him with their trunks until he was thoroughly exhausted. Then one of the khedda men crept up behind him on foot, with thick ropes fitted for the purpose of tying him, and fixed them on the rogue's hind legs. But the brave man paid heavily for his daring. He was still engaged with the ropes when the animal suddenly kicked out and broke the poor fellow's thigh. He was quickly lifted up and taken to camp.

"Not so quickly, however, was the rogue taken to camp! As it was growing dark, some of us resolved to bivouac where the capture had been made, and tied our captive to a tree. Next morning we let him go with only a hind leg hobbled, so that he might find breakfast for himself. Then, having disposed of our own breakfast, we proceeded to induce our prisoner to go along with us -- a dangerous and difficult operation. As long as he believed that he might go where he pleased, we could induce him to take a few steps, forward, but the moment he understood what we were driving at, he took the sulks, like an enormous spoilt child, and refused to move. The koonkies were therefore brought up, and Raj Mungul, going behind, gave him a shove that was irresistible. He lost temper and turned furiously on Raj, but received such an awful whack on the exposed flank from Isri Pershad, that he felt his case to be hopeless, and sulked again. Going down on his knees he stuck his tusks into the ground, like a sheet anchor, with a determination that expressed, 'Move me out o' this if you can!'

"Chand Moorut accepted the unspoken challenge. He gave the rogue a shove that not only raised his hind legs in the air, but caused him to stand on his head, and finally hurled him on his back. As he rose, doggedly, he received several admonitory punches, and advanced a few paces. Spearmen also were brought forward to prick him on, but they only induced him to curl his trunk round a friendly tree that came in his way, and hold on. Neither bumping, pricking, nor walloping had now any effect. He seemed to have anchored himself there for the remainder of his natural life by an unnatural attachment.

"In this extremity the khedda men had recourse to their last resource. They placed under him some native fireworks, specially prepared for such emergencies, and, as it were, blew him up moderately. Being thus surprised into letting go his hold of the tree, he was urged slowly forward as before. You see, we did not want to kill the beast, though he richly deserved death, having killed so many natives, besides keeping a whole neighbourhood in alarm for years. We were anxious to take him to camp, and we managed it at last, though the difficulty was almost superhuman, and may to some extent be conceived when I tell you that, although we spent the whole of that day, from dawn to sunset, struggling with our obstinate captive, and with the entire force of the khedda, we only advanced to the extent of four or five hundred yards!"

Now, while this amazing story was being told by Giles Jackman to his friends in Barret's room, a very different story was being told in the room above them. That room was the nursery, and its only occupants were little Flo and her black doll. The rain had cleared off towards the afternoon, and a gleam of sunshine entering the nursery windows, had formed a spot of intense light on the nursery floor. This seemed to have suggested something of great interest to Flo, for, after gazing at it with bright eyes for some time, she suddenly held the doll before her and said -- 

"Blackie, I'm goin' to tell you a stowy -- a bustingly intewestin' stowy."

We must remind the reader here that Flo was naturally simple and sweet, and that as Junkie was her chief playmate, she was scarcely responsible for her language.

"The stowy," continued Flo, "is all 'bout Doan of Ak, who was bu'nt by some naughty men, long, long ago! D'you hear, Blackie? It would make your hair stand on end -- if you had any!"

Thereupon the little one set Blackie on a stool, propped her against the wall, and gave her a fairly correct account of the death of the unfortunate Joan of Arc, as related by Mrs Gordon that morning. She wound up with the question, -- "Now, what you think of zat, Blackie?"

As Blackie would not answer, Flo had to draw on her own bank of imagination for further supplies of thought.

"Come," she cried, suddenly, with the eagerness of one whose cheque has just been honoured; "let's play at Doan of Ak! You will be Doan, and I will be the naughty men. I'll bu'n you! You mustn't squeal, or kick up a wumpus, you know, but be dood."

Having made this stipulation, our little heroine placed the black martyr on an old-fashioned straw-bottomed chair near the window, and getting hold of a quantity of paper and some old cotton dresses, she piled the whole round Blackie to represent faggots. This done, she stepped back and surveyed her work as an artist might study a picture.

"You've dot your best muslin fock on, da'ling, an it'll be spoiled; but I don't care for zat. Now, say your pays, Doan."

With this admonitory remark, Flo screwed up a piece of paper, went to the fireplace, made a very long arm through the fender, and lighted it. Next moment she applied the flame to the faggots, which blazed up with surprising rapidity.

Stepping quickly back, the dear little child gazed at her work with intense delight beaming from every feature.

"Now be dood, Blackie. Don't make a wumpus!" she said; and as she said it, the flames caught the window curtains and went up with a flare that caused Flo to shout with mingled delight and alarm.

"I wonder," remarked Mrs Gordon, who chanced to be in the drawing-room on the windward side of the nursery, "what amuses Flo so much!"

She arose and went, leisurely, to see.

Roderick, the groom, being in the harness-room on the lee side of the nursery at the time, made a remark with the same opening words.

"I wonder," said he, "what that wull pe!" A sniffing action of the nose told what "that" meant. "Don't you smell a smell, Tonal'?"

Donald sniffed, and replied that he did -- "what-e-ver."

"It wull pe somethin' on fire, Tonal'," said the groom, dropping the harness-brush and running out to the yard.

Donald being of the same opinion, followed him. At the same moment a piercing shriek was heard to issue from the house and wild confusion followed.

"Fire! fire!" yelled a voice in the yard outside, with that intensity of meaning which is born of thorough conviction.

Who that has never been roused by "fire!" can imagine the sensations that the cry evokes, and who that really has experienced those sensations can hope to explain them to the inexperienced? We cannot. We will not try.

But let us not plunge with undue haste into a fire!

It will be remembered that we left Jackman in Barret's room, having just ended his elephant story, to the satisfaction of his friends, while Mrs Gordon was on her way to the nursery, bent on investigation. Well, the voice that shrieked in the nursery was that of Mrs Gordon, and that which yelled in the yard was the voice of the groom, supplemented by Donald's treble.

Of course the gentlemen sprang to their feet, on hearing the uproar, dashed from the room in a body, and made straight for the nursery. On the way they met Mrs Gordon with Flo in her arms -- all safe; not a hair of her pretty little head singed, but looking rather appalled by the consequences of what she had done.

"Safe! thank God!" exclaimed the laird, turning and descending with his wife and child, with some vague thoughts that he might be likely to find Mrs Moss in her favourite place of resort, the library.

He was right. He found her there in a dead faint on the floor. He also found his three boys there, exerting themselves desperately to haul her out of the room by a foot and an arm and the skirt of her dress.

"We knew she was here, daddy," gasped Eddie, "and came straight to help her."

"Out o' the way!" cried the laird as he grasped Mrs Moss in his arms and bore her away. "Mother and Flo are safe, boys. Look out for yourselves."

"I'll go for the photographs! Come, help me, Ted," cried Archie, as he ran up the now smoking stairs.

"I'll go for Milly!" cried the heroic Junkie, as, with flashing eyes, he dashed towards her room.

But Barret had gone for Milly before him! and without success. She was not in her room. "Milly! Milly!" he shouted, in tones of undisguised anxiety, as he burst out of the nursery, after finding, with his companions, that no one was there and that suffocation was imminent. Then, as no Milly replied, he rushed up to the garret in the belief that she might have taken refuge there or on the roof in her terror.

Just after he had rushed out of the nursery, Junkie burst in. The boy was in his element now. We do not mean that he was a salamander and revelled in fire and smoke, but he had read of fires and heard of them till his own little soul was ablaze with a desire to save some one from a fire -- any one -- somehow, or anyhow! Finding, like the rest, that he could scarcely breathe, he made but one swift circuit of the room. In doing so he tumbled on the chair on which the cause of all the mischief still sat smoking, but undeniably "dood!"

"Blackie!" he gasped, and seized hold of her denuded but still unconsumed wooden body.

A few moments later he sprang through the entrance door and tumbled out on the lawn, where most of the females of the establishment were standing.

"Saved!" he cried, in a voice of choking triumph, as he rose and held up the rescued and smoking doll.

"Doan! my da'ling Doan!" cried Flo, extending her arms eagerly to receive the martyr.

By that time the house was fairly alight in its upper storey, despite the utmost efforts of all the men to extinguish the fire with buckets of water.

"No use, no use to waste time trying," said the laird, as he ran out among the females on the lawn. "Is everybody safe? eh? Milly -- where's Milly?"

"Milly! where's Milly?" echoed a stentorian voice, as Barret bounded out of the smoking house with singed hair and blackened face.

"There -- there she is!" cried several of the party, as they pointed towards the avenue leading to the house.

All eyes were eagerly turned in that direction, and a general exclamation of thankfulness escaped, as Milly was seen running towards the scene of action. She had been down seeing old Mrs Donaldson, and knew nothing of what had occurred, till she came in sight of the conflagration.



Chapter Sixteen.

Two Fires Subdued.

Barret, half ashamed of the wild anxiety he displayed, turned at once, sprang back into the burning house, and began to expend his energies in helping his companions and the men of the establishment to save as much as possible of the laird's property.

While this was being done and the attention of every one was directed exclusively to the work of salvage -- in which work Pat Quin shone conspicuous for daring as well as for all but miraculous power to endure heat and swallow smoke, Roderick, the groom, retired to the lawn for a few moments' respite. He was accompanied by Donald, his faithful assistant, who was almost exhausted by his labours.

"Tonal', poy, what iss it that Muster Archie wull pe doin'?"

"I think he wull pe takin' the hoose!"

They had not time to make further inquiry, for just then the wind changed and blew the flames towards the part of the mansion that had been already burned, giving some hope that the other parts might yet be saved, and calling for the redoubled efforts of all hands.

Donald was right in his conjecture. Archie was indeed "takin'" the house! He and Eddie -- having succeeded in rescuing the photographic apparatus, and, finding that no lives were in danger, and that enough people were already endeavouring to save the property -- had calmly devoted themselves to taking photographs of the blazing scene from several points of view -- a feat that was still possible, as daylight had not yet been diminished in power.

The change of wind, however, brought their operations to an abrupt close, for no idlers were tolerated. Even the women were summoned to stand in a row, and pass buckets from a neighbouring pond to the burning house.

The proceedings now had been reduced to some degree of order by Giles Jackman, whose experience abroad had tended to develop his powers of organisation.

The buckets were passed in uninterrupted succession from the pond to the house, where Mabberly received them at the front door, that being deemed the point where danger and the need for unusual energy began. He passed them in through the smoke of the hall to MacRummle, who handed them to Roderick and the butler. These last stood in the dense smoke of the staircase, at the head of which the tall gamekeeper, Jackman and Barret, were engaged in close and deadly conflict with the flames, intense heat, falling debris, and partial suffocation. The rest of the people, headed by the laird, who seemed to have renewed his youth and become ubiquitous, continued the work of salvage.

By that time the party of warriors who fought the flames was increased by the shepherds and a few small farmers who dwelt in the neighbourhood. These being stalwart and willing men, were a valuable accession to the force, and did good service not only in saving property, but in extinguishing the fire. So that, before night closed in, the flames were finally subdued, after about one-half of the mansion had been consumed.

That half, however, was still a source of great danger, the walls being intensely hot and the fallen beams a mass of glowing charcoal, which the least breath of wind blew into a flame. A few of the shepherds were therefore stationed to watch these, and pour water on them continually. But the need for urgent haste was past, and most of the people had assembled on the lawn among the furniture when the stars began to glimmer in the darkening sky.

"My dear," said the laird, on finding his wife in the group, "it is all safe now, so you had better get off to rest, and take all the women with ye. Come, girls, be off to your beds," he added, turning with kindly smile to the domestics, and with the energetic manner that was habitual to him. "You've done good service, and stand much in need of rest, all of you. The men will keep a sharp look out on what's left o' the fire, so you have nothing to fear. Off with you, an' get to sleep!"

There was no hesitation in obeying the laird's commands. The female domestics went off at once to their dormitories, and these were fortunately in that part of the mansion which had escaped. Some of the younger girls, however, made no effort to conceal a giggle as they glanced at their master who, with coat off, shirt torn, face blackened, hair dishevelled, and person dripping, presented rather an undignified appearance. But as worthy Allan Gordon had never set up a claim to dignity, the giggles only amused him.

"Duncan! Duncan, man, where are ye?" he called out, when the ladies and female domestics had gone. "Oh! there ye are -- an' not much more respectable than myself!" he added, as the butler answered to his summons. "Go and fetch the whisky bottle. We'll all be the better of a dram after such a fight. What say you, gentlemen? Do you not relax your teetotal principles a little on an occasion like this?"

"We never relax our total abstinence principles," returned Jackman, with a smile, as he wrung some of the water out of his garments. "I think I may speak for my companions as well as myself. Friendship has been a sufficient stimulant while we were engaged in the work, and gratitude for success will suffice now that the work is done."

"Run, Donald, boy, an' tell them to get some hot coffee ready at once! It's all very well, gentlemen," said the laird, turning again to his friends, "to talk of subsisting on friendship and gratitude; but although very good in their way, they won't do for present necessities. At least it would ill become me to express my gratitude to such good friends without offering something more. For myself," he added, filling and tossing off a glass of whisky, "I'm an old man, and not used to this kind of work, so I'll be the better of a dram. Besides, the Gordons -- my branch of them, at least -- have always taken kindly to mountain dew, in moderation, of course, in strict moderation!"

There was a quiet laugh at this among some of the men who stood near, for it was well-known that not a few of the laird's ancestors had taken kindly to mountain dew without the hampering influence of moderation, though the good man himself had never been known to "exceed" -- in the Celtic acceptation of that term.

"Are ye laughing, you rascals?" he cried, turning to the group with a beaming, though blackened countenance. "Come here an' have your share --  as a penalty!"

Nothing loath, the men came forward, and with a quiet word of thanks each poured the undiluted fiery liquid down his throat, with what the boy Donald styled a "pech" of satisfaction.

Ivor Donaldson chanced to be one of the group, but he did not come forward with the rest.

"Come, Ivor, man, and have a dram," said the laird, pouring out a glass.

But the keeper did not move. He stood with his arms crossed firmly on his broad chest, and a stern dogged expression on his handsome face.

"Ivor, hi!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in a louder voice, supposing that the man had not heard. "After work like this a dram will do you good."

"Oo, ay!" remarked one of the shepherds, who had probably began to feel the "good" by that time; "a tram of whusky iss a fery coot thing at all times -- specially when it is coot whusky!"

At this profound witticism there was a general laugh among the men, in the midst of which the laird repeated his invitation to Ivor, saying that he seemed knocked up after his exertions (which was partially true), and adding that surely he was man enough to take a little for his good at such a time, without giving way to it.

The laird did not mean this as a taunt, but it was taken as such by the keeper, who came forward quickly, seized the glass, and drained it. Having done so he stood for a moment like one awaking from a dream. Then, without a word of thanks, he dropped the glass, sprang into the shrubbery, and disappeared.

The laird was surprised, and his conscience smote him, but he turned the incident off with a laugh.

"Now, lads," he said, "go to work again. It will take all your energies to keep the fire down, if it comes on to blow; and your comrades must be tired by this time."

Fortunately it did not come on to blow. The night was profoundly calm, so that a steady though small supply of water sufficed to quench incipient flames.

Meanwhile Giles Jackman had left the group on the lawn almost at the same moment with the gamekeeper; for, having been accustomed to deal with men in similar circumstances, he had a suspicion of what might follow. The poor man, having broken the resolve so recently and so seriously formed, had probably, he thought, become desperate.

Ivor was too active for him, however. He disappeared before Jackman had followed more than a few yards. After a few moments of uncertainty, the latter made straight for old Molly Donaldson's cottage, thinking it possible that her unhappy son might go there. On the way he had to pass the keeper's own cottage, and was surprised to see a light in it and the door wide open. As he approached, the sound of the keeper's voice was heard speaking violently, mingled with blows, as if delivered with some heavy instrument against timber. A loud crash of breaking wood met Jackman's ear as he sprang in. Ivor was in the act of rending the remains of a door from a corner cupboard, while an axe, which he had just dropped, lay at his feet on the earthen floor. A black quart bottle, visible through the opening which had been made, showed the reason of his assault on the cupboard. If there had been any uncertainty on the point, it would have been dispelled by the wild laugh, or yell of fierce exultation, with which he seized the bottle, drew the cork, and raised it to his dry lips.

Before it reached them, however, Jackman's strong hand seized the keeper's arm. A gasp from the roused giant, and the deadly pallor of his countenance, as he glanced round, showed that superstition had suddenly seized on his troubled soul; but no sooner did he see who it was that had checked him, than the hot blood rebounded to his face, and a fierce glare shot from his eyes.

"Thank God! -- not too late!" exclaimed Jackman, fervently.

The thanksgiving was addressed to God, of course without reference to its influence on Ivor; but no words, apparently, could have been used with better effect upon the keeper's spirit. His eyes lost their ferocity, and he stood irresolute.

"Break it, like a good fellow," said Jackman, in a soft, kindly voice, as he pointed to the bottle.

"I broke one before, sir," said Ivor, in a despairing tone; "and you see how useless that was."

"Give it to me, then."

As he spoke, he took the bottle from the man's grasp, and cast it through the open doorway, where it was shivered to atoms on the stones outside.

Striding towards a pitcher of water which stood in a corner of the room, the keeper seized it, put it to his lips, and almost drained it.

"There!" he exclaimed; "that will drown the devil for a time!"

"No, Ivor, it won't; but it will help to drown it," said Jackman, in the same kindly, almost cheerful, voice. "Neither cold water nor hottest fire can slay the evils that are around and within us. There is only one Saviour from sin -- Jesus, 'who died for the sins of the whole world.' He makes use of means, however, and these means help towards the great end. But it was not the Saviour who told you to lock that bottle in that cupboard -- was it?"

An expression of perplexity came over the keeper's face.

"You are right, sir; it was not. But, to my thinkin' it was not the devil either!"

"Very likely not. I think sometimes we are inclined to put many things on the devil's shoulders which ought to rest on our own. You know what the Bible says about the deceitfulness of our hearts."

"I do, sir, an' yet I don't quite see that it was that either. I did not put that bottle there to have it handy when I wanted it. I put it there when I made up my mind to fight this battle in Christ's name, so as I might see if He gave me strength to resist the temptation, when it was always before me."

"Just so, Ivor, my friend. That 'if' shows that you doubted Him! Moreover, He has put into our mouths that prayer, 'lead us not into temptation,' and you proposed to keep temptation always before your eyes."

"No, sir, no, not quite so bad as that," cried the keeper, growing excited. "I shut the door an' locked the accursed thing out of my sight, and when I found I could not resist the temptation, I took the key out and flung it into the sea."

"Would it not have been better to have flung the evil thing itself into the sea? You soon found another key!" said his friend, pointing to the axe.

"You say truth, sir; but oh, you hev no notion o' the fight I hev had wi' that drink. The days an' nights of torment! The horrors! Ay, if men could only taste the horrors before they tasted the drink, I do believe there would be no drunkards at all! I hev lain on that bed, sir," he pointed to it as he spoke, while large drops stood on his pale brow at the very recollection, "and I hev seen devils and toads and serpents crawlin' round me and over me -- great spiders, and hairy shapeless things, wi' slimy legs goin' over my face, and into my mouth, though I gnashed my teeth together -- and glaring into my tight shut eyes, an' strangling me. Oh! sir, I know not what hell may be, but I think that it begins on earth wi' some men!"

"From all this Jesus came to save us, Ivor," said Jackman, endeavouring to turn the poor man's mind from the terrible thoughts that seemed about to overwhelm him; "but God will have us to consent to be saved in His own way. When you put the temptation in the cupboard, you disobeyed Him, and therefore were trying to be saved in your own way. Disobedience and salvation cannot go together, because salvation means deliverance from disobedience. You and I will pray, Ivor, that God would give us his holy Spirit, and then we shall fight our battles in future with more success."

Thereupon, standing as they were, but with bowed spirits and heads, they laid the matter in the hands of God in a brief but earnest prayer.

While these two were thus engaged, the scene at the house had entered upon another phase. The weather, which all that day had been extremely changeable, suddenly assumed its gloomiest aspect, and rain began to fall heavily. Gradually the fall increased in volume, and at last descended in an absolute deluge, rendering the use of water-buckets quite unnecessary, and accomplishing in a very few minutes what all the men at the place could not have done in as many hours. But that which prevented effectually the extension of the fire, caused, almost as effectually, the destruction of much of the property exposed on the lawn. The men were therefore set to work with all their energies to replace in the unburnt part of the mansion all that they had so recently carried out of it.

In this work Ivor Donaldson found a sufficient outlet for the fierce unnatural energies which had been aroused within him. He went about heaving and hauling, and staggering under weights that in an ordinary state of body and mind he could scarcely have moved. Little notice was taken of him, however, for every one else was, if not doing the same thing, at least working up to the utmost extent of his ability.

Before midnight all was over. The fire was what the cook termed black out. The furniture, more than half destroyed, was re-housed. The danger of a revival of the flames was past, and the warriors in the great battle felt themselves free to put off their armour and seek refreshment.

This they did -- the males at least -- in the gun-room, which, being farthest from the fire, and, therefore, left untouched, had not been damaged either by fire or water. Here the thoughtful laird had given orders to have a cold collation spread, and here, with his guests, men-servants, boys, and neighbouring farmers around him, he sat down to supper.



Chapter Seventeen.

Conclusion.

"We are a queer lot, what-e-ver!" remarked one of the farmers, with a deep sigh and a candid smile, as he looked round the company.

The observation was incontrovertible, if charcoaled faces, lank hair, torn and dripping garments, and a general appearance of drowned-ratiness may be regarded as "queer."

"My friends," said the laird, digging the carving fork into a cold turkey, "we are also a hungry lot, if I may judge of others by myself, so let me advise you to fall to. We can't afford to sit long over our supper in present circumstances. Help yourselves, and make the most of your opportunities."

"Thank God," said Giles Jackman, "that we have the opportunity to sit down to sup under a roof at all."

"Amen to that," returned the laird; "and thanks to you all, my friends, for the help you have rendered. But for you, this house and all in it would have been burnt to ashes. I never before felt so strongly how true it is that we 'know not what a day may bring forth.'"

"What you say, sir, is fery true," remarked a neighbouring small farmer, who had a sycophantish tendency to echo or approve whatever fell from the laird's lips.

"It is indeed true," returned his host, wiping the charcoal from his face with a moist handkerchief; "but it is the Word that says it, not I. And is it not strange," he added, turning with a humorous look to Barret, "that after all these years the influence of Joan of Arc should be still so powerful in the Western Isles? To think that she should set my house on fire in this nineteenth century!"

"I am very glad she did!" suddenly exclaimed Junkie, who, having been pretty well ignored or forgotten by everybody, was plying his knife and fork among the other heroes of the fight in a state of inexpressible felicity.

"You rascal!" exclaimed his father; "you should have been in bed long ago! But why are you so glad that Joan set the house on fire?"

"Because she gave me the chance to save Blackie's life!" replied Junkie, with supreme contentment.

The company laughed, and continued their meal, but some of them recalled the proverb which states that "the boy is father to the man," and secretly prophesied a heroic career for Junkie.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Ten months passed away, during which period Allan Gordon retired to his residence in Argyllshire while his mansion in the Western Island was being restored. During the same period Archie produced innumerable hazy photographs of Kinlossie House in a state of conflagration; Eddie painted several good copies of the bad painting into which Milly Moss had introduced a megatherium cow and other specimens of violent perspective; and Junkie underwent a few terrible paroxysms of intense hatred of learning in all its aspects, in which paroxysms he was much consoled by the approval and sympathy of dear little Flo.

During this period, also, Mabberly applied himself to his duties in London, unaffected by the loss of the Fairy, and profoundly interested in the success of his friend Barret, who had devoted himself heart and head to natural history, with a view to making that science his profession, though his having been left a competence by his father rendered a profession unnecessary, from a financial point of view. As for Giles Jackman, that stalwart "Woods-and-Forester" returned to his adopted land, accompanied by the faithful Quin, and busied himself in the activities of his adventurous career, while he sought to commend the religion of Jesus alike to native and European, both by precept and example, proving the great truth that "godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life which now is, and of that which is to come." MacRummle, during the same period, spent much time in his study, writing for publication an elaborate treatise on fishing, with a few notes on shooting, in the Western Isles. He was encouraged in this work by a maiden sister who worshipped him, and by the presence of an enormous stuffed eagle in a corner of his study.

One day, towards the close of this period of ten months, a beautiful little woman and a handsome young man might have been seen riding in one of the quiet streets of London. They rode neither on horseback, nor in a carriage, still less in a cab! Their vehicle was a tricycle of the form which has obtained the name of "Sociable."

"See, this is the corner, Milly," said the young man. "I told you that one of the very first places I would take you to see after our marriage would be the spot where I had the good fortune to run our mother down. So now I have kept my word. There is the very spot, by the lamp-post, where the sweep stood looking at the thin little old lady so pathetically when I was forced to rise and run away."

"Oh, John!" exclaimed Milly, pointing with eager looks along the street; "and there is the thin little old lady herself!"

"So it is! Well, coincidences will never cease," said Barret, as he stepped from the "sociable" and hurried to meet Mrs Moss, who shook her finger and head at him as she pointed to the pavement near the lamp-post.

"I would read you a lecture now, sir," she said; "but will reserve it, for here is a letter that may interest you."

It did indeed interest all three of them, as they sat together that afternoon in the sunshine of Milly's boudoir, for it was a long and well-written epistle from old Molly Donaldson.

We will not venture to weary the reader with all that the good old woman had to say, but it may perhaps be of interest to transcribe the concluding sentence. It ran thus, -- "You will be glad to hear that my dear Ivor is doing well. He was married in March to Aggy Anderson, an' they live in the old cottage beside me. Ivor has put on the blue ribbon. The laird has put it on too, to the surprise o' everybody. But I think little o' that. I think more o' a bit pasteboard that hangs over my son's mantelpiece, on which he has written wi' his own hand the blessed words -- 'Saved by Grace.'"

<eob>

The Story Of A Plush Bear

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

A Snowball Fight


Down swirled the white flakes, blowing this way and that. It was snowing furiously in North Pole Land, and even the immense workshop of Santa Claus was almost buried in white. How the wind howled! It whistled down the chimneys, and blew the sparks about.

"Whew, how cold it is!" cried a Wax Doll, who did not have any shoes on, for she was not yet quite finished. "What makes such a breeze in here?" and she shivered as she pulled up over her legs a blanket of plush cloth from which Santa Claus and his men made Teddy Bears.

"It is cold," said a Celluloid Doll, who was lying on the work bench next to the wax toy. "Some one must have left a window open."

"Left a window open? There are three or four windows open!" gleefully shouted a fuzzy, Woolen Boy Doll. "Look at the snow blowing in! Hurray! Now we can have a snowball fight without going outside. Come on!" cried the Woolen Boy Doll to a little Flannel Pig who had just been stuffed with cotton. "Come on, have a snowball fight!"

"All right!" squealed the Flannel Pig. "I'll wash your face!"

"Oh, how cold it is! How cold it is!" sighed the Wax Doll. "Give me more covers, please, somebody! My feet are freezing! Who left the windows open?"

"Here, take this," called a big Plush Bear, tossing toward the Wax Doll a quilt he took from a bed in a playhouse that stood next to him on the work table. "This will keep you warm. I guess some of the men who work for Santa Claus must have gone off and forgotten to close the windows."

This is just what had happened. There had been a busy time in the North Pole workshop of Santa Claus that day, for it was getting near to Christmas. The little men, like elves, who built the Noah's Arks, the toy animals, the dolls, and the other playthings, had been as busy as bees.

Then, in the afternoon, just before dark, jolly old Santa Claus himself entered his shop, the windows of which were made from crystal-clear sheets of ice.

"What ho, my merry men!" cried Santa Claus, "you have been working very hard. Stop now, and have lunch, for we must work overtime to-night so that we may finish a lot of toys to be taken down to Earth. But now I will give you a little rest, though it is not five o'clock, when we usually stop."

"Hurray!" cried the merry little men.

They gladly laid down their tools and put aside the half-finished toys on which they had been working. Half-finished Dolls, Jumping Jacks that could not yet leap, Jacks in Boxes that could not yet spring out, trains of cars that could not yet run -- all these were laid aside, together with toys completely made, so that the little men might rest themselves.

"Come to the lunch room and get some hot chocolate and some frosted cake," said Santa Claus, and away trooped the jolly little men. Just who had left some of the windows open no one knew. But they were open, and when the big storm came, in blew the snowflakes.

"I call this real jolly," said the big Plush Bear, who had given the Wax Doll the bed quilt to keep her feet warm. "I'd like to be out in this storm. But this is the next best thing. Hi there!" he called to the Flannel Pig, "look out where you're throwing snowballs! You nearly hit the Wax Doll."

"Oh, if he did that my complexion would be spoiled!" cried the beautiful toy, who was not, as yet, quite finished.

"I'll be careful," promised the Flannel Pig. "Don't you want to have fun in the snowball fight, Mr. Teddy Bear?"

"I am not a Teddy Bear!" roared the big plush creature. "Many people take me for one; but I am not, though I do look like a Teddy. But I am a real Plush Bear, and when I am wound up I can move my head and my paws and I can growl. Listen! I am wound up now!"

There was a whirring sound inside the Plush Bear as the clock work wheels began to turn, and soon his head moved slowly from side to side, he raised his paws and lowered them, and out of his red mouth came a growling voice saying:

"To be sure, I'll join the snowball fight!"

"Hurray!" cried the Woolen Boy Doll. "Now for some fun!" For though the Plush Bear had spoken with a growl he was not at all cross. That was just his way. He was really most jolly, though he had a very wise look on his plush face, as though always thinking of hard examples to solve and hard words to spell. But though he was wise, and growled when he talked, the Plush Bear was most delightful.

"Come on! We'll move over to one side where we shall not get any snow on the toys who don't like it," said the Plush Bear. With his warm coat, almost like fur, he loved to roll in the snow. So did the Flannel Pig and the Woolen Boy Doll. But the Wax Doll, who, as yet, had no shoes, the Celluloid Doll, who was only partly dressed, and some of the others did not like the cold.

Faster and faster the snow came down, and more and more white flakes blew in through the open windows of the shop of Santa Claus at the North Pole. The Plush Bear caught up a paw full of the white crystals from the bench, made them into a ball, and tossed them at the Flannel Pig. The Flannel Pig turned quickly and chased after the Woolen Boy Doll, crying:

"I'll wash your face! I'll wash your face!"

Then such fun as there was! The Wax Doll, covered up now so that her feet were no longer cold, and in a safe corner where no balls could hit her, watched the sport.

"I'm glad Santa Claus and his men took a little resting spell," said the Plush Bear, as he quickly stooped down to get out of the way of a snowball thrown by a Teddy Bear, almost like himself.

"Yes, if they were here we could have no fun," said the Flannel Pig.

And this was very true.

As I shall explain to you in this book, and as I have told you in other books of these "Make Believe Stories," the toys could pretend to come to life, move about, and have fun when no one was looking at them. They could talk, tell jokes and stories, as well as riddles, play games, have races and even snowball fights, as they were having one now. But the moment any one looked at them, or came into the room where they were playing, the toys settled back straight and stiff and still. They could listen to what was said, but they dared not speak, and they could take no part in life.

So it was that the toys were glad Santa Claus and his men had, for a little while, gone out of the big workshop. It was a wonderful place -- this workshop of Santa Claus. There many of the toys in the world were made for the boys and girls of the Earth. And as fast as he had several boxes of toys ready, Santa Claus would hitch his eight reindeer to his sleigh, and down to Earth he would go. He would leave boxes and bags of toys at the different shops and warehouses, whence they were sent to other places where boys and girls could see them, and tell their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts or cousins what they wanted for Christmas.

Biff! a big snowball went sailing across the room.

Bang! it struck the Plush Bear on his nose.

"Wuff! Wuff!" growled the Plush Bear, but he was not at all cross, and, an instant later, he sent another ball sailing toward the Flannel Pig.

"Oh, I didn't throw that! I didn't hit you!" squealed the Flannel Pig, as he tried to dodge out of the way of the mass of snow tossed by the Plush Bear.

"Never mind," growled Mr. Bruin, as the Bear was sometimes called. "It's all in fun!"

And fun it was! At other times, when they were left alone, the toys in the workshop of Santa Claus had fun, but never before, at least in a long while, had windows been left open so that the snow blew in.

"It's almost as much fun as being out doors," said the Plush Bear again, as he moved his paws and shook his head from side to side. "I only wish the Nodding Donkey could be here to enjoy it," he went on.

"Who is the Nodding Donkey?" asked the Wax Doll, as the Flannel Pig and the others stopped snowballing for a moment.

"He was a toy who was born here, and who lived here for some time, before he was taken down to Earth," answered the Plush Bear. "He could nod his head, and he did not have to be wound up with a key as I have to be. I liked the Nodding Donkey very much. But he and the China Cat have both gone away.

"However, I suppose that is the way of things up here. We are made to give happiness to boys and girls, and the only way in which we can do that is to allow ourselves to be taken to Earth by Santa Claus. Yes, I suppose I shall be taken down some day," and once more he moved his head from side to side, and looked very wise indeed, did the Plush Bear.

As I have said, he was not a Teddy Bear, though sometimes he looked like one. He was made entirely of soft, brown, silky plush. This plush covered from view the clock wheels and springs inside the Bear, which when wound up, caused him to move and growl. But the wheels did not give the Bear his wise look. That was put on his face by one of the workmen of Santa Claus.

"Oh, I know what we can do!" suddenly cried a Polar Bear, who had just shuffled along to join the fun. The Polar Bear was like the Plush Bear only a different color, the Plush Bear being brown, and the Polar Bear white.

"What shall we do?" asked the Flannel Pig, as he wiped some snow water out of one of his eyes.

"Let's build a big snow house, such as the Eskimos all about the North Pole build," went on the Polar Bear. "There is enough snow being blown in through the open windows to make a lot of houses. And we can make a hill, and slide down that, too!"

"Yes, let's do it," said the Woolen Doll Boy. But just then the Plush Bear shook his head and growled out:

"Be careful, everybody! I think some one is coming! We must not be seen in motion, or be heard talking. Keep quiet, every one!"

Each of the toys became as still as a little chocolate mouse.

Then one of the open windows was darkened as a strange creature looked in. It seemed to be a boy, but he was covered with skins and fur, almost like an animal. Only his face could be seen. His hands, as he rested them on the sill of the window, were covered with big, fur mittens.

"Oh, ho! Nobody is here! I can take one of the toys!" said the fur-dressed Eskimo boy, for such he was. "Now is my chance! I'll take that big bear!"

The Eskimo boy, one of a strange, unknown race that live at the North Pole, was just climbing in through the open window, when suddenly, at the far end of the shop, a voice cried:

"Oh, my goodness! Look what has happened! Some one left the windows open and a lot of snow has blown in! Quick, my merry men! Close the windows and start work to finish the toys! I hope none is spoiled!"

And with that Santa Claus himself hurried into the shop.




Chapter II

The Little Eskimo


Following Santa Claus, his little men hurried into the North Pole shop. They were dancing and capering about, for they felt very lively after their rest, and they were ready to start again making toys, or finishing those half completed.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Such a lot of trouble!" cried Santa Claus, but even this trouble could not keep the laughter out of his jolly voice. "Snow! Snow! Snow all over everything!" went on Saint Nicholas. "Who left the windows open so that all the flakes blew in?" he asked.

"I -- I guess I did, Santa Claus," replied one of the little men who wore a red cap. "I wanted some fresh air, for I was working over the paint pots, putting blue eyes in wax dolls, and the paint smell almost choked me. So I opened some windows."

"I guess no great harm is done," said Santa Claus, looking about. "It is so cold the snow hasn't melted, and it is only melted snow that spoils toys. But I don't see how the snow got all over the floor, as well as on the benches," he added.

Ah, if Santa Claus had only seen the toys at play, throwing snowballs all about, and washing the faces of one another, he would have known how it happened. But even Santa Claus was not allowed to see the toys come to life and play.

"Get brooms, sweep up the snow, and close the windows," called Saint Nicholas. "Get the shop ready to work in again, for we are going to be very busy. The Earth children want many toys this year, and we have not made nearly enough. Clean out the snow!"

With brooms, shovels, and brushes, the merry little men fell to work, and soon the shop of Santa Claus was as it should be, and as it had been before the storm. The windows, made of sheets of ice, were pulled down, and soon there was the hum of songs all through the shop, for the men of Santa Claus sang as they worked.

One of the men, as he pulled down the window near his bench, where he was making a lot of little animals for a Noah's Ark, looked out through the pane of ice glass.

"What do you see?" asked the workman next him.

"Oh, one of those odd Eskimo children, all dressed in fur, was right under this window," answered the other little man. "He must have been here when the windows were open. Maybe he wanted to see us making toys. Well, he won't see any better toy than the Plush Bear I just finished," said the little man proudly.

"No, indeed!" agreed the second little man. "But does Santa Claus know about these little Eskimo children coming around his workshop?" he asked.

"Oh, they never bother us," was the answer. "Now we mustn't talk any more, for we have many toys to make for the Earth children."

So the little men became very busy -- too busy to talk, though the Plush Bear heard them singing as they made toy after toy. The Plush Bear and the other playthings could hear what was said, though they could take no part in the talk while Santa Claus, or any of his men, were in the shop. And Santa Claus was there now, seeing that each one of his tiny elves made as many toys as possible.

"Well, we certainly had a good time for a while!" thought the Plush Bear to himself. "What fun that snowball fight was! I'd like another. I didn't feel a bit cold!"

And no wonder. His coat of silk plush was as warm as the fur coat of a real bear. The Plush toy was looking straight at the Polar Bear and the big, white fellow seemed to be blinking his eyes at the other Bear.

All through the great North Pole workshop of Santa Claus the little men were busy, singing over their tasks. But they could not work all night and all day as well, so at last there came an hour when Santa Claus rang a bell and said:

"Now, my merry men, it is time for you to go to bed. Be up early in the morning to make more toys. Good-night, everybody!"

With that he went out, buttoning his fur coat about him, and the workmen, after putting away their tools, followed. Santa Claus and his men slept in snow castles not far from the workshop.

It was almost dark in the toy shop now. Outside the Northern Lights glowed faintly, and inside only a little candle was left gleaming, its beams reflected in some shiny gold stars that were to go on the tops of Christmas trees later on.

"Hello, everybody!" softly called the voice of the Flannel Pig, as he peered out from the roof of a toy dog house, where he had been put by one of the workmen. "Now we can have some more fun!"

"We must be sure every one is gone," said the Plush Bear, as he began to swing his head from side to side. For he had been wound up, and now the wheels and springs inside him were beginning to move.

"Oh, every one is gone," said the Wax Doll. "And this time they will stay away all night. Now we can have our usual fun."

"Is there any snow left?" asked the Polar Bear. "I should like to wash the face of the Plush Bear."

"And I'd wash yours, too!" laughed the Plush Bear. "But the little men swept out all the snow and closed the windows. There isn't so much as an icicle left."

"Too bad!" sighed the Polar Bear. "Well, we'll have fun some other way. Let's see, what shall we do? Have any of you ever seen me turn somersaults?" he asked, after a moment's pause.

"No. Can you do it?" asked the Plush Bear.

"You should see me!" boasted the big white Bear. "I don't believe anywhere in North Pole Land you will find a better somersault turner than I. Watch me!"

The Plush Bear and the other toys leaned forward from the shelves and tables where they sat or stood to see what would happen. If they had not been so eager to see what the Polar Bear was going to do some of them might have noticed a small, dark figure stealing up outside the workshop of Santa Claus, and stopping beneath one of the ice windows.

This little figure was that of an Eskimo boy -- the same little chap, all dressed in sealskin and fur, who had looked in and almost reached through the window to take out the Plush Bear when he had interrupted the toys in the midst of their snowball fight.

"Ah, now is my chance!" murmured the little Eskimo boy, as he stepped softly over the snow, coming nearer and nearer to the workshop of Santa Claus. "If I can open a window I'll take out that Plush Bear, cart him off to the igloo, and have a lot of fun."

The Eskimo boy lived with his father and mother in a house made of blocks of snow and ice. This house was called an "igloo," and it takes its name from the house built by the seals in the far North. The Eskimos build their houses the same shape as the houses made in the ice by the seals. If you cut an orange or an apple in half, and put the flat side down on a table, you will see exactly how an Eskimo igloo is shaped.

"Oh, if I can only get the Plush Bear!" thought the Eskimo boy, as he stepped softly nearer and nearer to the workshop of Santa Claus.

It was not very dark in North Pole Land just then. Though the sun had gone down, and the long winter had set in, still there were the Northern Lights, which glowed and flickered in the sky and made enough of a gleam for the Eskimo boy to see his way over the snow. The snow, too, helped to make it less dark.

Ever since he had seen the Plush Bear through the window of Santa Claus' workshop that day, the Eskimo boy had wanted the plaything. So after his supper of seal fat and blubber, with a piece of tallow candle, which was to him what candy is to you, the boy, well wrapped in fur, started out from his igloo.

All this while, or at least after Santa Claus and his men had gone, the Plush Bear and the other toys were having fun among themselves. As I have told you, the Polar Bear was getting ready to turn somersaults to amuse the other toys.

"Watch me now!" cried the Polar Bear, as he leaned over and got ready to stand on his head.

"Say, why don't you turn some somersaults?" the Flannel Pig asked of the Plush Bear.

"Maybe I will after he gets through," the Plush Bear answered.

The Eskimo boy was now at one of the windows of the shop -- a window which had for a pane a clear sheet of ice. The Eskimo boy blew his warm breath on this window pane, close to the place where, inside, there was a catch to hold the window shut.

"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!" breathed the Eskimo boy on the glass. And his breath was warm, just as yours is when you melt the frost on your window glass at home. Very soon the fur-clad boy had melted a hole in the ice pane. After that it was easy for him to slip his hand in and turn back the window catch.

The Eskimo boy did not know it was wrong thus to take a toy from the workshop of Santa Claus. He only knew that he wanted the Plush Bear, and that this was the easiest way to get it.

Softly he raised the window, after he had turned back the catch. There, in front of him on one of the tables, stood the Plush Bear and many other Christmas toys. But the Eskimo boy had eyes only for the Plush Bear.

"What fun I shall have with you!" whispered the Eskimo boy. He reached forth his hand and took the wonderful plaything.

Just at this time the Polar Bear was turning a somersault, and the eyes of all the other toys were looking at him.

If they had not been looking at the Polar Bear they would have seen the Eskimo boy open the window. And had he once looked at the toys they would have had to stop talking and moving. But, as it happened, none of the toys saw him.

The Plush Bear had just been going to clap his paws together to applaud the Polar Bear's trick of turning a somersault, when the Plush Bear felt himself lifted up.

"Oh!" he said faintly, and then he saw that he must not move or speak, for the Eskimo boy was looking straight at him.

"Ha, now I have you, Mr. Plush Bear," whispered the Eskimo boy, and he quickly drew his arm back out of the open window, taking the wonderful toy with him. He slipped the Plush Bear under his coat of fur, and away he sped over the snow, sparkling in the Northern Lights. Over the snow ran the Eskimo boy, taking to his igloo the Plush Bear.

"Oh, dear me," thought the Plush Bear, "this is a strange adventure, indeed! I hoped I might go to Earth in the sleigh of Santa Claus, as the Nodding Donkey did, but now, it seems, I must stay at the North Pole in a snow and ice hut! Oh, dear! What is going to happen to me?"




Chapter III

Out All Night


"There! What do you think of that for a somersault?" cried the Polar Bear, as he flopped over on his back. "Can you do as well as that, Mr. Plush Bear?"

"Oh, what a wonderful fellow the Polar Bear is!" cried the Wax Doll, who now had on her shoes so she could walk about on the broad workshop bench. "Quite remarkable!"

"The Plush Bear can do as well!" squealed the Flannel Pig, making his nose wrinkle up in a funny way. "Come on, Plush Bear!" he cried. "Show them how you turn somersaults!"

This talk took place just after the Polar Bear had done his trick, and right after the Eskimo boy had opened the window and taken away the toy he so much wanted.

None of the toys, except the Plush Bear, had seen the Eskimo boy, and the boy had not looked at any of the other toys, so they did not have to stop what they were doing. And as the Eskimo boy popped his hand out of the window, almost as soon as he had popped it in, the toys kept right on with what they were doing.

"Come, let's see you turn a somersault, Plush Bear!" called the Polar Bear to his friend.

"Yes! Yes!" cried the other playthings! "Let's have a somersault race!"

They turned toward that part of the work bench where they thought the Plush Bear would be standing, but the Plush Bear was not there.

"Oh, he's gone!" squealed the Flannel Pig.

"Maybe he got down on the floor to practice a somersault, so he can beat me! But he'll have hard work!" growled the Polar Bear. But he was not cross when he growled. It was just his way of speaking, as it was also that of the Plush Bear.

"No, he isn't on the floor!" said the Wax Doll, leaning over the edge of the table to look down.

"Oh, he has fallen out of the window!" suddenly cried the Flannel Pig. "See, the window is open! The Plush Bear must have fallen into the snow outside."

"We must get him back!"

"Throw him a piece of a doll's clothes-line and haul him up!"

"Get a ladder from one of the toy fire engines!"

"Let's all go down after him! Maybe he bumped his nose!"

These were only a few of the shouts and cries that came when it was discovered that the window was open and that the Plush Bear was gone.

The Eskimo boy had not stopped to close the window after opening it to take the toy he so much wanted. And now the toys, crowding on the sill, which was close to the work bench, looked out in the snow under the window. It was light enough for them to see quite well.

"Come on back here, Plush Bear!" called the Flannel Pig, who was quite friendly with the big toy. "I want to see you turn a somersault."

"Yes, come on back, unless you're afraid that I can beat you!" growled the Polar Bear.

"Maybe he is afraid, and ran away," suggested the Wax Doll, who seemed more friendly to the Polar Bear.

"No, indeed!" squealed the Flannel Pig. "The Plush Bear is a brave fellow, and he is very wise! He would not run away. The window must have come open and he tumbled out."

"But he isn't down there in the snow," said a toy Fireman, looking carefully below. "If he was down there I could fix a ladder for him so he could climb up. But he isn't there."

"Where can he be?" asked the Flannel Pig. "He was standing near me one minute, saying how he was going to turn a somersault, and when next I looked he was gone."

"See! There are footprints in the snow under the window," said the Polar Bear, who had come to the sill. "Maybe Santa Claus or some of his men came along outside, and took the Plush Bear away."

"They would not do that," declared the Wax Doll. "Santa Claus would not take just one of us toys. When he takes any, he takes a whole sleigh-load to Earth for the children. No, there is something strange about this!"

And indeed there was, as we know. The Eskimo boy had the Plush Bear, but the toys knew nothing of this. However, there was nothing they could do.

After calling softly to the Plush Bear to come back, but receiving no answer, about a dozen of the Jumping Jacks, by climbing up and all pulling together on the window, managed to close it to keep out the cold, night air.

"Well, since there is no one else to turn somersaults with me, I'll do it alone," said the Polar Bear. So he flipped and flopped over again, and the other toys played games among themselves, but the nice Plush Bear was not among them.

He was under the fur coat of the Eskimo boy, being carried across the snow to the ice hut, or igloo. The door to this igloo was not like the door to your home. It was just a hole, with some pieces of fur and skin hung over it to keep out the cold wind. Ski, which was the name of the Eskimo boy, pushed aside this curtain of fur as he crawled into the igloo, with the Plush Bear beneath his warm jacket. The doorway, or hole, was made small to keep out as much cold as possible, and Ski had to stoop down and crawl on his hands and knees to get in.

Inside the igloo there were no tables and chairs, such as there are in your house. There were just some slabs of ice set here and there, being raised a little from the icy floor. On the floor were skins to make it as warm as possible, and in the middle of the igloo was a sort of lamp, or stove, made of stone, filled with oil in which floated a wick that was burning. This lamp-stove was all the Eskimos had to heat and cook with. But as they wore their fur clothes all winter long, never taking them off, they did not catch cold.

"Look!" said Ski, the Eskimo boy, as he pulled the Plush Bear out from under his fur coat and set the toy down on a shelf of ice in the igloo, where the rays from the oil lamp fell upon it. "See what I have!" and his father and mother and his brothers and sisters leaned forward to look at the strange object.

There was not much room in the igloo, and the Eskimo family was rather crowded. But they did not mind this, as it was much warmer than if they had lived in a big room. In fact, except in the center, one could not stand up in the igloo. The roof was too low.

"Where did you get that?" asked Ski's father, as he looked at the Plush Bear.

"He was in the big igloo, far over the snow, near the big ice mountain," answered the Eskimo boy. "I saw him through a window, and I wanted him. When all in the igloo were asleep I breathed on the ice pane, opened the window, and took this Bear. Now he is mine!"

"Yes, I know that big igloo," said Ski's father. "There was none like it where we came from. I do not know what it is."

Ski's family had just moved to North Pole Land, and they had never heard of Santa Claus, though the other Eskimos of this country were well acquainted with Saint Nicholas. To Ski and his family the workshop of Santa Claus was just a big "igloo."

"Is not this Bear nice?" asked Ski, of his brothers and sisters.

"But he is not like the bears here," said Kiki, one of the Eskimo girls. "He is brown, like the seals. The North Bears are white."

"There was a white Bear in the big igloo, but I would rather have this one," said Ski. "I will always keep him."

During this time the Plush Bear, of course, had not dared to say a word or move by himself. He was being watched too closely. But he could hear what was said, and he wondered what was going to happen to him.

"I shall be dreadfully lonesome if I have to stay here," thought the Plush Bear. "There is not another toy in the whole place!"

There was another toy, but the Plush Bear did not know it. This toy was a rudely carved Wooden Doll, owned by Kiki. She had wrapped this Wooden Doll in a bit of sealskin and put it in her bed to keep it warm. For to Kiki the piece of wood, which looked something like a Doll, was as much alive as your Doll is to you girls.

"That is a wonderful thing, Ski," said the Eskimo boy's father. "Never have I seen such a thing in all my life!"

Ski's father leaned forward and touched the Plush Bear. And he happened to touch the very spring that set the toy animal in motion. For the Plush Bear was all wound up when Ski reached through the window and took him, and all that was needed was a touch to send him off.

Immediately the Plush Bear began to move his head from side to side, growls came out of his red mouth, and his paws waved to and fro. He behaved almost like a small, live bear.

"Wow!" cried Ski, leaping back when he saw the Plush Bear beginning to move.

"Wow!" cried Ski's father, mother and sisters and brothers, and they, too, leaped back.

"Gurr-r-r-r! Gurr-r-r-r!" growled the Plush Bear, and he moved his paws and head faster than ever. He was not doing this himself, you understand. He was not making believe come to life. He was only doing as all the other spring toys do -- moving when the wheels within him moved.

"Wow!" cried Ski's father again. "This is magic! This bear is bewitched! It will bring us bad luck! It must not stay in my igloo!"

"Oh, please let me keep it!" begged Ski, as his father caught up the Plush Bear.

"No! No! It would be dangerous! It would bring us bad luck! There is a witch in that bear!" murmured Ski's mother.

"Never have I seen such a thing!" went on Ski's father in awe and wonder. "We must not keep it! If we allowed it to stay in this igloo we should freeze, I should never catch any seals, and our blubber fat would become so hard we could not eat it. I must take this magic bear that moves back to the big igloo!"

So, though Ski begged his father to be allowed to keep the toy, the Eskimo man thrust the bear under his fur coat and crawled out of the igloo into the glow of the Northern Lights.

"I must take it back to the big igloo," murmured Ski's father. "Then will the bad magic pass away."

You see he did not know, never having seen such a toy before, and never having heard of machinery -- Ski's father did not know what a delightful toy the Plush Bear was. All he thought of was bad luck and magic.

Quickly Ski's father hitched his team of dogs to the long, low wooden sled.

Crack! went the long whip over their heads, but the Eskimo man did not let the lash fall on the animals.

Over the snow and ice they drew the sled, on which Ski's father sat well wrapped in fur blankets. Nearer they came to the workshop of Santa Claus -- the "big igloo" as Ski had called it.

"I will leave the magic bear that moves beneath one of the windows," murmured Ski's father. "Then will the bad luck pass from us."

He guided his dog team up under the very window out of which Ski had taken the bear, for the man could see Ski's footprints in the snow.

"There! Now I am done with you!" whispered Ski's father, as he dropped the Plush Bear in the snow and turned his dog team around to go back to his igloo.

As for the Plush Bear, his head moved, he growled, and his paws waved to and fro as long as the spring was wound up. But when it ran down, as it did in a little while, he was motionless. Except that now, as no one could see him, he was allowed to make believe come to life and could do as he pleased.

"Well, this is certainly a fine state of affairs!" said the Plush Bear to himself, speaking out loud, as there were no human ears to hear. "Taken away to an ice house, scaring an Eskimo family half to death, and then to be brought back here and dumped in a snow bank! It's a good thing I have on a warm plush coat, or I'd surely freeze! I wonder if I can get back into the shop?"

But this the Bear could not do. The window had been pulled down and shut by the Jumping Jacks, and the hole Ski had breathed in the icy pane was too small for the Plush Bear to crawl through, even if he could have reached it. He tried to call out, to make the toys inside hear him, so they might rescue him, but they had gone to sleep after their evening of fun.

So the Plush Bear had to stay out in the snow bank near the workshop of Santa Claus all night. It was cold and dreary, but he made the best of it.

"When morning comes they will take me in," he thought. "The night can not last forever."




Chapter IV

In The Toy Shop


Slowly the night passed. Well it was for the Plush Bear that he was warmly clad in such a warm coat, or he might have been frozen stiff. As it was, his wheels and springs had to be oiled several times after his long night spent in a snowdrift.

In the morning Santa Claus and his men hurried into the workshop after breakfast. There was a hum and a bustle, whistling and singing, and the sound of many tools being used.

"Lively, my merry men, lively!" cried Santa Claus, with a laugh, as he passed from bench to bench. "I will soon make a trip to Earth, and I shall need many toys to take with me. I want a big bagful to load into my sleigh. My reindeer are waiting. All I need is toys -- more toys -- all the toys you can make!"

"You shall have them, Santa Claus! You shall have them!" cried the merry little men, and they began to work as fast as they could.

At one of the benches Santa Claus observed a little man looking about as though in search of something. The little man moved his tools to one side, he shifted toys here and there, and then he looked under his bench.

"What are you looking for?" asked Santa Claus, as he passed up and down the aisles.

"Why, yesterday, I finished a fine Plush Bear," answered the workman. "I set it over here, but now it is gone. You did not take it to Earth, did you?"

"Oh, no," answered Santa Claus. "I have not been to Earth for some time. But I am going soon again. Ha! I know what may have happened," he said suddenly. "The windows were open yesterday. The Plush Bear may have fallen out of the window!"

It did not take the workman more than an instant to raise the sash and poke out his head. He looked down into the bank of snow under the window.

"Here he is!" he cried. "Just as you thought, Santa Claus, the Plush Bear fell out of the window! He isn't hurt a bit! I'll get him back again. Ho! Ho! My Plush Bear fell out of the window!"

Of course this didn't happen at all, but it was the only way Santa Claus and his men could think of the accident having happened. But we know about the little Eskimo boy, and how his father left the Plush Bear in the snow bank.

"There you are!" said the toy workman as he came in with the Plush Bear and set him on the bench again. "I'm glad to get you back. Only for your warm coat you might have frozen. I must see if you work all right."

But the cold had chilled the wheels and springs inside the Plush Bear, and it was not until after some warm oil had been poured on them that they worked properly again. Then, when the Plush Bear was wound up, he could growl, wag his head, and wave his paws as well as ever.

"Once more you are ready to go down to Earth, as soon as Santa Claus is ready to take you," said the workman, as he started to make a toy fire engine that, some day, would gladden the heart of a lucky boy.

As for the other toys in Santa Claus' shop, they had been very much surprised to see the Plush Bear brought back into their midst again. But while Saint Nicholas and his helpers were around, nothing could be said, no questions could be asked, and Plush Bear could tell none of his adventures.

But when night came again, and the Northern Lights glowed, when the janitor had mended the hole in the ice pane, breathed on by the Eskimo boy, when all was still and quiet, the Flannel Pig leaned over toward the Plush Bear and whispered:

"Where were you? What happened? Did you try to run away?"

"Indeed I did not run away! Some one ran away with me! An Eskimo boy, and he took me to his igloo, but his father would not let him keep me because he thought I was magic and would bring him bad luck," answered the Plush Bear.

"My, what marvelous adventures!" exclaimed the Wax Doll, who was fond of using big words. "Please tell us all about it."

"Yes, do," growled the Polar Bear. "And after that we can have a somersault race. You missed it last night. We thought you had fallen out of the window."

"I'll tell you of my adventures," said the Plush Bear, and he did, from the time Ski took him away until the workman found him in the snow bank.

"I told you his adventures would be marvelous," said the Wax Doll. "Nothing as strange will happen to you when you are taken to Earth, Mr. Plush Bear."

But just wait and see. You never can tell what is going to happen, and the Plush Bear may have even more strange adventures.

That night in the shop of Santa Claus passed all too soon for the Plush Bear. When he had finished telling his story the Flannel Pig cried:

"Let's have a game of tag!"

"All right! I'll be it!" agreed a Jumping Jack, and he was such a lively fellow that in less than a second he had tagged an Elephant. The Elephant was so large and such a slow chap that he was it for a long time. He could hardly tag any one, not even the Plush Bear and the Polar Bear, who, also being large animal toys, had to move slowly. But they were not as slow as the Elephant.

"Oh, this is no fun!" said the Elephant after a while. "I can't catch any of you! Let's play hide and go seek! I'll have some chance in that game!"

So they played that, and told stories and sang songs until it was almost morning, and time for Santa Claus and his men to open the shop again. Then the toys became quiet, as usual.

That day Saint Nicholas walked up and down among the benches and spoke to his workmen.

"I will go to Earth to-morrow," said Santa Claus. "Get ready all the toys you can, and I will fill my sleigh. I will load it to-night."

And the toys who heard this were very much excited, wondering who would be taken and who would be left.

"I'll take this Plush Bear!" said Santa Claus that evening, as he began selecting the toys he wanted for his sack to take to Earth. "And I'll take the Wax Doll, the Flannel Pig, and the Elephant. I want a lot of other dolls, plenty of drums, some Jumping Jacks, some Jacks in the Box, some toy soldiers, some toy engines, trains of cars, toy guns and enough more to fill my sack to running over. It is so near Christmas that I need all the toys I can pile into my sleigh."

The Plush Bear was lifted off the bench by one of the workmen and put in a box, after being wrapped in tissue paper.

"I hope they don't smother me!" thought the Bear, but he need not have been afraid. His last glimpse was of the Wax Doll. She, too, was well wrapped and placed in a box so her complexion would not be spoiled.

"I did hope I'd have a chance to bid farewell to the toys that are left," thought the Plush Bear, as he was placed in the sleigh of Santa Claus. "But some of them are coming with me, that's a comfort. We shall not have room to move around, though, and hardly a chance to talk on our trip to the Earth. However, I suppose it cannot be helped. This is part of our adventures in life."

A little later there was a merry jingle of bells, and Santa Claus could be heard calling:

"Hi, Prancer! Steady there, Dashaway! Wait a minute, Comet!"

"Those are the reindeer," whispered the Wax Doll, through the side of her box to the Plush Bear in his box.

"I supposed so," was the answer. "I hope I am not made seasick on this voyage through the air."

"Seasick! The idea! The sleigh of Santa Claus is not a boat!" squealed the Flannel Pig.

Then the sack of toys was lifted up and put in the sleigh. The reindeer shook their heads, making the bells jingle more merrily than ever. There came a jolly laugh from Santa Claus, and then he cried:

"Away we go! Over the ice! Over the snow! Down to the Earth below!"

And a moment later the Plush Bear and the other toys found themselves being swiftly carried through the cold air. But they were snug and warm in the sleigh of Santa Claus.

Of all the things that happened to the Plush Bear and the other toys on their trip from the shop of Santa Claus to Earth I have not room to tell you here. Enough to say that, unlike the Nodding Donkey, they suffered no accident. None of them was tossed out into a drift of snow. Then, finally, the big sack of toys was left at one of the many big buildings on Earth, whence they were to be divided among the toy shops.

And one day, after having been cooped up in his box for a long time, so, at least, it seemed to him, the Plush Bear's eyes were suddenly dazzled by a flash of light.

"I wonder if I am back at the North Pole," he thought. "Has that Eskimo boy caught me again, and is he taking me to his igloo? Are these Northern Lights that flash in front of me?"

But they were not, though they came from the same cause -- electricity. The glare that dazzled the eyes of the Plush Bear came from the electric lights of a large store, where he was being unpacked, together with other toys. There was a rustle of paper as the Plush Bear was unwrapped, and then a voice cried:

"Oh, Father, see what a fine toy! And it's the kind you wind up! Oh, I shall love this Plush Bear!"

"Do not squeeze him too tightly, Angelina," said a white-haired and white-whiskered old man, who was helping two women lift the toys out of the big box in which they had come. "You may break some of the wheels or springs."

"Oh, I shan't hug him too tightly," said Angelina, laughing. "But he is certainly a lovely Plush Bear."

"Yes, he is very nice," said the old gentleman. "What have you, Geraldine?" he asked his other daughter.

"An Elephant," was the answer. "But he doesn't wind up. However, he will look well in the window."

"Yes," said the old man, "to-morrow we will decorate the show windows for the Christmas trade. The Plush Bear must surely stand in the window. Some one will see him and buy him."

"Well, at last I seem to have reached a toy shop -- the very place I most wanted to come to," thought the Plush Bear. "I wonder who the old gentleman is?"

Had the Plush Bear been able to read he would have seen in white letters on one of the windows the name:

Horatio Mugg Toy Dealer

But the Plush Bear did not need this to tell him he was in the very place he wished to be.

"Now some girl or boy will buy me, I hope, and I shall have more adventures," thought the new toy.

The Plush Bear, who was taken from his box by Angelina, one of Mr. Mugg's daughters, was placed safely on a shelf, and the unpacking of the toys went on. It was evening, and the store was closed for the day. But Mr. Mugg took this time to open his new shipment of Christmas goods.

Geraldine had just lifted out the Wax Doll, and the Plush Bear was wondering when he would have a chance to talk to her and his other friends from the shop of Santa Claus when, all of a sudden, from the rear of the toy store, which was in darkness, came a strange sound.

There was a banging, slamming noise, then several bumps, and finally a loud whistle.

"Goodness; what's that?" exclaimed Angelina.

"I hope that isn't a policeman whistling, to tell us there is another fire!" said Geraldine.

"Or that burglars are trying to break in to take the new toys," added her sister.

They looked at their father, who laid down a Noah's Ark he was just looking at and started toward the back of the store. As he did so the noise became louder; bumping, banging, crashing, and above it all sounded the shrill toot-toot of whistles.

"Dear me, what is happening?" thought the Plush Bear.




Chapter V

The Fat Boy


Horatio Mugg, owner of the toy store where the Plush Bear was now at home, hurried to the back of the shop. It was here that the noise had come from, and the sound was still keeping up as Mr. Mugg turned on an electric light.

Then the Plush Bear, who was listening as closely as were Geraldine and Angelina, heard Mr. Mugg laugh, and with that the rattling, banging and tooting noise came to a stop.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Mr. Mugg again.

"What is it?" asked Angelina. "It isn't a burglar, evidently."

"Nor a policeman nor a fire," Geraldine added.

"None of them," answered Mr. Mugg. "One of the toy trains of cars that I wound up this evening just started off by itself. I guess some of the toys must have wanted a ride, and the Engineer of the toy train tooted his whistle to tell them to get aboard."

"Why, Father!" exclaimed Geraldine, "the toys couldn't want a ride. They can't do anything like that."

"Well, I wouldn't be so sure," said Mr. Mugg, as his two daughters entered the rear room to see what had caused all the racket. "Sometimes I feel that these toys know more than we think they do," he went on. "Take that new Plush Bear," he added, pointing to the other room where Bruin was sitting on a shelf. "See how wise he looks? He seems about to speak. And if he ever should come to life I think he would enjoy a ride in a toy train."

"Oh, but he can't come to life!" exclaimed Angelina.

"Ha! can't I, though?" whispered the Plush Bear to himself. "You just ought to see us toys after dark! No, on second thought, it is just as well you don't see us," he went on. "For if you looked at us we couldn't say a word or move about. It is best that you do not know we can pretend to be alive."

Angelina and Geraldine looked at the toy train which had caused the excitement. It was a new engine and cars that had been unpacked that evening by their father. Mr. Mugg had wound up the spring in the engine, which was very much like a real one, with a bell, whistle, and even an iron Engineer in the cab. The toy train, all wound up and ready to go, had been left on the floor in a rear room. Then, when Mr. Mugg and his daughters were unpacking the Plush Bear and other toys, the little train, in some manner, had started off by itself, had run along the floor, banging into the walls, bumping over other toys, and with the whistle going:

Toot! Toot! Toot!

"What started it?" asked Angelina, when the train had been put in a safe place.

"Oh, I think the spring began to unwind of itself," answered Mr. Mugg. "Or our walking around may have jarred the engine, and started it off. At any rate no harm is done, and now we must finish unpacking the toys."

The toy-dealer and his two daughters were soon busy over the large packing box, and the Plush Bear and his friends from the workshop of Santa Claus looked on, well pleased to be out of the box.

"This is ever so much a nicer place than the igloo of Ski, the Eskimo boy," thought the Plush Bear. "I would not want to be up in that bleak North Pole Land, unless I were with Santa Claus, and of course one cannot stay long in his workshop. I think I shall have much more fun here. There is so much light and happiness."

It was nearly midnight when Mr. Mugg and his daughters finished unpacking the toys. All about the floor wrapping paper and the covers of boxes were scattered. The toys, as they were taken out of the case, had been set on shelves about the room.

"This will be enough for to-night," said the toy-dealer after a while. "We will leave things as they are, now that we have all the toys unpacked. To-morrow I will put some in the show window, and the boys and girls will come to buy them."

"Be sure and put the Plush Bear in the window," said Angelina. "I know he'll be one of the first to go, he is so cute and he can do so many things when he is wound up. He shakes his head and moves his paws."

"He is a good toy," said Mr. Mugg. And a little later the toy shop was in darkness, except for one light that was left burning all night.

"Oh, ho!" thought the Plush Bear, when he saw Mr. Mugg and his daughters leave. "Now is our chance! Now we can come to life!"

He turned his head to one side, and spoke to the Wax Doll.

"How do you like it here?" asked the Plush Bear.

"Oh, very much," the Doll answered. "As soon as we get to know the other toys I'm sure we shall like it."

"We are glad to welcome you here," said a Jumping Jack, who had been in Mr. Mugg's store for a long time. "Make yourselves at home. After a bit we shall have some fun. You just came from North Pole Land, didn't you?"

"Yes," answered the Plush Bear. "But we like it here very much. Come, Miss Wax Doll," he went on, "allow me the pleasure of taking you for a walk through the shop."

The Wax Doll and the Plush Bear got down off the shelf where they had been put, and began to move about. Some of the other new toys did the same, while about them crowded the playthings that had been on the shelves and the counters for some days.

"Take a look through the store," suggested the older Jumping Jack to the Plush Bear, "and then come back and we'll have some fun."

The Plush Bear and the Wax Doll, who took hold of his paw, moved along through the different rooms of the toy store. Everywhere they went they were made welcome by the playthings that had been in stock for some time. The old toys were glad to welcome the new ones.

Suddenly the Plush Bear and the Wax Doll found themselves in a strange place. All about were shining tools, pots of glue, pieces of wood, strips of cloth, glass eyes, wooden arms and legs, odd ears, noses, tails and heads.

"Oh, what a queer place!" cried the Wax Doll. "I don't like it here! What is it?"

"I hardly know," answered the Plush Bear.

"This is the repair department," said the Jumping Jack, who had followed the two new toys. "It is here that Mr. Mugg mends the toys that get broken in the store, or toys that get broken when the boys and girls play with them. We had a fire here, not long ago, and the place is rather upset, but don't mind that. It is almost in order again, but there are always things scattered about in this repair department. If ever you lose an eye or an ear, Mr. Plush Bear, just come in here and Mr. Mugg will make you a new one," said the Jumping Jack.

"That's a comfort," answered the Plush Bear, laughing. "So you have had a fire here? I thought the place smelled rather smoky."

"It's just the way I smelled after I climbed up the string, too near the gas jet, and burned my trousers," said a voice that seemed to come from one of the shelves in the repair room.

"Who is that?" whispered the Wax Doll.

"The Calico Clown," answered the Jumping Jack. "He came here to have a new cap put on him."

"That's right," said the Clown, and he made a polite bow to the Plush Bear and the Wax Doll. "Sidney, the boy who owns me, was playing circus with me. His brother, who owns the Monkey on a Stick, was trying to make me jump over the Monkey, when my cap caught on the stick and was ripped off. So they brought me here to have Mr. Mugg make me a new one. But did you hear about how I burned my trousers?" asked the Calico Clown.

"I never did, having just arrived here," said the Plush Bear.

"Oh, you should hear that story!" cried the Clown. "It was quite funny in a way, though I did not think so at the time. In fact, there has been a book made about it, and about some of my other adventures. I must tell you of them."

"I should be delighted to hear them," said the Wax Doll, who seemed to have taken quite a liking to the Calico Clown.

"Baa! Baa!" suddenly called a voice from another shelf. "I have had adventures also. After you finish telling about how you burned your trousers, Mr. Clown, I'll tell how I was once down in a coal hole."

"Who is that?" asked the Plush Bear in a low tone of the Jumping Jack.

"That is a Lamb on Wheels," was the answer. "How comes it that you are here, Miss Lamb?" the Jack answered. "I didn't hear that you had had an accident."

"Oh, yes; but not a very bad one," bleated the Lamb. "One of my wheels came off when Mirabell, the little girl who owns me, let me fall. Her brother Arnold, who has a Bold Tin Soldier and his men, tried to fix me, but his father brought me here for Mr. Mugg to operate on. I shall be well again in a few days, and go back home. But who are the visitors?" asked the Lamb.

"Oh, excuse me," said the Jumping Jack. "Let me introduce Mr. Plush Bear and Miss Wax Doll from North Pole Land," and the Bear and Doll made polite bows, as did the Lamb on Wheels and the Calico Clown.

Then the toys talked together and had a good time among themselves until morning came, when they had to go back to their places and become quiet. As soon as the store was opened for business Mr. Mugg and his daughters began arranging the playthings. The Plush Bear was put in the show window, with the Wax Doll and some of the other new gifts. It was the first time in his life that he had been in such a place, and you may be sure the Plush Bear looked about him with eagerness.

He was gazing out into a busy street -- a street where people were passing up and down all the while -- a street in which there was a layer of newly-fallen snow, only not as much as at the North Pole.

"I wonder if Santa Claus is here?" thought the Plush Bear.

But he could not speak aloud because so many eyes -- those of the passers-by in the street and the customers in the store -- were watching. There was so much to see that the Plush Bear did not know at which to look first, but, all of a sudden, he heard a voice saying:

"Oh, I want that Plush Bear! I want that! Can he do any tricks?"

The Plush Bear felt himself being lifted out of the show window of the toy shop. The springs inside him were wound up by Mr. Mugg and when he was set down on a showcase near the window the Bear began to move his head and paws, and from his red mouth came a make-believe growl.

"Oh, I want him! I want him!" the eager voice went on, and the Plush Bear was caught up by a fat boy -- the very fattest and jolliest boy that the toy had ever seen. "I want this Plush Bear for my very own!" cried the fat boy. "He's the best toy I ever saw!"




Chapter VI

Out Of The Window


"Don't squeeze the Bear so hard, Arthur," said a lady who was with the fat boy. "You may break the toy before I have paid for him."

"The Plush Bear is strong and well-made, Mrs. Rowe," said Mr. Mugg. "He is one of the newest of the Christmas toys, and I only put him in the show window this morning."

"And I saw him when I was walking along!" exclaimed Arthur Rowe, the jolly fat boy. "As soon as I saw him I knew I'd like him! Oh, Mother, hear him growl! And see him wave his paws!"

Indeed the Plush Bear was doing all his tricks, for he had been wound up by Mr. Mugg for that very purpose. There he sat on the top of the glass showcase, growling away (make believe of course) and waving his paws like a real bear.

Other persons in the toy store crowded up to the showcase to watch the Plush Bear do his tricks, and Arthur, the jolly fat boy, laughed loud and long as his plaything amused the throng. For the Plush Bear was to belong to Arthur. Passing down the street early that Winter morning, he had seen the toy in Mr. Mugg's window, and had begged his mother to stop and go in and inquire about him.

"Wrap him up, Mr. Mugg, please," said Arthur, when the spring was all unwound and the wheels inside the Plush Bear no longer moved his paws and head and caused him to growl. "Wrap him up, and I'll take him home. I guess Dick and Arnold and Herbert and Sidney will wish they had a toy like this!"

The Plush Bear again felt himself being lifted up by Mr. Mugg, who put him in tissue paper and then in the same box in which the Bear had traveled to Earth from the shop of Santa Claus.

"Good-by, Wax Doll! Good-by, Jumping Jack, Elephant and all my friends," said the Plush Bear to himself as the tissue paper covered his eyes and shut out the sight of the other toys in the store. "Good-by! I don't know when I shall see you again!"

Of course the Plush Bear dared not say this out loud, for he was being watched. And he dared not move of his own accord for the same reason. He felt a little sad at leaving all his toy friends, but he liked the looks of the fat boy, and Arthur seemed like one who would make a kind master.

"Oh, what fun I'll have with my Plush Bear!" said the fat boy, as he walked out of the toy store with his mother. "I'll invite Dick over with his White Rocking Horse, Arnold with his Bold Tin Soldiers, Herbert with his Monkey on a Stick, and Sidney with his Calico Clown. We'll have a lot of fun!"

"I thought you said Sidney's Calico Clown was broken," remarked Mrs. Rowe as she and Arthur got into their automobile.

"Only the Clown's cap was torn off when they were playing circus the other day," said Arthur. "Mirabell's Lamb on Wheels was broken, too, and I guess they're both in Mr. Mugg's toy shop being fixed."

"Indeed they are there," thought the Plush Bear, who could hear all that was said through the tissue paper and his box. "I was talking to the Lamb and the Clown only last night. Well, it will not be so bad if I can see them once in a while. I should also like to meet the Wax Doll again, and the Elephant. I hope nice fat boys get them for presents."

Though it was cold outside of Mr. Mugg's store, the Plush Bear did not feel it. In the first place, he had on his own warm coat, which was almost like fur. Then he was wrapped in paper, and he was in a box, and he was inside the nice automobile. So he was even more comfortable than he had been at the North Pole, and ever so much more cozy than when he was in the igloo of Ski, the Eskimo boy.

"Look, Nettie! Look what I have!" cried Arthur, the fat boy, as he ran into the house as soon as the auto stopped. "I have a Bear that growls!"

Nettie, his little sister, who was running to meet her brother, carrying in her arms a Rag Doll, stopped when Arthur began to open the bundle he had carried from Mr. Mugg's store.

"I don't like growly bears!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, this bear is nice! He's a Plush Bear," Arthur said. "He wobbles his head and he jiggles his paws, and he growls, but it's only a make-believe growl. Look at my new Bear, Nettie!"

Arthur quickly took the wrappings from the Plush Bear and wound up the spring as Mr. Mugg had shown him. Then, when the Bear was set down on the floor, the toy began to wave his paws, to shake his head from side to side, and from his red mouth came several growls.

"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed Nettie, who had knelt down beside her brother to look at the Bear. "I don't like him when he growls!"

"Oh, he won't hurt you, Nettie!" laughed the fat boy Arthur. "See, he's waving his paw to you, and he only growls like your rubber doll squeaks. My Plush Bear is nice, Nettie."

And when the little girl found that the Bear did no harm, but only growled in a make-believe, jolly fashion, she decided to make friends with him. She sat down on the floor close beside him, and when the clockwork inside the toy had run down, and the Bear was still, Nettie took him up in her arms and loved him.

"Isn't he nice?" asked Arthur.

"Yes, pretty nice," agreed Nettie. "But he isn't as nice as my Rag Doll."

"Well, girls like dolls and boys like Plush Bears. That's the best way, I guess," said Arthur.

Then he and his sister played some more with the Plush Bear, winding him up, listening to his pretended growls, and watching him wave his paws and shake his head.

That night after the children had gone to bed and the Plush Bear was in the closet of the playroom with the Rag Doll, the Bear leaned over and whispered to the Doll:

"What sort of place is it here?"

"Oh, very nice!" the Rag Doll answered. "Two better children than Nettie and Arthur you could not wish for! And every Summer they go to the seashore."

"The seashore? Where is that?" asked the Plush Bear. "Is it near the North Pole?"

"Oh, my, no!" answered the Rag Doll. "It is so long since I was at the North Pole, where I once lived in the shop of Santa Claus, that I have almost forgotten about it. But the seashore is quite different. I have been there with Nettie for two summers. And, now that you belong to Arthur, I suppose he will take you there. It is very jolly down on the warm sand near the sparkling waves."

"I should very much like to see it," said the Plush Bear.

There were other toys in the closet, and they talked and had a good time together that night when Arthur and Nettie were fast asleep.

And then began a happy life for the Plush Bear. The Christmas season came and went, and Nettie and Arthur received other toys, but none that they cared for any more than they did for the Rag Doll and the Plush Bear. During the Winter days and evenings other boys and girls came over to play with Arthur and Nettie, bringing their toys. In this way the Plush Bear again met the Lamb on Wheels and the Calico Clown, each of whom had been made as good as new by Mr. Mugg.

At last the warm days of Summer came, and the Rowe family started in a train for the seashore. Nettie had her Rag Doll, and Arthur carried his Plush Bear. The children had seats near the window in the train, and Arthur held his Bear up to look out. It was a warm day and the window was open.

"Be careful, Arthur!" called his mother. "Don't put your head out!"

"I won't," the fat boy promised. But he did hold his Plush Bear part way out of the window. "I want to let him see things," said Arthur.

Suddenly the train slowed up, and so quickly that the Plush Bear was jerked from the fat boy's hand. Out of the car window fell the Plush Bear!




Chapter VII

On The Boardwalk


Down, down, down out of the window of the moving train fell the Plush Bear! He heard Arthur cry as his toy was jerked from his hands, and the toy had a strange feeling inside him as he turned over and over in his plunge.

"Talk about somersaults!" thought Mr. Bruin as he sailed downward. "The Polar Bear should see me now! I wonder what is going to happen to me! I have turned more somersaults in a minute than he turned in a whole evening at the North Pole!"

"Arthur! Arthur! what is the matter?" called the fat boy's mother, when she heard him cry.

"Oh, Mother! my Plush Bear has fallen out of the window!" Arthur answered. "I was showing him the sights, and the train jiggled him out of my hand!"

"And my Rag Doll almost went out of my window, but I held on to her," added Nettie.

"Oh, you have lost your nice new Plush Bear!" exclaimed Mrs. Rowe. "I wonder if we can get him back?"

"I fancy so," said Mr. Rowe, who was taking his family to the seashore. "The train is going to stop at this station, and I can run back and pick up Arthur's toy."

The fat boy felt better when he heard his father say this, but still he was afraid lest perhaps his plaything might have been broken in the tumble.

It was the sudden slowing of the train for the station stop that had caused Arthur to drop his Plush Bear. With a grinding of the brakes the cars came to a standstill, and Mr. Rowe, followed by Arthur, started for the door. Nettie also got down out of her seat.

"No, dear, you had better stay with me," her mother said. "Daddy will get the Plush Bear back if it can be found."

"Where you s'pose he is?" asked the little girl.

And now we must find that out ourselves.

Down! down! down! turning somersault after somersault, the Plush Bear fell. Arthur had held the toy up to the window just as the train was crossing a high bridge, beneath which ran a street. The railroad tracks were on an embankment, and in the street below trees were growing. The train ran over the bridge, or trestle, above the trees.

And it was into one of these trees, growing down in the street, that the Plush Bear fell. Right down among the branches he plunged, but as it was now Summer, and there were leaves on the trees, it was almost like falling on a soft sofa cushion.

"I'm glad this tree was here!" thought the Plush Bear, as he landed on a branch among the soft leaves. "If I had struck on the hard street or on the sidewalk there is no telling what would have happened. I don't believe I'm at all hurt now."

And indeed he was not. Aside from being shaken up and having his plush ruffled, the Bear was not in the least harmed. But had he landed on the road one of his springs inside or some of his wheels might have been broken or twisted, and he never could have growled again or moved his head or paws. That is, unless Mr. Mugg could have mended him.

As it was, the Plush Bear fell down into the tree, and there he stuck on a branch not far from the ground. The Plush Bear sat astraddle the limb.

"Oh, I am not safe yet!" he thought. "Maybe I'll fall after all! I must keep very still and quiet until I see what will happen next."

By this time the train had stopped and Arthur and his father were alighting at the small station.

"This isn't where you get off," said the conductor to Mr. Rowe. "This isn't the seashore."

"I know it," said Mr. Rowe. "But my little boy dropped his Plush Bear out of the window, and we're going back to see if we can get it. Have we time?"

"Yes," answered the conductor. "The train has to wait here five minutes to have some trunks taken off. But don't be too long. I hope you may find the little boy's toy."

Arthur hoped so himself, as he hurried down to the street level.

"Where do you think my Bear is, Daddy?" he asked.

"It must be somewhere near the bridge," was the answer. "I heard you call out as the train rumbled over it."

Along the street which ran near the railroad walked Arthur and his father. As they walked they looked carefully on the ground for sight of the Plush Bear, but he was not to be found.

"I'm sure you must have dropped him about here," said Mr. Rowe, as he and the fat boy stood beneath the railroad bridge. "But he isn't in sight. Perhaps some one picked him up."

"Oh, is my nice Plush Bear gone?" sighed Arthur.

He looked all around, but Mr. Bruin, as the Bear was sometimes called, was not in sight. Then a ragged little boy, who had been flying a kite, came running along the street.

"What's the matter?" asked the ragged lad. "Did you lose your ball?"

"No; it's my Plush Bear," answered Arthur. "I dropped him out of the car window, but I don't see him now."

The ragged boy looked up into the tree under which he and the fat boy and Mr. Rowe were standing. There, right over their heads, stretched out on a limb to which he seemed to be clinging with all four paws, was the Plush Bear. The toy had been looking down at Arthur and his father, and he had been wishing he might call and tell them where he was, but of course this was not allowed.

"I see him! I'll get him for you!" cried the ragged boy.

In another moment he was climbing the tree, and a little later he tossed down the Plush Bear, Mr. Rowe catching the toy in his hands.

"Now I have him back again! Oh, I'm so glad! Now I have my Plush Bear!" cried Arthur. "I'll never let you fall out of a window again!"

"I should hope not!" said Mr. Rowe, as he gave his fat son the toy. "And here is twenty-five cents for you, little man," he added to the ragged boy.

"Oh, thanks!" cried the barefoot lad, as he ran away down the street, the shining silver quarter held tightly in his hand. Then Arthur and his father went back to their train, the fat boy holding the Plush Bear in his arms.

"Oh, you found him! I'm so glad!" said Mrs. Rowe, as her husband and son took their seats and the train started. "You must be careful after this, Arthur."

"I will," promised the little boy.

"And I'm going to be careful of my Rag Doll," said Nettie, as she held her plaything on her lap.

There were no more accidents during the trip to the seashore, which was reached in the afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Rowe went to the hotel with their son and daughter, and of course the Plush Bear and the Rag Doll went also.

"Where is this ocean you talked about?" asked the Plush Bear of the Rag Doll when they had a moment alone together.

"Oh, it is outside. Did you think they kept the ocean in the hotel?" asked the Doll, with a laugh.

"I didn't know," the Bear remarked. "Is this a hotel?"

"Yes; it's a great big house where the family lives while at the seashore," the Doll said. "You'll like it here. This is my third summer, and I -- "

But just then the door opened and Arthur and Nettie came running into the room. Of course the toys could no longer talk to each other.

"We're going down on the boardwalk in wheeled chairs!" cried Nettie. "I'm going to take my Rag Doll."

"And I'll take my Plush Bear," said Arthur. "To-morrow I'll play with him on the sand."

"I wonder what all this means -- wheeled chairs -- sand -- boardwalk?" thought the Plush Bear. "So many things are happening I cannot keep track of them!"

Suddenly he found himself shut up with the two children and the Rag Doll in a sort of iron cage. And, all of a sudden, it began to go down.

"Goodness! am I falling again?" thought the Plush Bear.

He looked at the Rag Doll, but she did not seem to be startled. And then he heard Nettie say:

"Don't you like to go down in the elevator, Arthur?"

"Yes, it's lots of fun," answered the fat boy.

"Oh, it seems I am in an elevator," thought the Plush Bear. "Something else new!"

He soon grew used to the motion, and a little later he and Arthur, with Nettie and her Doll, were seated in a big chair on Wheels, and were being pushed along a broad wooden walk by a colored man.

"Isn't there a big crowd on the boardwalk?" said Arthur to his sister, as they were being wheeled along.

"Yes, but not as large as this time last year," replied the little girl. "Look out, Arthur!" she suddenly cried. "Your Bear is slipping! If he falls under the wheels he'll be run over!"

Arthur made a grab for his toy, which had been resting in his lap, but he was not quick enough. Down out of the wheeled chair slipped the Plush Bear! Down to the boardwalk, and right toward him rumbled another big double chair, in which sat a fat man and a large woman.

"I guess this is the last of me!" thought the Plush Bear.




Chapter VIII

In The Sand


Sometimes things occur very luckily in this world. If it had not happened that the colored man, who was pushing the big, double, wheeled chair, looked down at the boardwalk and saw the Plush Bear just in time, Mr. Bruin would have been crushed. His spring that made him move his head and paws and the growler inside him would have been broken to bits. But, as it happened, the colored chair-pusher saw the Plush Bear fall from the lap of Arthur Rowe, who sat beside his sister Nettie in a chair on the boardwalk at the seaside city.

"Hi! My land! Wait a minute!" shouted the colored man.

"Maybe he is going to save me!" thought the Plush Bear, who had seen the rubber-tired wheels coming nearer and nearer.

"What's the matter, Sam?" asked the man in the big rolling chair.

At the same time Arthur leaned forward with a cry of alarm, for he saw his Plush Bear had slipped, as it had slipped from him and out of the car window the day before.

"Li'l boy done drop his play-toy!" answered Sam, the colored man. "I come nigh onto runnin' ober it. Heah it is, li'l man," went on the chair-pusher as he picked up the Plush Bear and handed him back to Arthur.

"Oh, thank you!" exclaimed Arthur, while Nettie, who had seen what almost had happened, held her Rag Doll tighter in her arms.

"I'm not going to drop Polinda, not ever!" declared Nettie. Polinda was the name of her doll. When Nettie first received the toy she had wanted to call the doll Polly, but the little girl next door said Lucinda would be a better name. So Nettie mixed up both names and called her doll Polinda, which is a very good name, I think.

With his Plush Bear safe in his arms once more, Arthur leaned back in his rolling chair. He and Nettie smiled at the lady and gentleman in the chair that had almost run over Mr. Bruin, and then the two chairs were pushed on by the men rolling them. Just behind Arthur and his sister, in another chair, were Mr. and Mrs. Rowe, but they had been so busy, looking at the sights along the boardwalk, they had not seen how nearly there was an accident.

"Is your Bear all right?" asked Nettie of her brother, as they were wheeled along. "I mean will his head nod?"

"His head doesn't exactly nod," replied Arthur. "I guess you're thinking of Joe's Nodding Donkey. But my Bear wags his head."

"Maybe he won't now, after all that happened," suggested Nettie.

"Oh, I guess he will," said Arthur. "But I'll wind him up and see."

He turned the key that wound up the spring, and as soon as it was tight enough the Plush Bear began to move his paws, shake his head from side to side and growl in a gentle voice, just as Santa Claus had intended he should do.

"He's all right," said Arthur.

"Thank goodness for that!" exclaimed the Plush Bear to himself. "One never knows what may happen when one falls out of a car window and then from a wheeled chair to the boardwalk. I might have got a lot of slivers in me, or have loosened a wheel! I'm glad I'm all right."

After an hour spent on the boardwalk, seeing the many sights and looking at the waves of the ocean rolling up on the sandy beach, Arthur and his sister, with their father and mother, went back to their hotel. Evening was coming on and it was time for supper, or dinner as it is called in fashionable seaside hotels, for the principal meal is served in the evening instead of at noon.

"I wish we could go down and play on the sand," said Nettie, as she and her brother got out of the wheeled chair. "My Rag Doll wants to go barefoot on the beach."

"And I think my Plush Bear would like it, too," said Arthur.

"You may go down and play in the sand all day to-morrow," promised their mother.

"Oh, won't we have fun!" cried Nettie. "Maybe my Rag Doll can learn to swim."

"Well, swimming won't hurt her," said Arthur; "but I'm not going to let my Plush Bear get in the water. I'm going to make a sand cave for him to live in."

"Well, it seems I am to have some fun," thought the toy, as he was taken up in the elevator.

The Plush Bear did not like the elevator very much. It gave him a queer feeling among his wheels and spring; and his grunter, by means of which he growled, seemed to be turning over and over. But this did not last long, and while Arthur and Nettie, with their parents, were at dinner in the hotel, the Bear and the Doll had a chance to talk.

"How do you like it at this fashionable seaside hotel?" asked the Bear.

"Quite well," answered the Doll, lifting her eyebrows the way she had seen some ladies doing in the hotel parlor as she was carried in. "I wish Nettie would put a different dress on me, though," the Doll added. "It is fashionable to dress here in the evening, but she has left my old clothes on."

"Old clothes are best," growled the Bear. "You feel more comfortable in them. I don't need any, I'm glad to say, not even at the cold North Pole. But say, Rag Doll, now we're alone, let's do something."

"I know what we can do!" the Rag Doll exclaimed. "All my life I have wanted to play with the glistening things in a hotel bathroom. I want to work the shower, and turn the shiny handles. There are ever so many more than we have at home. Come on into the bathroom, and let's turn every handle we see!"

"All right," agreed the Plush Bear. "That'll be fun!"

And there is no telling what mischief he and the Rag Doll might have got into, only, just then, in came Nettie and Arthur, having finished dinner.

"I'm going to play with my Plush Bear!" cried the fat boy.

"And I'm going to get my Rag Doll to sleep," said Nettie. "It's time she was in bed."

The Doll and the Bear could only look slyly at one another. There was no chance now for them to have fun with the shiny handles in the bathroom. But perhaps it was just as well.

That night, when Arthur and Nettie, as well as their father and mother were asleep, the Bear and Doll had a chance to make believe come to life, move about, and speak.

"But we won't turn the handles in the bathroom and splash the water now," said the Doll. "It would make such a noise that they'd awaken and we'd be caught. But what can we do?"

"Let's look out the windows," suggested the Plush Bear. So, climbing up first on little stools, and then on chairs, the two toys looked from the hotel windows. They saw many lights sparkling, and out to sea was a tall lighthouse with a gleaming beacon which flickered like a giant lightning bug.

In the morning Arthur and Nettie went down on the sand to play, the little fat boy taking his Plush Bear and Nettie her Rag Doll.

"Oh, what a dandy Teddy Bear!" cried a small, red-haired chap as he ran along the beach to play with Arthur.

"This isn't a Teddy Bear," explained Arthur. "He's a Plush Bear, and he can move his head and his paws and he can growl."

"Let's hear him!" begged the red-haired boy.

So Arthur wound up the spring, and, surely enough, the toy did all those things.

"Oh, he's a dandy!" cried the red-haired lad. "If you let me play with him, I'll let you take my airship that flies."

"We'll take turns playing with them," said Arthur, and then began a happy time for the children. Some little girls came over to play with Nettie, and they had lots of fun on the sand.

After a while Arthur happened to think of what he had said he was going to do -- dig a sand cave for his Bear.

"We'll make a big one," he said to the red-haired lad. "We'll dig a big hole."

"With clam shells!" cried the other lad, and, putting aside the Plush Bear and the airship, the two little friends began to make a large hole in the sand. When it was finished the Plush Bear was put down in it, and some sticks were stuck up in front.

"We'll make believe the sticks are the bars of his cage," said Arthur. "We'll pretend he's a circus Bear."

"Oh, yes," agreed the red-haired boy. "That's lots of fun."

So they played with the Plush Bear in the hole of the sand for some time. Then other boys and girls came along, joining in the fun, and pretty soon some children rode past on ponies.

"Oh, I'm going to ask mother if we can't ride on the ponies!" cried Nettie.

"So'm I!" added her brother, and, forgetting all about the Plush Bear in the hole, away they ran to tease for ponies to ride. Mrs. Rowe was sitting on the sand not far from where the children had been playing.

"Yes, Arthur and Nettie, you may ride the ponies," she said. "I'll take you down and tell the man to put you on."

And in the excitement of the pony ride Arthur forgot all about his Plush Bear in the sand cave. The toy was left there all alone, and he did not know what to think.

"I wonder if I dare knock down those sticks they call bars and climb out?" thought the toy. "I don't believe any one is looking." He was just going to do this when along the beach dashed one of the ponies with a little girl on his back. The pony stepped close to the hole where the Plush Bear was, and in another instant the sand caved in, covering Mr. Bruin from sight!




Chapter IX

Out To Sea


Sand ran down into the eyes of the Plush Bear. Grains of sand tickled his plush toes. Some even got in his plush mouth that he opened when he gave his growls. Other grains of sand trickled between the joints of his paws and his body.

"Oh, dear, this is terrible!" said Mr. Bruin, as he found himself in darkness when the hole into which Arthur had placed him caved in from the feet of the pony. "This is simply terrible!"

But though the Plush Bear, being by himself, was allowed to talk and move about, pretending to come to life, he soon found that it was not wise to open his mouth. The wider he opened it the more sand came in.

"What shall I do?" thought the Plush Bear to himself, not opening his mouth to say anything this time. "How am I ever going to get out of here?"

Well might he ask himself that, for the sand was so closely packed in about him that he could hardly move. Even though the spring inside him was wound up, the Plush Bear could not turn his head nor wave his paws. As for growling, he knew better than to try that.

"Well, something must be done!" thought the Plush Bear. "If I stay in this sand hole too long I'll smother! I wonder why Arthur doesn't come and take me out? He always said he was fond of me!"

But Arthur, the fat boy, was just then having a glorious ride on a pony, and Nettie, his sister, was also having a ride. For the time being the children had forgotten about their toys. Nettie had left her Rag Doll and Arthur his Plush Bear. But the Rag Doll was not buried in the sand.

Up and down along the sand rode the children on the backs of the beach ponies. But at last Mrs. Rowe decided that Nettie and Arthur had had fun enough, so she helped them out of the little saddles.

"Get your playthings and come to the hotel. We must dress for dinner," she said. "Where is your Rag Doll, Nettie? And your Plush Bear, Arthur?"

"I left my Rag Doll on the sand," answered Nettie. "I'll get her."

"And I left my Plush Bear -- Oh, I left him in the sand circus cage, where I was playing he was a wild Bear!" cried Arthur. "Oh, I forgot, I left my nice Plush Bear in a hole!"

"You'd better get him out as soon as you can," said his mother.

The children remembered the spot where they had been playing on the sand before they took the pony rides. Nettie ran back there, and soon found her Rag Doll.

"But where's my Plush Bear?" asked Arthur anxiously, looking up and down the beach. "I made a hole here, right by Nettie's Doll, and I put sticks in the hole, like bars in a circus cage, and I left my Plush Bear in the hole."

"Are you sure this is the place?" asked Mrs. Rowe, as she, too, looked searchingly up and down the sand. She did not want Arthur to lose his toy.

"It was right here," declared the fat boy.

"I don't see any hole," went on Mrs. Rowe. Of course she did not know that the pony had scattered the sand, filling up the little cave Arthur had made.

"Oh, where is my Plush Bear?" cried the little fat boy, and he was almost ready to cry. His mother and Nettie helped him look. So did other children, wandering up and down the beach, but there was no sign of the toy. Then a coast guard, one of the men who march up and down the sands, keeping watch for shipwrecks, came along the boardwalk.

"Have you lost something?" asked the guard, as he came down the steps from the boardwalk to the beach.

"We lost a Bear," said Arthur.

"A bear?" cried the guard, in surprise. "A -- a bear?"

"My little boy means a Plush Bear," explained Mrs. Rowe, and then she told what had happened.

"Oh, a toy, buried in the sand," said the guard, laughing. "Well, that's too bad. Right around here, was it? Well, I happened to be passing this afternoon, and I noticed just about the spot where the children were sitting on the sand. I didn't see the Plush Bear, but I know the children were digging, and it wasn't at this spot -- it was nearer the ocean. Over here it was," the guard went on, moving away from the place where Arthur had been sure he had made the cave for the toy. "You see, we coast guards get in the habit of noticing things and remembering where they are," he added. "You were looking in the wrong place. I fancy your Bear must have been covered up in some way. I'll dig here!"

With a stick the guard began digging, and in a little while he uncovered the Plush Bear.

"Oh, there he is! There he is!" cried Arthur, as he saw his toy again. "Oh, thank you for finding him for me!" and he took his plaything from the hands of the coast guard.

"Yes, that's what I say -- thanks a whole lot of times!" murmured the Plush Bear to himself, as once more he was able to breathe. "This was the most terrible adventure I ever had!"

But the Plush Bear was to have one even worse, as you shall soon hear.

"You must be more careful of your toys, Arthur," said his mother, as, having thanked the man, she and her children went back to the hotel.

"I'll never put him in a sand hole again," promised the little fat boy.

That night, when Arthur and Nettie were snug in their beds, and the Plush Bear and the Rag Doll were in a closet by themselves, the Doll leaned over and said:

"Wasn't it terrible, Mr. Bear?"

"It certainly was," agreed the Plush Bear. "I'm full of grit as it is. Sand is all over me, even though Arthur did brush me off with a little broom. I seem to squeak instead of growling as I ought to."

"Oh, well, maybe you'll be better after a while," said the Rag Doll. Then she and the Plush Bear talked together in the darkness, but the Bear did not feel like playing. He was too much shocked by having been buried in the sand.

"Now we're going to have some fun, Plush Bear!" cried Arthur the next morning, as he took his toy from the closet. "We're going in swimming!"

"Swimming? Swimming?" repeated the Plush Bear to himself. "I wonder what that means?"

If he had been a real bear he would have known, for real bears, that live in the woods, are very fond of playing in the water. But, being only a Santa Claus toy, the Plush Bear knew nothing of this.

A little later Arthur and Nettie were down on the sand in their bathing suits. All along the beach were many other children and grown folk, too, in their bathing suits. Nettie carried her Rag Doll and Arthur had his Plush Bear.

"Oh, Arthur! you aren't going to take your toy into the water with you, are you?" asked his mother.

"No'm," the little fat boy answered. "I'm just going to play with him on the sand till Daddy comes to teach me to swim. And I'm not going to put my Bear in a hole, either!"

"I'm glad of that, anyhow," thought the Plush Bear, who heard all that was said. "Once in a sand hole is enough for me."

Arthur's father was going to teach the little fat boy to swim, and while waiting for Daddy, Arthur played about on the sand with the Plush Bear, as Nettie played with her Rag Doll.

Now and then Arthur, with the Plush Bear in his arms, would wade out a little way into the water, and he would laugh, and run back, as the incoming tide would send a wave over his bare toes.

"Be careful, Sonny!" called his mother, as she watched him. "The waves are getting higher and higher. I wish your father would come and give you your swimming lesson."

"Oh, I'm having fun!" laughed the fat boy. "My Plush Bear likes me to carry him out, but I won't let him fall in the ocean."

Once more the little fat boy started to wade down the beach. Nettie had gone back to sit with her mother and, for a moment, Arthur was all by himself. Except, of course, he had the Plush Bear with him.

"Look and see how big the ocean is, Mr. Bear," said Arthur, holding his toy up above the waves. And just then a bigger wave than any that had yet rolled up the beach broke right at Arthur's feet.

In an instant the big wave had knocked the little fellow down. Arthur gave a scream, and his father, who had just arrived in his bathing suit, ran to get his little boy. Arthur had let go the Plush Bear when the wave knocked him down.

Into the water fell the toy, and, a moment later, when the wave washed back into the ocean, it took Mr. Bruin with it. Right out to sea the Plush Bear was washed, on the top of the big wave!

"Oh! Oh, dear! What is going to happen to me now?" thought the poor Plush Bear.




Chapter X

Saved At Last


When the big wave knocked Arthur down and the little fat boy dropped the Plush Bear into the sea, that toy expected he would at once sink to the bottom and be drowned. It was the first time he had ever fallen into the water. At the North Pole, where he had been made in the workshop of Santa Claus, it is so cold nearly all the time that all water is frozen into ice, and there is very little into which one may fall.

"This is the last of me!" thought the poor Plush Bear, as he felt the water closing over his head. Faintly he heard the screams of Arthur, as the waves rolled the fat boy over and over on the beach. But Arthur's father quickly sprang in and picked up his little fat son, saving him.

There was no one at hand just then to save the Plush Bear.

"Yes, this is the last of me!" thought Mr. Bruin. But, to his surprise, he found that, after his first drop into the ocean when the waters closed over his head, he bobbed up again and floated nicely like a piece of wood.

Much of what was inside the Plush Bear was sawdust and cork, making him very light, so that, though he did not know it, he was a better floater than was Arthur.

The Plush Bear had been careful not to breathe when he fell into the sea, so he did not sniff any water up his nose. And after the first shock he did not feel bad. The water was warm, and by keeping his mouth closed the Plush Bear did not taste any of the salt. There he was, floating on his back, his big, yellow eyes staring up at the sun and the blue sky. And now, as the tide had turned and was going out, the Bear was carried out to sea with it.

Back on the beach there was much excitement when Arthur's father had pulled the fat boy out of the sea. But it was soon found that Arthur was all right, except that he had swallowed a little salt water.

"But where's my Plush Bear?" Arthur cried, when he had been dried and comforted by his mother. "Where's my Plush Bear?"

Where, indeed? Well might Arthur ask that, for his Plush Bear was being carried far, far out to sea on the waves.

"Oh, Arthur! did you drop Mr. Bruin when the wave knocked you down?" asked Nettie.

"I guess -- I guess I did!" answered her brother sadly.

"Then that's the last of your Plush Bear," said Arthur's father. "But don't cry!" he told the little boy. "I'll get you another. Don't cry! There is salt water enough around here without your adding to it by your tears!" he laughed. But Arthur felt too unhappy to laugh.

And all this while Mr. Bruin was floating on the waves.

"This is certainly the strangest thing that ever happened to me," thought the Plush Bear. "I thought surely my end had come when Arthur dropped me. But, though I am all wet outside, I seem to be dry inside."

On and on floated the Plush Bear; then, all of a sudden, he heard voices talking. The voices were those of men and children, and not the voices of toys.

"Don't you like it here, Joe?" asked a boy.

"Yes, I do, Herbert," was the answer. "And my Nodding Donkey likes it, too."

"My Monkey on a Stick is having fun, and he isn't seasick a bit," said the boy who had been called Herbert. "He loves to ride in a motor boat, my Monkey does."

"What's this? What's this!" thought the Plush Bear. "Nodding Donkey? Monkey on a Stick?"

He tried to raise himself in the water to look toward the place whence came the voices, but the Plush Bear could see nothing. A moment later, though, he heard one of the boys call:

"Oh, look! What's that floating in the water?"

"It's a fish!" said the other boy.

"That isn't a fish! It's some sort of floating toy," was the answer in a man's voice. "Well, I declare, it's a Teddy Bear!"

"I'm not a Teddy Bear at all," said Mr. Bruin to himself; "but if you rescue me from the water you may call me anything you wish."

A moment later, after he had been afloat for some hours, the Plush Bear felt himself being lifted from the sea, and in another second he was placed in the bottom of a motor boat. In the boat were two men and two boys, but when the water had run out of his eyes the Plush Bear was more interested in looking at two other toys which were also in the boat.

On one seat was a Nodding Donkey who seemed to be bowing in a most pleasant and jolly fashion to the Plush Bear. And on the other seat, beside a boy, was a Monkey on a Stick.

"Oh, I have heard of these toys," thought the Plush Bear. "They, too, were once in the shop of Santa Claus! Oh, how glad I am! I'm saved at last!"

"Where do you suppose this Plush Bear came from?" asked Joe, the boy who had the Nodding Donkey.

"I think he must have fallen overboard out of some boat when some children were being given a ride, just as you boys are having a ride," said the father of Herbert. Herbert, you know, owned the Monkey on a Stick.

"I wish I could keep that Plush Bear," softly said Joe. "Now that I'm not lame any more I could run around and have fun with him."

"It is a very nice Plush Bear," said Mr. Richmond, Joe's father, as he examined the wet toy. "Some little boy or girl will be glad to get it back. It doesn't seem to be much harmed." He wound up the spring and at once the Plush Bear began to move his paws, wag his head, and growl. The growl was a trifle rusty and a bit gritty from the sand still inside the works, but that did not matter.

"We'll take the Plush Bear back to shore with us," said Joe's father. "Perhaps some children stopping at one of the hotels, or even at our own hotel, may claim this toy. We must find out. I'll put the Bear on his back in the sun so he'll dry."

"And I'll put my Nodding Donkey back there, too, so Mr. Bruin won't be lonesome," offered Joe.

"Put my Monkey there, too," said Herbert.

So the three toys were placed near each other on the back seat of the boat, and then the two boys and their father gathered in the bow, or front part, to look across the ocean. They were out for a pleasure ride.

"How did you come to be floating in the sea all by yourself?" asked the Nodding Donkey in a whisper of the Plush Bear.

"A big wave knocked Arthur down and he dropped me," was the answer, in the same low voice.

The Plush Bear was just going to tell more of his adventures when the motor boat was run up alongside a dock, and the party got out.

"I'll carry the Plush Bear," said Joe's father. "He isn't quite dry yet. We'll take him to our hotel, and I'll tell the clerk to post up a notice, saying the toy was found at sea. Then whoever owns him may claim him."

But matters were not going to turn out just that way. As it happened, Joe and Herbert were stopping at the same hotel where Arthur and Nettie were with their father and mother. Joe and Herbert had just arrived that day, which was why Arthur and Nettie had not seen their little friends before.

Coming back from their boat ride, on which they had rescued at sea the Plush Bear, the two men and the two boys entered the hotel. As they walked toward the desk, Mr. Richmond carrying the Plush Bear, there was a cry of delight from a small boy who fairly leaped out of a big, easy chair.

"There's my Plush Bear! There's my Plush Bear!" cried Arthur, for it was he. "Oh, where did you get him?" he cried, as he looked at the damp toy in Mr. Richmond's hand.

"Is this your toy?" asked Joe's father.

"Oh, yes, that's my Mr. Bruin!" cried Arthur. "I dropped him in the ocean when a big wave knocked me down, and I thought he was drowned. Oh, where'd you get him?"

"He was floating on a wave, and we saw him from our motor boat," explained Joe. And then Herbert, with his Monkey on a Stick, stepped forward, and Nettie came out of her chair, and the children were soon all together, laughing with each other in the hotel parlor.

Arthur wound up his toy, which seemed to work as well as ever, though it was still damp.

"Now we can have lovely fun!" said Nettie, when the story of the rescue of Mr. Bruin had been told by those who were in the boat. "I can play with my Rag Doll, Herbert can make his Monkey do funny tricks, the Donkey will nod his head and Arthur's Bear will growl."

And so the children played in the hotel with their toys, while their fathers and mothers talked together.

"That Plush Bear has had many adventures," said Mrs. Rowe to Joe's mother. "He fell out of a car window, he was buried in the sand, and he was carried out to sea." Of course she knew nothing of the time he had spent in the ice igloo of the little Eskimo boy.

"Yes," said Mrs. Richmond, "Joe's Donkey had many adventures, also."

"And so did Herbert's Monkey," said that little boy's mother.

"Adventures! I should say so!" exclaimed the Plush Bear to the Donkey and Monkey, when they were alone for a moment. "But I never want to fall into the ocean again!"

And he never did, I am glad to say. I wish I might tell you more of the adventures of the Monkey, the Donkey, the China Cat and Plush Bear. But this book is quite filled, as you may see. Though of course I may write other books about other toys if you think you would like them. But now we must say good-by to the Plush Bear.

<eob>

The Belgian Twins

By

Lucy Fitch Perkins



I

The Harvest-Field

It was late in the afternoon of a long summer's day in Belgium. Father Van Hove was still at work in the harvest-field, though the sun hung so low in the west that his shadow, stretching far across the level, green plain, reached almost to the little red-roofed house on the edge of the village which was its home. Another shadow, not so long, and quite a little broader, stretched itself beside his, for Mother Van Hove was also in the field, helping her husband to load the golden sheaves upon an old blue farm-cart which stood near by.

Them were also two short, fat shadows which bobbed briskly about over the green meadow as their owners danced among the wheat-sheaves or carried handfuls of fresh grass to Pier, the patient white farm-horse, hitched to the cart. These gay shadows belonged to Jan and Marie, sometimes called by their parents Janke and Mie, for short. Jan and Marie were the twin son and daughter of Father and Mother Van Hove, and though they were but eight years old, they were already quite used to helping their father and mother with the work of their little farm.

They knew how to feed the chickens and hunt the eggs and lead Pier to water and pull weeds in the garden. In the spring they had even helped sow the wheat and barley, and now in the late summer they were helping to harvest the grain.

The children had been in the field since sunrise, but not all of the long bright day had been given to labor. Early in the morning their father's pitchfork had uncovered a nest of field mice, and the Twins had made another nest, as much like the first as possible, to put the homeless field babies in, hoping that their mother would find them again and resume her interrupted housekeeping.

Then they had played for a long time in the tiny canal which separated the wheat-field from the meadow, where Bel, their black and white cow, was pastured. There was also Fidel, the dog, their faithful companion and friend. The children had followed him on many an excursion among the willows along the river-bank, for Fidel might at any moment come upon the rabbit or water rat which he was always seeking, and what a pity it would be for Jan and Marie to miss a sight like that!

When the sun was high overhead, the whole family, and Fidel also, had rested under a tree by the little river, and Jan and Marie had shared with their father and mother the bread and cheese which had been brought from home for their noon meal. Then they had taken a nap in the shade, for it is a long day that begins and ends with the midsummer sun. The bees hummed so drowsily in the clover that Mother Van Hove also took forty winks, while Father Van Hove led Pier to the river for a drink; and tied him where he could enjoy the rich meadow grass for a while.

And now the long day was nearly over. The last level rays of the disappearing sun glistened on the red roofs of the village, and the windows of the little houses gave back an answering flash of light. On the steeple of the tiny church the gilded cross shone like fire against the gray of the eastern sky.

The village clock struck seven and was answered faintly by the sound of distant chimes from the Cathedral of Malines, miles away across the plain.

For some time Father Van Hove had been standing on top of the load, catching the sheaves which Mother Van Hove tossed up to him, and stowing them away in the farm-wagon, which was already heaped high with the golden grain. As the clock struck, he paused in his labor, took off his hat, and wiped his brow. He listened for a moment to the music of the bells, glanced at the western sky, already rosy with promise of the sunset, and at the weather-cock above the cross on the church-steeple. Then he looked down at the sheaves of wheat, still standing like tiny tents across the field.

"It's no use, Mother," he said at last; "we cannot put it all in to-night, but the sky gives promise of a fair day to-morrow, and the weather-cock, also, points east. We can finish in one more load; let us go home now."

"The clock struck seven," cried Jan. "I counted the strokes."

"What a scholar is our Janke!" laughed his mother, as she lifted the last sheaf of wheat on her fork and tossed it at Father Van Hove's feet. "He can count seven when it is supper-time! As for me, I do not need a clock; I can tell the time of day by the ache in my bones; and, besides that, there is Bel at the pasture bars waiting to be milked and bellowing to call me."

"I don't need a clock either," chimed in Marie, patting her apron tenderly; "I can tell time by my stomach. It's a hundred years since we ate our lunch; I know it is."

"Come, then, my starvelings," said Mother Van Hove, pinching Marie's fat cheek, "and you shall save your strength by riding home on the load! Here, Ma mie, up you go!"

She swung Marie into the air as she spoke. Father Van Hove reached down from his perch on top of the load, caught her in his arms, and enthroned her upon the fragrant grain.

"And now it is your turn, my Janke!" cried Mother Van Hove, "and you shall ride on the back of old Pier like a soldier going to the wars!" She lifted Jan to the horse's back, while Father Van Hove climbed down to earth once more and took up the reins.

Fidel came back dripping wet from the river, shook himself, and fell in behind the wagon. "U -- U!" cried Father Van Hove to old Pier, and the little procession moved slowly up the cart-path toward the shining windows of their red-roofed house.

The home of the Van Hoves lay on the very outskirts of the little hamlet of Meer. Beside it ran a yellow ribbon of road which stretched across the green plain clear to the city of Malines. As they turned from the cart-path into the road, the old blue cart became part of a little profession of similar wagons, for the other men of Meer were also late in coming home to the village from their outlying farms.

"Good-evening, neighbor," cried Father Van Hove to Father Maes, whose home lay beyond his in the village. "How are your crops coming on?"

"Never better," answered Father Maes; "I have more wheat to the acre than ever before."

"So have I, thanks be to the good God;" answered Father Van Hove. "The winter will find our barns full this year."

"Yes," replied Father Maes a little sadly; "that is, if we have no bad luck, but Jules Verhulst was in the city yesterday and heard rumors of a German army on our borders. It is very likely only an idle tale to frighten the women and children, but Jules says there are men also who believe it."

"I shall believe nothing of the sort," said Father Van Hove stoutly. "Are we not safe under the protection of our treaty? No, no, neighbor, there's nothing to fear! Belgium is neutral ground."

"I hope you may be right," answered Father Maes, cracking his whip, and the cart moved on.

Mother Van Hove, meanwhile, had hastened ahead of the cart to stir up the kitchen fire and put the kettle on before the others should reach home, and when Father Van Hove at last drove into the farmyard, she was already on the way to the pasture bars with her milk-pail on her arm. "Set the table for supper, ma Mie," she called back, "and do not let the pot boil over! Jan, you may shut up the fowls; they have already gone to roost."

"And what shall I do, Mother?" laughed Father Van Hove.

"You," she called back, "you may unharness Pier and turn him out in the pasture for the night! And I'll wager I shall be back with a full milk-pail before you've even so much as fed the pig, let alone the other chores -- men are so slow!" She waved her hand gayly and disappeared behind the pasture bars, as she spoke.

"Hurry, now, my man," said Father Van Hove to Jan. "We must not let Mother beat us! We will let the cart stand right there near the barn, and to-morrow we can store the grain away to make room for a new load. I will let you lead Pier to the pasture, while I feed the pig myself; by her squeals she is hungry enough to eat you up in one mouthful."



II

The Rumors

When Mother Van Hove returned from the pasture, fifteen minutes later, her orders had all been carried out. Pier was in the pasture, the hens were shut up for the night, and the pig, which had been squealing with hunger, was row grunting with satisfaction over her evening meal; Fidel was gnawing a bone, and Father Van Hove was already washing his hands at the pump, beside the kitchen door.

"You are all good children," said the mother as she set down her brimming pail and took her turn at the wash-basin and the soap. "Jan and Marie, have you washed your hands?"

"I have," called Marie from the kitchen, "and supper is ready and the table set."

"I washed my hands in the canal this morning," pleaded Jan. "Won't that do?"

"You ate your lunch this noon, too," answered his mother promptly. "Won't that do? Why do you need to eat again when you have already eaten twice today?"

"Because I am hungry again," answered Jan.

"Well, you are also dirty again," said his mother, as she put the soap in his hands and wiped her own on the clean towel which Marie handed her from the door. She cleaned her wooden shoes on the bundle of straw which lay for the purpose beside the kitchen door; then she went inside and took her place opposite Father Van Hove at the little round oaken table by the window.

Marie was already in her chair, and in a moment Jan joined them with a beaming smile and a face which, though clean in the middle, showed a gray border from ear to ear.

"If you don't believe I'm clean, look at the towel!" he said, holding it up.

"Oh, my heart!" cried his mother, throwing up her hands. "I declare there's but one creature in all God's world that cares nothing for cleanliness! Even a pig has some manners if given half a chance, but boys!" She seized the grimy towel and held it up despairingly for Father Van Hove to see. "He's just wet his face and wiped all the dirt off on the towel. The Devil himself is not more afraid of holy water than Jan Van Hove is of water of any kind!" she cried.

"Go and wash yourself properly, Janke," said his father sternly, and Jan disappeared through the kitchen door. Sounds of vigorous pumping and splashing without were heard in the kitchen, and when Jan appeared once more, he was allowed to take his place at the supper-table with the family.

Father Van Hove bowed his head, and the Twins and their mother made the sign of the cross with him, as he began their grace before meat. "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen," prayed Father Van Hove. "Hail, Mary, full of Grace." Then, as the prayer continued, the mother and children with folded hands and bowed heads joined in the petition: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death, Amen." A clatter of spoons followed the grace, and Mother Van Hove's good buttermilk pap was not long in disappearing down their four hungry throats.

The long day in the open air had made the children so sleepy they could scarcely keep their eyes open through the meal. "Come, my children," said their mother briskly, as she rose from the table, "pop into bed, both of you, as fast as you can go. You are already half asleep! Father, you help them with their buttons, and hear them say their prayers, while I wash up these dishes and take care of the milk." She took a candle from the chimney-piece as she spoke, and started down cellar with the skimmer. When she came back into the kitchen once more, the children were safely tucked in bed, and her husband was seated by the kitchen door with his chair tipped back against the wall, smoking his evening pipe. Mother Van Hove cleared the table, washed the dishes, and brushed the crumbs from the tiled floor. Then she spread the white sand once more under the table and in a wide border around the edge of the room, and hung the brush outside the kitchen door.

Father Van Hove smoked in silence as she moved about the room. At last he said to her, "Leonie, did you hear what our neighbor Maes said to-night as we were talking in the road?"

"No," said his wife, "I was hurrying home to get supper."

"Maes said there are rumors of a German army on our frontier," said Father Van Hove.

His wife paused in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Who brought that story to town?" she demanded.

"Jules Verhulst," answered her husband.

"Jules Verhulst!" sniffed Mother Van Hove with disdain. "He knows more things that aren't so than any man in this village. I wouldn't believe anything on his say-so! Besides, the whole world knows that all the Powers have agreed that Belgium shall be neutral ground, and have bound themselves solemnly to protect that neutrality. I learned that in school, and so did you."

"Yes," sighed Father Van Hove. "I learned it too, and surely no nation can have anything against us! We have given no one cause for complaint that I know of."

"It's nonsense," said his wife with decision. "Belgium is safe enough so far as that goes, but one certainly has to work hard here just to make ends meet and get food for all the hungry mouths! They say it is different in America; there you work less and get more, and are farther away from meddlesome neighboring countries besides. I sometimes wish we had gone there with my sister. She and her husband started with no more than we have, and now they are rich -- at least they were when I last heard from them; but that was a long time ago," she finished.

"Well," said Father Van Hove, as he stood up and knocked the ashes from his pipe, "it may be that they have more money and less work, but I've lived here in this spot ever since I was born, and my father before me. Somehow I feel I could never take root in any other soil. I'm content with things as they are."

"So am I, for the matter of that," said Mother Van Hove cheerfully, as she put Fidel outside and shut the door for the night. Then, taking the candle from the chimney-piece once more, she led the way to the inner room, where the twins were already soundly sleeping.



III

The Alarm

For some time the little village of Meer slept quietly in the moonlight. There was not a sound to break the stillness, except once when Mother Van Hove's old rooster caught a glimpse of the waning moon through the window of the chicken-house, and crowed lustily, thinking it was the sun. The other roosters of the village, wiser than he, made no response to his call, and in a moment he, too, returned to his interrupted slumbers. But though there was as yet no sound to tell of their approach, the moon looked down upon three horsemen galloping over the yellow ribbon of road from Malines toward the little village. Soon the sound of the horses' hoofs beating upon the hardened earth throbbed through the village itself, and Fidel sat up on the kitchen doorstep, pricked up his ears, and listened. He heard the hoof-beats and awakened the echoes with a sharp bark.

Mother Van Hove sat up in bed and listened; another dog barked, and another, and now she, too, heard the hoof-beats. Nearer they came, and nearer, and now she could hear a voice shouting. She shook her husband. "Wake up!" she whispered in his ear, "something is wrong! Fidel barks, and I hear strange noises about. Wake up!"

"Fidel is crazy," said Father Van Hove sleepily. "He thinks some weasel is after the chickens very likely. Fidel will attend to it. Go to sleep."

He sank back again upon his pillows, but his wife seized his arm and pulled him up.

"Listen!" she said. "Oh, listen! Weasels do not ride on horseback! There are hoof-beats on the road!"

"Some neighbor returning late from Malines," said Father Van Hove, yawning. "It does not concern us."

But his wife was already out of bed, and at the window. The horsemen were now plainly visible, riding like the wind, and as they whirled by the houses their shout thrilled through the quiet streets of the village: "Burghers, awake! Awake! Awake!"

Wide awake at last, Father Van Hove sprang out of bed and hastily began putting down his clothes. His wife was already nearly dressed, and had lighted a candle. Other lights sparkled from the windows of other houses. Suddenly the bell in the church-steeple began to ring wildly, as though it, too, were shaken with a sudden terror. "It must be a fire," said Father Van Hove.

Still fastening her clothing, his wife ran out of the door and looked about in every direction. "I see no fire," she said, "but the village street is full of people running to the square! Hurry! Hurry! We must take the children with us; they must not be left here alone."

She ran to wake the children, as she spoke, and, helped by her trembling fingers, they, too, were soon dressed, and the four ran together up the road toward the village church. The bell still clanged madly from the steeple, and the vibrations seemed to shake the very flesh of the trembling children as they clung to their mother's hands and tried to keep up with their father's rapid strides.

They found all the village gathered in front of the little town-hall. On its steps stood the Burgomeister and the village priest, and near them, still sitting astride his foam-flecked steed, was one of the soldiers who had brought the alarm. His two companions were already far beyond Meer, flying over the road to arouse the villages which lay farther to the east. The church-bell suddenly ceased its metallic clatter, and while its deep tones still throbbed through the night air, the wondering and frightened people crowded about the steps in breathless suspense.

The Burgomeister raised his hand. Even in the moonlight it could be seen that he was pale. He spoke quickly. "Neighbors," he said, "there is bad news! the German army is on our borders! It is necessary for every man of military age and training to join the colors at once in case the army is needed for defense. There is not a moment to lose. This messenger is from headquarters. He will tell you what you are to do."

The soldier now spoke for the first time. "Men of Belgium," he cried, "your services are needed for your country and your King! The men of Meer are to report at once to the army headquarters at Malines. Do not stop even to change your clothing! We are not yet at war, and our good King Albert still hopes to avert it by an armed peace, but the neutrality of Belgium is at stake, and we must be ready to protect it at any cost, and at an instant's notice. Go at once to the Brussels gate of Malines. An officer will meet you there and tell you what to do. I must ride on to carry the alarm to Putte." He wheeled his horse as he spoke, and, turning in his saddle, lifted his sword and cried, "Vive le Roi!"

"Vive le Roi! Vive la Belgique!" came in an answering shout from the people of Meer, and he was gone.

There was a moment of stunned silence as he rode away; then a sound of women weeping. The Burgomeister came down from the steps of the town-hall, said farewell to his wife and children, and took his place at the head of the little group of men which was already beginning form in marching order. The priest moved about among his people with words of comfort.

Father Van Hove turned to his wife, and to Jan and Marie, who were clinging to her skirts. "It is only a bad dream, my little ones," he said, patting their heads tenderly; "we shall wake up some day. And you, my wife, do not despair! I shall soon return, no doubt! Our good King will yet save us from war. You must finish the harvest alone -- but -- " "Fall in!" cried the voice of the Burgomeister, and Father Van Hove kissed his wife and children and stepped forward.

Mother Van Hove bravely checked her rising sobs. "We shall go with you to Malines, at any rate," she said firmly. And as the little group of men started forward along the yellow road, she and many more women and children of the village marched, away with them in the gray twilight which precedes the coming of the dawn. The priest went with his people, praying for them as he walked, in a voice that shook with feeling.

The sky was red in the east and the larks were already singing over the quiet fields when the men of Meer, followed by their wives and children, presented themselves at the Brussels gate of the city.



IV

"For King, For Law And Liberty"

At the gate they were met by an officer, who at once took command of the company. There was only a moment for hasty good-byes before the order to march was given, and the women and children watched the little column stride bravely away up the street toward the armory, where the uniforms and arms were kept. They followed at a little distance and took up their station across the street from the great doors through which the men had disappeared. There was little talking among them. Only the voice of the priest could be heard now and then, as he said a few words to one and another of the waiting women. It was still so early in the morning that the streets of the city were not yet filled with people going to work. Only those, like themselves, concerned with the sad business of war were abroad.

To Jan and Marie the long wait seemed endless, but at last the doors of the armory sprang open; there was a burst of martial music, and a band playing the national hymn appeared. "For King, for law and liberty!" thrilled the bugles, and amidst the waving of flags, and the cheers of the people, who had now begun to fill the streets, a regiment of soldiers marched away toward the north. Jan and Marie stood with their mother on the edge of the sidewalk, eagerly scanning every face as the soldiers passed, and at last Jan shouted, "I see Father! I see Father!"

Mother Van Hove lifted her two children high in her arms for him to see, but Father Van Hove could only smile a brave good-bye as he marched swiftly past.

"No tears, my children!" cried the priest; "let them see no tears! Send them away with a smile!" And, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, he made the sign of the cross and raised his hand in blessing, as the troops went by.

For a time Mother Van Hove and the children ran along the sidewalk, trying to keep pace with the soldiers, but their quick strides were too much for the Twins, and it was not long before Marie said, breathlessly, "My legs are too short! I can't run so fast!"

"I can't too!" gasped Jan. Mother Van Hove stopped short at once, and the three stood still, hand in hand, and watched the soldiers until they turned a corner and disappeared from sight through the Antwerp gate of the city.

They were quite alone, for the other women and children had gone no farther than the armory, and were already on their homeward way to Meer. Now for the first time Mother Van Hove gave way to grief, and Jan and Marie wept with her; but it was only for a moment. Then she wiped her eyes, and the Twins' too, on her apron, and said firmly: "Come, my lambs! Tears will not bring him back! We must go home now as fast as we can. There is need there for all that we can do! You must be the man of the house now, my Janke, and help me take your father's place on the farm; and Marie must be our little house-mother. We must be as brave as soldiers, even though we cannot fight."

"I think I could be braver if I had some breakfast," sobbed Janke.

Mother Van Hove struck her hands together in dismay. "I never once thought of food!" she cried, "and I haven't a red cent with me! We cannot buy a breakfast! We must just go hungry until we get home! But soldiers must often go hungry, my little ones. We must be as brave as they. Come, now. I will be the captain! Forward march!"

Jan and Marie stiffened their little backs, as she gave the word of command, and, shoulder to shoulder, they marched down the street toward the city gate to the martial refrain, "Le Roi, la loi, la liberte," which Mother Van Hove hummed for them under her breath.

It was a long way back to the little farm-house, and when at last the three weary pilgrims reached it, they were met by an indignant chorus of protests from all the creatures which had been left behind. Bel was lowing at the pasture bars, the pig was squealing angrily in her pen, the rooster had crowed himself hoarse, and Fidel, patient Fidel, was sitting on guard at the back door.

Mother Van Hove flew into the kitchen the moment she reached the house, and in two minutes Jan and Marie were seated before a breakfast of bread and milk. Then she fed the pig, let out the hens, and gave Fidel a bone which she had saved for him from the soup. Last of all, she milked the cow, and when this was done, and she had had a cup of coffee herself, the clock in the steeple struck twelve.

Even Mother Van Hove's strength was not equal to work in the harvest-field that day, but she stowed the load of wheat which had been brought home the night before in the barn, and, after the chores were done at night, she and the Twins went straight to bed and slept as only the very weary can, until the sun streamed into their windows in the morning.



V

Doing A Man's Work

When Jan and Marie awoke, their mother's bed was empty. "She's gone to milk the cow," cried Marie. "Come, Jan, we will surprise her! When she comes back from the pasture, we will have breakfast all ready."

"You can," said Jan, as he struggled into his clothes, and twisted himself nearly in two trying to do up the buttons in the back; "you can, but I must do a man's work! I will go out and feed the pig and catch old Pier and hitch him to the cart," he said importantly. "I must finish the wheat harvest to-day."

"Ho!" said Marie. "You will spill the pig-feed all over yourself! You are such a messy boy!"

"I guess I can do it just as well as you can make coffee," said Jan with spirit. "You've never made coffee in your life!"

"I've watched Mother do it lots of times," said Marie. "I'm sure I can do it just the same way."

"All right, let's see you do it, then," said Jan. And he strode out of the room with his hands in his pockets, taking as long steps as his short legs would permit.

When she was dressed and washed, Marie ran to the pump and filled the kettle. Then she stirred the embers of the fire in the kitchen and put on fresh coal. She set the kettle on to boil and only slopped a little water on her apron in doing so. Then she put the dishes on the table.

Meanwhile she heard no sound from Jan. She went to the kitchen door and looked out. Jan had already let out the fowls, and was just in the act of feeding the pig. He had climbed up on the fence around the pig-pen, and by dint of great effort had succeeded in lifting the heavy pail of feed to the top of it. He was now trying to let it down on the other side and pour the contents into the trough, but the pig was greedy, and the moment the pail came within reach, she stuck her nose and her fore feet into it. This added weight was too much for poor Jan; down went the pail with a crash into the trough, and Jan himself tumbled suddenly forward, his feet flew out behind, and he was left hanging head down, like a jack knife, over the fence!

It was just at this moment that Marie came to the door, and when she saw Jan balancing on the fence and kicking out wildly with his feet, she screamed with laughter.

Jan was screaming, too, but with pain and indignation. "Come here and pick me off this fence!" he roared. "It's cutting me in two! Oh, Mother! Mother!"

Marie ran to the pigpen as fast as, she could go. She snatched an old box by the stable as she ran, and, placing it against the fence, seized one of Jan's feet, which were still waving wildly in the air, and planted it firmly on the box.

"Oh! Oh!" laughed Marie, as Jan reached the ground once more. "If you could only have seen yourself, Jan! You would have laughed, too! Instead of pouring the pig-feed on to yourself, you poured yourself on to the pig-feed!"

"I don't see anything to laugh at," said Jan with dignity; "it might have happened to any man."

"Anyway, you'll have to get the pail again," said Marie, wiping her eyes. "That greedy pig will bang it all to pieces, if you leave it in the pen."

"I can't reach it," said Jan.

"Yes, you can," said Marie. "I'll hold your legs so you won't fall in, and you can fish for it with a stick." She ran for a stick to poke with, while Jan bravely mounted the box again, and, firmly anchored by Marie's grasp upon his legs, he soon succeeded in rescuing the pail.

"Anyway, I guess I've fed the pig just as well as you have made the coffee," he said, as he handed it over to Marie.

"Oh, my sakes!" cried Marie; "I forgot all about the coffee!" And she ran back to the kitchen, to find that the kettle had boiled over and put the fire out.

Jan stuck hid head in the door, just as she got the bellows to start the fire again. "What did I tell you!" he shouted, running out his tongue derisively.

"Scat!" said Marie, shaking the bellows at him, and Jan sauntered away toward the pasture with Pier's halter over his arm.

Pier had been eating grass for two nights and a day without doing any work, and it took Jan some time to catch him and put the halter over his head. When at last he returned from the pasture, red and tired, but triumphant, leading Pier, Marie and her mother had already finished their breakfast.

"Look what a man we have!" cried Mother Van Hove as Jan appeared. "He has caught Pier all by himself."

"He lifted me clear off my feet when I put his halter on," said Jan proudly, "but I hung on and he had to come!"

"Marie," cried her mother, "our Jan has earned a good breakfast! Cook an egg for him, while I hitch Pier to the cart. Then, while he and I work in the field, you can put the house in order. There is only one more load to bring in, and we can do that by ourselves."

By noon the last of the wheat had been garnered, and this time Jan drove Pier home, while his mother sat on the load. In the afternoon the three unloaded the wagon and stowed the grain away in the barn to be threshed; and when the long day's work was over, and they had eaten their simple supper of bread and milk, Mother Van Hove and the children went together down the village street to see their neighbors and hear the news, if there should be any.

There were no daily papers in Meer, and now there were no young men to go to the city and bring back the gossip of the day, as there had used to be. The women, with their babies on their arms, stood about in the street, talking quietly and sadly among themselves. On the doorsteps a few old men lingered together over their pipes. Already the bigger boys were playing soldier, with paper caps on their heads, and sticks for guns. The smaller children were shouting and chasing each other through the little street of the village. Jan and Marie joined in a game of blindman's buff, while Mother Van Hove stopped with the group of women.

"If we only knew what to expect!" sighed the Burgomeister's wife, as she shifted her baby from one arm to the other. "It seems as if we should know better what to do. In a day or two I shall send my big boy Leon to the city for a paper. It is hard to wait quietly and know nothing."

"Our good King and Queen doubtless know everything," said the wife of Boer Maes. "They will do better for us than we could do for ourselves, even if we knew all that they do."

"And there are our own brave men, besides," added Mother Van Hove. "We must not forget them! We are not yet at war. I pray God we may not be, and that we shall soon see them come marching home again to tell us that the trouble, whatever it is, is over, and that we may go on living in peace as we did before."

"It seems a year since yesterday," said the Burgomeister's wife.

"Work makes the time pass quickly," said Mother Van Hove cheerfully. "Jan and I got in the last of our wheat to-day. He helped me like a man."

"Who will thresh it for you?" asked the wife of Boer Maes.

"I will thresh it myself, if need be," said Mother Van Hove with spirit. "My good man shall not come home and find the farm-work behind if I can help it." And with these brave words she said good-night to the other women, called Jan and Marie, and turned once more down the street toward the little house on the edge of the village. Far across the peaceful twilight fields came the sound of distant bells. "Hark!" said Mother Van Hove to the Twins -- "the cathedral bells of Malines! And they are playing 'The Lion of Flanders!'"

(three lines of music)

sang the bells, and, standing upon the threshold of her little home, with head held proudly erect, Mother Van Hove lifted her voice and joined the words to the melody. "They will never conquer him, the old Lion of Flanders, so long as he has claws!" she sang, and the Twins, looking up into her brave and inspired face, sang too.



VI

At The Church

Several days passed quietly by in the little village of Meer. The sun shone, and the wind blew, and the rains fell upon the peaceful fields, just as if nothing whatever had happened. Each day was filled to the brim with hard work. With the help of the Twins, Mother Van Hove kept the garden free of weeds and took care of the stock. She even threshed the wheat herself with her husband's flail, and stored the grain away in sacks ready for the mill. Each evening, when the work was done, the three went down the village street together. One evening, just at dusk, they found nearly the whole village gathered in front of the priest's house next to the church. Leon, the Burgomeister's oldest boy, had been to Malines that day and had brought back a paper.

The priest was reading from it to the anxious group gathered about him. "Oh, my children," he was saying, as Mother Van Hove and the Twins joined the group, "there is, no doubt, need for courage, but where is there a Belgian lacking in that? Even Julius Caesar, two thousand years ago, found that out! The bravest of all are the Belgians, he said then, and it is none the less true to-day! The Germans have crossed our eastern frontier. It is reported that they are already burning towns and killing the inhabitants if they resist. God knows what may be before us. Our good King Albert has asked Parliament to refuse the demands of the Germans. In spite of their solemn treaty with us, they demand that we permit them to cross Belgium to attack France. To this our brave King and Parliament will never consent; no true Belgian would wish them to. There is, then, this choice either to submit absolutely to the invasion of our country, or to defend it! The army is already in the field."

There was a moment of heavy silence as he finished speaking. Then the voice of the Burgomeister's wife was heard in the stillness. "Oh, Mynheer Pastoor," she said to the priest, "what shall we do? There is no place to go to we have no refuge!"

"God is our refuge and strength, my children," said the priest, lifting his eyes to heaven. "We have no other! You must stay here, and if the terrible Germans come, hide yourselves away as best you can, until they have passed by. Do not anger them by resisting. Bow your heads to the storm and have faith in God that it may soon pass over." He turned and led the way toward the little church as he spoke. "Come," he said, "let us pray before God's holy altar, and if the enemy comes, seek refuge in the church itself. Surely even the Germans will respect the sanctuary."

Solemnly the people filed into the little church, lighted only by the candles on the altar, and knelt upon the hard floor. The priest left them there, praying silently, while he went to put on the robes of his offices. Then once more he appeared before the altar, and led the kneeling congregation in the litany.

"From war and pestilence and sudden death, Good Lord, deliver us," he prayed at last, and all the people responded with a fervent "Amen."

That night, when she put her children to bed, Mother Van Hove fastened a chain with a locket upon it about Marie's neck. "Listen, ma Mie," she said, "and you, too, my little Jan. God only knows what may be before us. This locket contains my picture. You must wear it always about your neck, and remember that your mother's name is Leonie Van Hove, and your father's name is Georges Van Hove. If by any chance -- which God forbid -- we should become separated from one another, keep the locket on your neck, and our names in your memory until we meet again; for if such a thing should happen, do not doubt that I should find you, though I had to swim the sea to do it! For you, my Jan, I have no locket, but you are a man, a brave man, now! You must take care of yourself and your sister, too, if need should arise, and above all, remember this -- only the brave are safe. Whatever happens, you must remember that you are Belgians, and be brave!"

The children clung to her, weeping, as she finished. "There, there," she said soothingly: "I had to tell you this so you would be ready to do your best and not despair, whatever might happen, but be sure, my lambs, nothing shall harm you if I can help it, and nothing shall separate us from one another if God so wills. Now, go to sleep!"

She kissed them tenderly, and, quite comforted, they nestled down in their beds and soon were asleep. She herself slept but little that night. Long after the children were quiet, she sat alone on the kitchen step in the darkness with Fidel by her side, and listened to the faint sounds of distant guns, and watched the red light in the sky, which told her of the burning of Louvain.



VII

The Tidal Wave Of Germans

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and Mother Van Hove and the Twins went about their work as usual. The sunshine was so bright, and the whole countryside looked so peaceful and fair, it was impossible to believe that the terrors of the night could be true.

"To-day we must begin to gather the potatoes," said Mother Van Hove after breakfast. "Jan, you get the fork and hoe and put them in the wagon, while I milk the cow and Marie puts up some bread and cheese for us to take to the field." She started across the road to the pasture, with Fidel at her heels, as she spoke. In an instant she was back again, her eyes wide with horror. "Look! Look!" she cried.

The dazed children looked toward the east as she pointed. There in the distance, advancing like a great tidal wave, was a long gray line of soldiers on horseback. Already they could hear the sound of music and the throb of drums; already the sun glistened upon the shining helmets and the cruel points of bayonets. The host stretched away across the plain as far as the eye could reach, and behind them the sky was thick with the smoke of fires.

"The church! the church!" cried Mother Van Hove. "No, there is not time. Hide in here, my darlings. Quickly! Quickly!"

She tore open the door of the earth-covered vegetable cellar as she spoke, and thrust Jan and Marie inside. Fidel bolted in after them. "Do not move or make a sound until all is quiet again," she cried as she closed the door.

There was not room for her too, in the cellar, and if there had been, Mother Van Hove would not have taken it, for it was necessary to close the door from the outside. This she did, hastily, throwing some straw before it. Then she rushed into the house and, snatching up her shining milk-pans, flung them upon the straw, as if they were placed there to be sweetened by the sun. No one would think to look under a pile of pans for hidden Belgians, she felt sure.

Nearer and nearer came the hosts, and now she could hear the sound of singing as from ten thousand brazen throats, "Deutschland, Deutschland uber Alles," roared the mighty chorus, and in another moment the little village of Meer was submerged in the terrible gray flood.

At last, after what seemed to the imprisoned children like a year of darkness and dread, and of strange, terrifying noises of all kinds, the sound of horses' hoofs and marching feet died away in the distance, and Jan ventured to push open the door of the cavern a crack, just intending to peep out. Immediately there was a crash of falling tinware. Jan quickly drew back again into the safe darkness and waited. As nothing further happened, he peeped out again. This time Fidel, springing forward, flung the doors wide open, and dashed out into the sunshine with a joyous bark.

In a moment more Jan and Marie also crawled out of their hiding-place after him. For an instant, as they came out into the daylight, it seemed to the children as if they had awakened from a dreadful dream. There stood the farmhouse just as before, with the kitchen door wide open and the sun streaming in upon the sanded floor. There were only the marks of many feet in the soft earth of the farmyard, an empty pigpen, and a few chicken feathers blowing about the hen house, to show where the invaders had been and what they had carried away with them. Jan and Marie, followed by Fidel, ran through the house. From the front door, which opened on the road; they could see the long gray line sweeping across the fields toward Malines.

"The storm has passed," cried Marie, sobbing with grief, "just as Mynheer Pastoor said it would! Mother! Mother, where are you?" They ran from kitchen to bedroom and back again, their terror increasing at every step, as no voice answered their call. They searched the cellar and the loft; they looked in the stable and barn, and even in the dog-house. Their mother was nowhere to be found!

"I know where she must be," cried Jan, at last. "You know Mynheer Pastoor said, if anything happened, we should hide in the church." Led by this hope, the two children sped, hand in hand, toward the village. "Bel is gone!" gasped Jan, as they passed the pasture bars. "Pier, too," sobbed Marie. Down the whole length of the deserted village street they flew, with Fidel following close at their heels. When they came to the little church, they burst open the door and looked in. The cheerful sun streamed through the windows, falling in brilliant patches of light upon the floor, but the church was silent and empty. It was some time before they could realize that there was not a human being but themselves in the entire village; all the others had been driven away like sheep, before the invading army. When at last the terrible truth dawned upon them, the two frightened children sat down upon the church steps in the silence, and clung, weeping, to each other. Fidel whined and licked their hands, as though he, too, understood and felt their loneliness.

"What shall we do? What shall we do?" moaned Marie.

"There's nobody to tell us what to do," sobbed Jan. "We must just do the best we can by ourselves."

"We can't stay here alone!" said Marie.

"But where can we go?" cried Jan. "There's no place for us to go to!"

For a few minutes the two children wept their hearts out in utter despair, but hope always comes when it is most needed, and soon Marie raised her head and wiped her eyes.

"Don't you remember what Mother said when she put the locket on my neck, Jan?" she asked. "She said that she would find us, even if she had to swim the sea! She said no matter what happened we should never despair, and here we are despairing as hard as ever we can."

Jan threw up his chin, and straightened his back. "Yes," he said, swallowing his sobs, "and she said I was now a man and must take care of myself and you."

"What shall we do, then?" asked Marie.

Jan thought hard for a moment. Then he said: "Eat! It must be late, and we have not had a mouthful to-day."

Marie stood up. "Yes," said she; "we must eat. Let us go back home."

The clock in the steeple struck eleven as the two children ran once more through the deserted street and began a search for food in their empty house.

They found that the invaders had been as thorough within the house as without. Not only had they carried away the grain which their mother had worked so hard to thresh, but they had cleaned the cupboard as well. The hungry children found nothing but a few crusts of bread, a bit of cheese, and some milk in the cellar, but with these and two eggs, which Jan knew where to look for in the straw in the barn, they made an excellent breakfast. They gave Fidel the last of the milk, and then, much refreshed, made ready to start upon a strange and lonely journey the end of which they did not know. They tied their best clothes in a bundle, which Jan hung upon a stick over his shoulder, and were just about to leave the house, when Marie cried out, "Suppose Mother should come back and find us gone!"

"We must leave word where we have gone, so she will know where to look for us, of course," Jan answered capably.

"Yes, but how?" persisted Marie. "There's no one to leave word with!"

This was a hard puzzle, but Jan soon found a way out. "We must write a note and pin it up where she would be sure to find it," he said.

"The very thing," said Marie.

They found a bit of charcoal and a piece of wrapping-paper, and Jan was all ready to write when a new difficulty presented itself. "What shall I say?" he said to Marie. "We don't know where we are going!"

"We don't know the way to any place but Malines," said Marie; "so we'll have to go there, I suppose."

"How do you spell Malines?" asked Jan, charcoal in hand.

"Oh, you stupid boy!" cried Marie. "M-a-l-i-n-e-s, of course!"

Jan put the paper down on the kitchen floor and got down before it on his hands and knees. He had not yet learned to write, but he managed to print upon it in great staggering letters: -- 

"Dear Mother

We Have Gone To Malines To Find You.

Jan And Marie."


This note they pinned upon the inside of the kitchen door.

"Now we are ready to start," said Jan; and, calling Fidel, the two children set forth. They took a short cut from the house across the pasture to the potato-field. Here they dug a few potatoes, which they put in their bundle, and then, avoiding the road, slipped down to the river, and, following the stream, made their way toward Malines.

It was fortunate for them that, screened by the bushes and trees which fringed the bank of the river, they saw but little of the ruin and devastation left in the wake of the German hosts. There were farmers who had tried to defend their families and homes from the invaders. Burning houses and barns marked the places where they had lived and died. But the children, thinking only of their lost mother, and of keeping themselves as much out of sight as possible in their search for her, were spared most of these horrors. Their progress was slow, for the bundle was heavy, and the river path less direct than the road, and it was nightfall before the two little waifs, with Fidel at their heels, reached the well-remembered Brussels gate.

Their hearts almost stopped beating when they found it guarded by a German soldier. "Who goes there?" demanded the guard gruffly, as he caught sight of the little figures.

"If you please, sir, it's Jan and Marie," said Jan, shaking in his boots.

"And Fidel, too," said Marie.

The soldier bent down and looked closely at the two tear-stained little faces. It may be that some remembrance of other little faces stirred within him, for he only said stiffly, "Pass, Jan and Marie, and you, too, Fidel." And the two children and the dog hurried through the gate and up the first street they came to, their bundle bumping along behind them as they ran.

The city seemed strangely silent and deserted, except for the gray-clad soldiers, and armed guards blocked the way at intervals. Taught by fear, Jan and Marie soon learned to slip quietly along under cover of the gathering darkness, and to dodge into a doorway or round a corner, when they came too near one of the stiff, helmeted figures.

At last, after an hour of aimless wandering, they found themselves in a large, open square, looking up at the tall cathedral spires. A German soldier came suddenly out of the shadows, and the frightened children, scarcely knowing what they did, ran up the cathedral steps and flung themselves against the door. When the soldier had passed by, they reached cautiously up, and by dint of pulling with their united strength succeeded at last in getting the door open. They thrust their bundle inside, pushed Fidel in after it, and then slipped through themselves. The great door closed behind them on silent hinges and they were alone in the vast stillness of the cathedral. Timidly they crept toward the lights of the altar, and, utterly exhausted, slept that night on the floor near the statue of the Madonna, with their heads pillowed on Fidel's shaggy side.



VIII

Granny And The Eels

When the cathedral bells rang the next morning for early mass, the children were still sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion. It was not until the bells had ceased to ring, and the door, opening from the sacristy near their resting place, creaked upon its hinges, that even Fidel was aroused. True to his watchdog instincts, he started to his feet with a low growl, letting the heads of Jan and Marie down upon the floor with a sudden bump. For an instant the awakened children could not remember where they were or what had happened to them. They sat up and rubbed their heads, but the habit of fear was already so strong upon them that they made no sound and instantly quieted Fidel. Again the door creaked, and through it there appeared a tall figure dressed in priestly robes. The children were so near that had they thrust their hands through the railing of the communion bank behind which they were concealed, they might have touched him as he passed before the altar of the Virgin and presented himself in front of the high altar to conduct the mass. His head, as he passed them, was bowed. His face was pale and thin, and marked with lines of deep sorrow.

"Oh," whispered Marie to Jan, "it must be the Cardinal himself. Mother told me about him."

The whisper made such a loud sound in the silence of the great cathedral aisles that Jan was afraid to reply. For answer he only laid his finger upon his lips and crept still farther back into the shadow. Fidel seemed to know that dogs were not allowed in church and that it was necessary for him to be quiet, too, for he crawled back with the children into the sheltering darkness.

There were only a few persons in the cathedral, and those few were near the door; so no one saw the children as they knelt with folded hands and bowed heads in their corner, reverently following the service as the Cardinal ate the sacred wafer and drank the communion wine before the altar. Later they were to know his face as the bravest and best beloved in all Belgium next to those of the King and Queen themselves.

When again he passed the kneeling little figures on his return to the sacristy, their lonely hearts so ached for care and protection, and his face looked so kind and pitiful, that they almost dared to make their presence known and to ask for the help they sorely needed. Marie, bolder than Jan, half rose as he passed, but Jan pulled her back, and in another instant the door had closed behind him and he was gone.

"Oh," sobbed Marie under her breath, "he looked so kind! He might have helped us. Why did you pull me back?"

"How could we let him see Fidel, and tell him that our dog had slept all night before the altar?" answered Jan. "I shouldn't dare! He is a great Prince of the Church!"

The sound of scraping chairs told them that the little congregation had risen from its knees and was passing out of the church. They waited until every one had disappeared through the great door, and then made a swift flight down the echoing aisle and out into the sunlight. For a moment they stood hand in hand upon the cathedral steps, clasping their bundle and waiting for the next turn of fortune's wheel.

The bright sunlight of the summer day, shining on the open square, almost blinded them, and what they saw in the square, when their eyes had become used to it, did not comfort them. Everywhere there were German soldiers with their terrible bayonets and pointed helmets and their terrible songs. Everywhere there were pale and desperate Belgians fleeing before the arrogant German invader.

"Oh, Jan," whispered Marie clinging to him, "there are so many people! How shall we ever find Mother? I didn't know there were so many people in the whole world."

"It isn't likely that we'll find her by just standing here, anyway," answered Jan. "We've got to keep going till we get somewhere."

He slung the bundle on his shoulder and whistled to Fidel, who had gone down the steps to bark at a homeless cat.

"Come along," he said to Marie. And once more the little pilgrims took up their journey. At the first corner they paused, not knowing whether to go to the right or to the left.

"Which way?" said Marie.

Jan stood still and looked first in one direction and then in the other.

"Here, gutter-snipes, what are you standing here for? Make way for your betters!" said a gruff voice behind them, and, turning, the children found themselves face to face with a German officer dressed in a resplendent uniform and accompanied by a group of swaggering young soldiers. Too frightened to move, the children only looked up at him and did not stir.

"Get out of the way, I tell you!" roared the officer, turning purple with rage; "Orderly!" One of the young men sprang forward. He seized Jan by the arm and deftly kicked him into the gutter. Another at the same moment laid his hands on Marie. But he reckoned without Fidel, faithful Fidel, who knew no difference between German and Belgian, but knew only that no cruel hand should touch his beloved Marie, while he was there to defend her. With a fierce growl he sprang at the young orderly and buried his teeth in his leg. Howling with pain, the orderly dropped Marie, while another soldier drew his sword with an oath and made a thrust at Fidel. Fortunately Fidel was too quick for him. He let go his hold upon the leg of the orderly, tearing a large hole in his uniform as he did so, and flung himself directly between the legs of the other soldier who was lunging at him with the sword. The next instant the surprised German found himself sprawling upon the sidewalk, and saw Fidel, who had escaped without a scratch, dashing wildly up the street after Jan and Marie. Beside himself with rage, the soldier drew a revolver and fired a shot, which barely missed Fidel, and buried itself in the doorstep of the house past which he was running.

If Jan and Marie had not turned a corner just at that moment, and if Fidel had not followed them, there is no telling what might have happened next, for the young soldier was very angry indeed. Perhaps he considered it beneath his dignity to run after them, and perhaps he saw that Jan and Marie could both run like the wind and he would not be likely to catch them if he did. At any rate, he did not follow. He picked himself up and dusted his clothes, using very bad language as he did so, and followed the officer and his companions up the street.

Meanwhile the tired children ran on and on, fear lending speed to their weary legs. Round behind the great cathedral they sped, hoping to find some way of escape from the terrors of the town, but their way was blocked by the smoking ruins of a section of the city which the Germans had burned in the night, and there was no way to get out in that direction. Terrified and faint with hunger, they turned once more, and, not knowing where they were going, stumbled at last upon the street which led to the Antwerp gate.

"I remember this place;" cried Jan, with something like joy in his voice. "Don't you remember, Marie? It's where we stood to watch the soldiers, and Mother sang for us to march, because we were so tired and hungry."

"I'm tired and hungry now, too," said poor Marie.

"Let's march again," said Jan.

"Where to?" said Marie.

"That's the way Father went when he marched away with the soldiers," said Jan, pointing to the Antwerp gate. "Anything is better than staying here. Let's go that way." He started bravely forward once more, Marie and Fidel following.

They found themselves only two wretched atoms in one of the saddest processions in history, for there were many other people, as unhappy as themselves, who were also trying to escape from the city. Some had lived in the section which was now burning; others had been turned out of their homes by the Germans; and all were hastening along, carrying babies and bundles, and followed by groups of older children.

Jan and Marie were swept along with the hurrying crowd, through the city gate and beyond, along the river road which led to Antwerp. No one spoke to them. Doubtless they were supposed to belong to some one of the fleeing families, and it was at least comforting to the children to be near people of whom they were not afraid. But Jan and Marie could not keep pace with the swift-moving crowd of refugees. They trudged along the highway at their best speed, only to find themselves straggling farther and farther behind.

They were half a mile or more beyond the city gate when they overtook a queer little old woman who was plodding steadily along wheeling a wheelbarrow, in front of her. She evidently did not belong among the refugees, for she was making no effort to keep up with them. She had bright, twinkling black eyes, and snow-white hair tucked under a snow-white cap. Her face was as brown as a nut and full of wrinkles, but it shone with such kindness and good-will that, when Jan and Marie had taken one look at her, they could not help walking along by her side.

"Maybe she has seen Mother," whispered Marie to Jan. "Let's ask her!"

The little old woman smiled down at them as they joined her. "You'll have to hurry, my dears, or you won't keep up with your folks," she said kindly.

"They aren't our folks," said Jan.

"They aren't?" said the little old woman, stopping short. "Then where are your folks?"

"We haven't any, not just now," said Jan. "You see our father is a soldier, and our mother, oh, have you seen our mother? She's lost!"

The little old woman gave them a quick, pitying glance. "Lost, is she?" she said. "Well, now, I can't just be sure whether I've seen her or not, not knowing what she looks like, but I wouldn't say I haven't. Lots of folks have passed this way. How did she get lost?" She sat down on the edge of the barrow and drew the children to her side. "Come, now," she said, "tell Granny all about it! I've seen more trouble than any one you ever saw in all your life before, and I'm not a mite afraid of it either."

Comforted already, the children poured forth their story.

"You poor little lambs!" she cried, when they had finished, "and you haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday! Mercy on us! You can never find your mother on an empty stomach!" She rose from the wheelbarrow, as she spoke, and trundled it swiftly from the road to the bank of the river, a short distance away. Here, in a sheltered nook, hidden from the highway by a group of willows, she stopped. "We'll camp right here, and I'll get you a dinner fit for a king or a duke, at the very least," she said cheerily. "Look what I have in my wheelbarrow!" She took a basket from the top of it as she spoke.

Fidel was already looking in, with his tail standing straight out behind, his ears pointed forward, and the hairs bristling on the back of his neck. There, on some clean white sand in the bottom of the wheelbarrow, wriggled a fine fat eel!

"Now I know why I didn't sell that eel," cried Granny. "There's always a reason for everything, you see, my darlings."

She seized the eel with a firm, well-sanded hand as she spoke, and before could spell your name backwards, she had skinned and dressed it, and had given the remnants to poor hungry Fidel. "Now, my boy," she said gayly to Jan as she worked, "you get together some twigs and dead leaves, and you, Big Eyes," she added to Marie, "find some stones by the river, and we'll soon have such a stove as you never saw before, and a fire in it, and a bit of fried eel, to fill your hungry stomachs."

Immensely cheered, the children flew on these errands. Then Marie had a bright thought. "We have some potatoes in our bundle," she said.

"Well, now," cried the little old woman, "wouldn't you think they had just followed up that eel on purpose? We'll put them to roast in the ashes. I always carry a pan and a bit of fat and some matches about with me when I take my eels to market," she explained as she whisked these things out of the basket, "and it often happens that I cook myself a bite to eat on my way home, especially if I'm late. You see, I live a long way from here, just across the river from Boom, and I'm getting lazy in my old age. Early every morning I walk to Malines with my barrow full of fine eels, and sell them to the people of the town. That's how I happen to be so rich!"

"Are you rich?" asked Marie wonderingly.

She had brought the stones from the river, and now she untied her bundle and took out the potatoes. Jan had already heaped a little mound of sticks and twigs near by, and soon the potatoes were cooking in the ashes, and a most appetizing smell of frying eel filled the air.

"Am I rich?" repeated the old woman. She looked surprised that any one could ask such a question. "Of course I'm rich. Haven't I got two eyes in my head, and a tongue, too, and it's lucky, indeed, that it's that way about, for if I had but one eye and two tongues, you see for yourself how much less handy that would be! And I've two legs as good as any one's, and two hands to help myself with! The Kaiser himself has no more legs and arms than I, and I doubt if he can use them half as well. Neither has he a stomach the more! And as for his heart" she looked cautiously around as she spoke "his heart, I'll be bound, is not half so good as mine! If it were, he could not find it in it to do all the cruel things he's doing here. I'm sure of that."

For a moment the cheerfulness of her face clouded over; but she saw the shadow reflected in the faces of Jan and Marie, and at once spoke more gayly. "Bless you, yes, I'm rich," she went on; "and so are you! You've got all the things that I have and more, too, for you legs and arms are young, and you have a mother to look for. Not every one has that, you may depend! And one of these days you'll find her. Make no doubt of that."

"If we don't, she'll surely find us, anyway," said Jan. "She said she would!"

"Indeed and she will," said the old woman. "Even the Germans couldn't stop her; so what matter is it, if you both have to look a bit first? It will only make it the better when you find each other again."

When the potatoes were done, the little old woman raked them out of the ashes with a stick, broke them open, sprinkled a bit of salt on them from the wonderful basket, and then handed one to each of the children, wrapped in a plantain leaf, so they should not burn their fingers. A piece of the eel was served to them in the same way, and Granny beamed with satisfaction as she watched her famished guests.

"Aren't you going to eat, too?" asked Marie with her mouth full.

"Bless you, yes," said Granny. "Every chance I get. You just watch me!" She made a great show of taking a piece of the eel as she spoke, but if any one had been watching carefully, they would have her slyly put it back again into the pan, and the children never knew that they ate her share and their own, too.

When they had eaten every scrap of the eel, and Fidel had finished the bones, the little old woman rose briskly from the bank, washed her pan in the river, packed it in her basket again, and led the way up the path to the highway once more. Although they found the road still filled with the flying refugees, the world had grown suddenly brighter to Jan and Marie. They had found a friend and they were fed.

"Now, you come along home with your Granny," said the little old woman as they reached the Antwerp road and turned northward, "for I live in a little house by the river right on the way to wherever you want to go!"



IX

Off For Antwerp

For several days the children stayed with the little old woman in her tiny cottage on the edge of the river. Each morning they crossed the bridge and stationed themselves by the Antwerp road to watch the swarm of sad-faced Belgians as they hurried through Boom on their way to the frontier and to safety in Holland. Each day they hoped that before the sun went down they should see their mother among the hurrying multitudes, but each day brought a fresh disappointment, and each night the little old woman comforted them with fresh hope for the morrow.

"You see, my darlings," said she, "it may take a long time and you may have to go a long way first, but I feel in my bones that you will find her at last. And of course, if you do, every step you take is a step toward her, no matter how far round you go."

Jan and Marie believed every word that Granny said. How could they help it when she had been so good to them! Her courage and faith seemed to make an isle of safety about her where the children rested in perfect trust. They saw that neither guns nor Germans nor any other terror could frighten Granny. In the midst of a thousand alarms she calmly went her accustomed way, and every one who met her was the better for a glimpse of the brave little brown face under its snowy cap. Early each morning she rose with the larks, covered the bottom of her barrow with clean white sand, and placed in it the live eels which had been caught for her and brought to the door by small boys who lived in the neighborhood. Then, when she had wakened the Twins, and the three had had their breakfast together, away she would trudge over the long, dusty road to Malines, wheeling the barrow with its squirming freight in front of her.

Jan and Marie helped her all they could. They washed the dishes and swept the floor of the tiny cottage and made everything tidy and clean before they went to take up their stand beside the Antwerp road. When the shadows grew long in the afternoon, how glad they were to see the sturdy little figure come trudging home again! Then they would run to meet her, and Jan would take the wheelbarrow from her tired hands and wheel it for her over the bridge to the little cottage under the willow trees on the other side of the river.

Then Marie's work was to clean the barrow, while Jan pulled weeds in the tiny garden back of the house, and Granny got supper ready. Supper-time was the best of all, for every pleasant evening they ate at a little table out of doors under the willow trees.

One evening, when supper had been cleared away, they sat there together, with Fidel beside them, while Granny told a wonderful tale about the King of the Eels who lived in a crystal palace at the bottom of the river.

"You can't quite see the palace," she said, "because, when you look right down into it, the water seems muddy. But sometimes, when it is still, you can see the Upside-Down Country where the King of the Eels lives. There the trees all grow with their heads down and the sky is 'way, 'way below the trees. You see the sky might as well be down as up for the eels. They aren't like us, just obliged to crawl around on the ground without ever being able to go up or down at all. The up-above sky belongs to the birds and the down-below sky belongs to the fishes and eels. And I am not sure but one is just as nice as the other."

Marie and Jan went to the river, and, getting down on their hands and knees, looked into the water.

"We can't see a thing!" they cried to Granny.

"You aren't looking the right way," she answered. "Look across it toward the sunset."

"Oh! Oh!" cried Marie, clasping her hands; "I see it! I see the down-below sky, and it is all red and gold!"

"I told you so," replied Granny triumphantly. "Lots of folks can't see a thing in the river but the mud, when, if you look at it the right way, there is a whole lovely world in it. Now, the palace of the King of the Eels is right over in that direction where the color is the reddest. He is very fond of red, is the King of the Eels. His throne is all made of rubies, and he makes the Queen tie red bows on the tails of all the little eels."

Jan and Marie were still looking with all their eyes across the still water toward the sunset and trying to see the crystal palace of the eels, when suddenly from behind them there came a loud "Hee-haw, hee-haw." They jumped, and Granny jumped, too, and they all looked around to see where the sound came from. There, coming slowly toward them along the tow-path on the river-bank, was an old brown mule. She was pulling a low, green river-boat by a towline, and a small boy, not much bigger than Jan, was driving her. On the deck of the boat there was a little cabin with white curtains in the tiny windows and two red geraniums in pots standing on the sills. From a clothesline hitched to the rigging there fluttered a row of little shirts, and seated on a box near by there was a fat, friendly looking woman with two small children playing by her side. The father of the family was busy with the tiller.

"There come the De Smets, as sure as you live!" cried Granny, rising from the wheelbarrow, where she had been sitting. "I certainly am glad to see them." And she started at once down the river to meet the boat, with Jan and Marie and Fidel all following.

"Ship ahoy!" she cried gayly as the boat drew near. The boy who was driving the mule grinned shyly. The woman on deck lifted her eyes from her sewing, smiled, and waved her hand at Granny, while the two little children ran to the edge of the boat; and held out their arms to her.

"Here we are again, war or no war!" cried Mother De Smet, as the boat came alongside. Father De Smet left the tiller and threw a rope ashore. "Whoa!" cried the boy driving the mule. The mule stopped with the greatest willingness, the boy caught the rope and lifted the great loop over a strong post on the river-bank, and the "Old Woman" for that was the name of the boat was in port.

Soon a gangplank was slipped from the boat to the little wooden steps on the bank, and Mother De Smet, with a squirming baby under each arm, came ashore. "I do like to get out on dry land and shake my legs a bit now and then," she said cheerfully as she greeted Granny. "On the boat I just sit still and grow fat!"

"I shake my legs for a matter of ten miles every day," laughed Granny. "That's how I keep my figure!"

Mother De Smet set the babies down on the grass, where they immediately began to tumble about like a pair of puppies, and she and Granny talked together, while the Twins went to watch the work of Father De Smet and the boy, whose name was Joseph.

"I don't know whatever the country is coming to," said Mother De Smet to Granny. "The Germans are everywhere, and they are taking everything that they can lay their hands on. I doubt if we ever get our cargo safe to Antwerp this time. We've come for a load of potatoes, but I am very much afraid it is going to be our last trip for some time. The country looks quiet enough as you see it from the boat, but the things that are happening in it would chill your blood."

"Yes," sighed Granny; "if I would let it, my old heart would break over the sights that I see every day on my way to Malines. But a broken heart won't get you anywhere. Maybe a stout heart will."

"Who are the children you have with you?" asked Mother De Smet.

Then Granny told her how she had found Jan and Marie, and all the rest of the sad story. Mother De Smet wiped her eyes and blew her nose very hard as she listened.

"I wouldn't let them wait any longer by the Antwerp road, anyway," she said when Granny had finished. "There is no use in the world in looking for their mother to come that way. She was probably driven over the border long ago. You just leave them with me to-morrow while you go to town. 'Twill cheer them up a bit to play with Joseph and the babies."

"Well, now," said Granny, "if that isn't just like your good heart!"

And that is how it happened that, when she trudged off with her barrow the next morning, the Twins ran down to the boat and spent the day rolling on the grass with the babies, and helping Father De Smet and Joseph to load the boat with bags of potatoes which had been brought to the dock in the night by neighboring farmers.

When Granny came trundling her barrow home in the late afternoon, she found the children and their new friends already on the best of terms; and that night, after the Twins were in bed, she went aboard the "Old Woman" and talked for a long time with Father and Mother De Smet. No one will ever know just what they said to each other, but it must be that they talked about the Twins, for when the children awoke the next morning, they found Granny standing beside their bed with their clothes all nicely washed and ironed in her hands.

"I'm not going to town this morning with my eels," she said as she popped them out of bed. "I'm going to stay at home and see you off on your journey!" She did not tell them that things had grown so terrible in Malines that even she felt it wise to stay away.

"Our journey!" cried the Twins in astonishment. "What journey?"

"To Antwerp," cried Granny. "Now, you never thought a chance like that would come to you, I'm sure, but some people are born lucky! You see the De Smets start back today, and they are willing to take you along with them!"

"But we don't want to leave you, dear, dear Granny!" cried the Twins, throwing their arms about her neck.

"And I don't want you to go, either, my lambs," said Granny; "but, you see, there are lots of things to think of. In the first place, of course you want to go on hunting for your mother. It may be she has gone over the border; for the Germans are already in trenches near Antwerp, and our army is nearer still to Antwerp and in trenches, too. There they stay, Father De Smet says, for all the world, like two tigers, lying ready to spring at each other's throats. He says Antwerp is so strongly fortified that the Germans can never take it, and so it is a better place to be in than here. The De Smets will see that you are left in safe hands, and I'm sure your mother would want you to go." The children considered this for a moment in silence.

At last Jan said, "Do you think Father De Smet would let me help drive the mule?"

"I haven't a doubt of it," said Granny.

"But what about Fidel, our dear Fidel?" cried Marie.

"I tell you what I'll do;" said Granny. "I'll take care of Fidel for you! You shall leave him here with me until you come back again! You see, I really need good company, and since I can't have you, I know you would be glad to have Fidel stay here to protect me. Then you'll always know just where he is."

She hurried the children into their clothes as she talked, gave them a good breakfast, and before they had time to think much about what was happening to them, they had said good-bye to Fidel, who had to be shut in the cottage to keep him from following the boat, and were safely aboard the "Old Woman" and slowly moving away down the river. They stood in the stern of the boat, listening to Fidel's wild barks, and waving their hands, until Granny's kind face was a mere round speck in the distance.



X

On The Tow-Path

When they could no longer see Granny, nor hear Fidel, the children sat down on a coil of rope behind the cabin and felt very miserable indeed. Marie was just turning up the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, and Jan was looking at nothing at all and winking very hard, when good Mother De Smet, came by with a baby waddling along on each side of her. She gave the two dismal little faces a quick glance and then said kindly:

"Jan, you run and see if you can't help Father with the tiller, and, Marie, would you mind playing with the babies while I put on the soup-kettle and fix the greens for dinner? They are beginning to climb everywhere now, and I am afraid they will fall overboard if somebody doesn't watch them every minute!"

Jan clattered at once across the deck to Father De Smet, and Marie gladly followed his wife to the open space in front of the cabin where the babies had room to roll about. Half an hour later, when Mother De Smet went back to get some potatoes for the soup, she found Jan proudly steering the boat by himself.

"Oh, my soul!" she cried in astonishment. "What a clever boy you must be to learn so quickly to handle the tiller. Where is Father De Smet?"

"Here!" boomed a loud voice behind her, and Father De Smet's head appeared above a barrel on the other side of the deck. "I'm trying to make the 'Old Woman' look as if she had no cargo aboard. If the Germans see these potatoes, they'll never let us get them to Antwerp," he shouted.

"Sh-h-h! You mustn't talk so loud," whispered Mother De Smet. "You roar like a foghorn on a dark night. The Germans won't have any trouble in finding out about the potatoes if you shout the news all over the landscape."

Father De Smet looked out over the quiet Belgian fields.

"There's nobody about that I can see," he said, "but I'll roar more gently next time."

There was a bend in the river just at this point, and Jan, looking fearfully about to see if he could see any Germans, for an instant forgot all about the tiller. There was a jerk on the tow-rope and a bump as the nose of the "Old Woman" ran into the river-bank. Netteke, the mule, came to a sudden stop, and Mother De Smet sat down equally suddenly on a coil of rope. Her potatoes spilled over the deck, while a wail from the front of the boat announced that one of the babies had bumped, too. Mother De Smet picked herself up and ran to see what was the matter with the baby, while Father De Smet seized a long pole and hurried forward. Joseph left the mule to browse upon the grass beside the tow-path and ran back to the boat. His father threw him a pole which was kept for such emergencies, and they both pushed. Joseph pushed on the boat and his father pushed against the river-bank. Meanwhile poor Jan stood wretchedly by the tiller knowing that his carelessness had caused the trouble, yet not knowing what to do to help.

"Never mind, son," said Mother De Smet kindly, when she came back for her potatoes and saw his downcast face. "It isn't the first time the 'Old Woman' has stuck her nose in the mud, and with older people than you at the tiller, too! We'll soon have her off again and no harm done."

The boat gave a little lurch toward the middle of the stream.

"Look alive there, Mate!" sang out Father De Smet. "Hard aport with the tiller! Head her out into the stream!"

Joseph flung his pole to his father and rushed back to Netteke, pulled her patient nose out of a delicious bunch of thistles and started her up the tow-path. Jan sprang to the tiller, and soon the "Old Woman" was once more gliding smoothly over the quiet water toward Antwerp.

When Father De Smet came back to the stern of the boat, Jan expected a scolding, but perhaps it seemed to the good-natured skipper that Jan had troubles enough already, for he only said mildly, "Stick to your job, son, whatever it is," and went on covering his potatoes with empty boxes and pieces of sailcloth. Jan paid such strict attention to the tiller after that that he did not even forget when Father De Smet pointed out a burning farmhouse a mile or so from the river and said grimly, "The Germans are amusing themselves again."

For the most part, however, the countryside seemed so quiet and peaceful that it was hard to believe that such dreadful things were going on all about them. While Father De Smet's eyes, under their bushy brows, kept close watch in every direction, he said little about his fears and went on his way exactly as he had done before the invasion.

It was quite early in the morning when they left Boom, and by ten o'clock Joseph was tired of trudging along beside Netteke. He hailed his father.

"May I come aboard now?" he shouted.

Father De Smet looked at Jan.

"Would you like to drive the mule awhile?" he asked.

"Oh, wouldn't I!" cried Jan.

"Have you ever driven a mule before?" Father De Smet asked again.

"Not a mule, exactly," Jail replied, "but I drove old Pier up from the field with a load of wheat all by myself. Mother sat on the load."

"Come along!" shouted Father De Smet to Joseph, and in a moment the gangplank was out and Jan and Joseph had changed places.

"May I go, too?" asked Marie timidly of Father De Smet as he was about to draw in the plank. "The babies are both asleep and I have nothing to do."

Father De Smet took a careful look in every direction. It was level, open country all about them, dotted here and there with farmhouses, and in the distance the spire of a village church rose above the clustering houses and pointed to the sky.

"Yes, yes, child. Go ahead," said Father De Smet. "Only don't get too near Netteke's hind legs. She doesn't know you very well and sometimes she forgets her manners."

Marie skipped over the gangplank and ran along the tow-path to Jan, who already had taken up Netteke's reins and was waiting for the signal to start. Joseph took his place at the tiller, and again the "Old Woman" moved slowly down the stream.

For some time Jan and Marie plodded along with Netteke. At first they thought it good fun, but by and by, as the sun grew hot, driving a mule on a tow-path did not seem quite so pleasant a task as they had thought it would be.

"I'm tired of this," said Jan at last to Marie. "That mule is so slow that I have to sight her by something to be sure that she is moving at all! I've been measuring by that farmhouse across the river for a long time, and she hasn't crawled up to it yet! I shouldn't wonder if she'd go to sleep some day and fall into the river and never wake up! Why, I am almost asleep myself."

"She'll wake up fast enough when it's time to eat, and so will you," said Marie, with profound wisdom.

"Let 's see if we can't make her go a little faster, anyway," said Jan, ignoring Marie's remark. "I know what I'll do," he went on, chuckling; "I'll get some burrs and stick them in her tail, and then every time she slaps the flies off she'll make herself go faster."

Marie seized Jan's arm.

"You'll do nothing of the kind!" she cried. "Father De Smet told me especially to keep away from Netteke's hind legs."

"Pooh!" said Jan; "he didn't tell me that. I'm not afraid of any mule alive. I guess if I can harness a horse and drive home a load of grain from the field, there isn't much I can't do with a mule!" To prove his words he shouted "U -- U" at Netteke and slapped her flank with a long branch of willow.

Now, Netteke was a proud mule and she wasn't used to being slapped. Father De Smet knew her ways, and knew also that her steady, even, slow pace was better in the long run than to attempt to force a livelier gait, and Netteke was well aware of what was expected of her. She resented being interfered with. Instead of going forward at greater speed, she put her four feet together, laid back her ears, gave a loud "hee-haw!" and stopped stock-still.

"U -- U!" shouted Jan. In vain! Netteke would not move. Marie held a handful of fresh grass just out of reach of her mouth. But Netteke was really offended. She made no effort to get it. She simply stayed where she was. Father De Smet stuck his head over the side of the boat.

"What is the matter?" he shouted.

"Oh, dear!" said Jan to Marie. "I hoped he wouldn't notice that the boat wasn't moving."

"Netteke has stopped. She won't go at all. I think she's run down!" Marie called back.

"Try coaxing her," cried the skipper. "Give her something to eat. Hold it in front of her nose."

"I have," answered Marie, "but she won't even look at it."

"Then it's no use," said Father De Smet mournfully. "She's balked and that is all there is to it. We'll just have to wait until she is ready to go again. When she has made up her mind she is as difficult to persuade as a setting hen."

Mother De Smet's head appeared beside her husband's over the boat-rail.

"Oh, dear!" said she; "I hoped we should get to the other side of the line before dark, but if Netteke's set, she's set, and we must just make the best of it. It's lucky it's dinner-time. We'll eat, and maybe by the time we are through she'll be willing to start." Father De Smet tossed a bucket on to the grass.

"Give her a good drink," he said, "and come aboard yourselves."

Jan filled the bucket from the river and set it down before Netteke, but she was in no mood for blandishments. She kept her ears back and would not touch the water.

"All right, then, Crosspatch," said Jan. Leaving the pail in front of her, he went back to the boat. The gangplank was put out, and he and Marie went on board. They found dinner ready in the tiny cabin, and because it was so small and stuffy, and there were too many of them, anyway, to get into it comfortably, they each took a bowl of soup as Mother De Smet handed it to them and sat down on the deck in front of the cabin to eat it. It was not until the middle of the afternoon that Netteke forgot her injuries, consented to eat and drink, and indicated her willingness to move on toward Antwerp.



XI

The Attack

Joseph and his father were both on the tow-path when at last Netteke decided to move. As she set her ears forward and took the first step, Father De Smet heaved a sigh of relief.

"Now, why couldn't you have done that long ago, you addlepated old fool," he said mildly to Netteke. "You have made no end of trouble for us, and gained nothing for yourself! Now I am afraid we shan't get beyond the German lines before dark. We may even have to spend the night in dangerous territory, and all because you're just as mulish as, as a mule," he finished helplessly.

Joseph laughed. "Can't you think of anything mulisher than a mule?" he said.

"There isn't a thing," answered his father.

"Well," answered Joseph, "there are a whole lot of other things beside balky mules in this world that I wish had never been made. There are spiders, and rats, and Germans. They are all pests. I don't see why they were ever born."

Father De Smet became serious at once.

"Son," he said sternly, "don't ever let me hear you say such a thing again. There are spiders, and rats, and balky mules, and Germans, and it doesn't do a bit of good to waste words fussing because they are here. The thing to do is to deal with them!"

Father De Smet was so much in earnest that he boomed these words out in quite a loud voice. Joseph seized his hand.

"Hush!" he whispered.

Father De Smet looked up. There, standing right in front of them in the tow-path, was a German soldier!

"Halt!" shouted the soldier.

But Netteke was now just as much bent upon going as she had been before upon standing still. She paid no attention whatever to the command, but walked stolidly along the tow-path directly toward the soldier.

"Halt!" cried the soldier again.

But Netteke had had no military training, and she simply kept on. In one more step she would have come down upon the soldier's toes, if he had not moved aside just in time. He was very angry.

"Why didn't you stop your miserable old mule when I told you to?" he said to Father De Smet.

"It's a balky mule," replied Father De Smet mildly, "and very obstinate."

"Indeed!" sneered the soldier; "then, I suppose you have named him Albert after your pig-headed King!"

"No," answered Father De Smet, "I think too much of my King to name my mule after him."

"Oh, ho!" said the German; "then perhaps you have named him for the Kaiser!"

Netteke had marched steadily along during this conversation, and they were now past the soldier.

"No," Father De Smet called back, "I didn't name her after the Kaiser. I think too much of my mule!"

The soldier shook his fist after them. "I'll make you pay well for your impudence!" he shouted. "You and I will meet again!"

"Very likely," muttered Father De Smet under his breath. He was now more than ever anxious to get beyond the German lines before dark, but as the afternoon passed it became certain that they would not be able to do it. The shadows grew longer and longer as Netteke plodded slowly along, and at last Mother De Smet called to her husband over the boatside.

"I think we shall have to stop soon and feed the mule or she will be too tired to get us across the line at all. I believe we should save time by stopping for supper. Besides, I want to send over there," she pointed to a farmhouse not a great distance from the river, "and get some milk and eggs."

"Very well," said her husband; "we'll stop under that bunch of willows."

The bunch of willows beside the river which he pointed out proved to be a pleasant, sheltered spot, with grassy banks sloping down to the water. A turn in the river enabled them to draw the "Old Woman" up into their shadows, and because the trees were green and the boat was green, the reflections in the water were also green, and for this reason the boat seemed very well hidden from view.

"I don't believe we shall be noticed here," said Father De Smet.

"It's hot on the boat. It would be nice to take the babies ashore while we eat," said Mother De Smet, running out the gangplank. "I believe we'll have supper on the grass. You hurry along and get the milk and eggs, and I'll cook some onions while you are gone."

Jan and Marie ran over the plank at once, and Mother De Smet soon followed with the babies. Then, while Marie watched them, she and Jan brought out the onions and a pan, and soon the air was heavy with the smell of frying onions. Joseph and Jan slipped the bridle over Netteke's collar and allowed her to eat the rich green grass at the river's edge. When Father De Smet returned, supper was nearly ready. He sniffed appreciatively as he appeared under the trees.

"Smells good," he said as he held out the milk and eggs toward his wife.

"Sie haben recht!" (You are right!), said a loud voice right behind him!

Father De Smet was so startled that he dropped the eggs. He whirled about, and there stood the German soldier who had told Netteke to halt. With him were six other men.

"Ha! I told you we should meet again!" shouted the soldier to Father De Smet. "And it was certainly thoughtful of you to provide for our entertainment. Comrades, fall to!"

The onions were still cooking over a little blaze of twigs aid dry leaves, but Mother De Smet was no longer tending them. The instant she heard the gruff voice she had dropped her spoon, and, seizing a baby under each arm, had fled up the gangplank on to the boat. Marie followed at top speed. Father De Smet faced the intruders.

"What do you want here?" he said.

"Some supper first," said the soldier gayly, helping himself to some onions and passing the pan to his friends. "Then, perhaps, a few supplies for our brave army. There is no hurry. After supper will do; but first we'll drink a health to the Kaiser, and since you are host here, you shall propose it!"

He pointed to the pail of milk which Father De Smet still held.

"Now," he shouted, "lift your stein and say, 'Hoch der Kaiser.'"

Father De Smet looked them in the face and said not a word. Meanwhile Jan and Joseph, to Mother De Smet's great alarm, had not followed her, on to the boat. Instead they had flown to Netteke, who was partly hidden from the group by a bunch of young willows near the water's edge, and with great speed and presence of mind had slipped her bridle over her head and gently started her up the tow-path.

"Oh," murmured Joseph, "suppose she should balk!" But Netteke had done her balking for the day, and, having been refreshed by her luncheon of green grass, she was ready to move on. The river had now quite a current, which helped them, and while the soldiers were still having their joke with Father De Smet the boat moved quietly out of sight. As she felt it move, Mother De Smet lifted her head over the boat's rail behind which she and the children were hiding, and raised the end of the gangplank so that it would make no noise by scraping along the ground. She was beside herself with anxiety. If she screamed or said anything to the boys, the attention of the soldiers would immediately be directed toward them. Yet if they should by any miracle succeed in getting away, there was her husband left alone to face seven enemies. She wrung her hands.

"Maybe they will stop to eat the onions," she groaned to herself. She held to the gangplank and murmured prayers to all the saints she knew, while Jan and Joseph trotted briskly along the tow-path, and Netteke, assisted by the current, made better speed than she had at any time during the day.

Meanwhile his captors were busy with Father De Smet. "Come! Drink to the Kaiser!" shouted the first soldier, "or we'll feed you to the fishes! We want our supper, and you delay us." Still Father De Smet said nothing. "We'll give you just until I count ten," said the soldier, pointing his gun at him, "and if by that time you have not found your tongue -- "

But he did not finish the sentence. From an unexpected quarter a shot rang out. It struck the pail of milk and dashed it over the German and over Father De Smet too. Another shot followed, and the right arm of the soldier fell helpless to his side. One of his companions gave a howl and fell to the ground. Still no one appeared at whom the Germans could direct their fire. "Snipers!" shouted the soldiers, instantly lowering their guns, but before they could even fire in the direction of the unseen enemy, there was such a patter of bullets about them that they turned and fled.

Father De Smet fled, too. He leaped over the frying-pan and tore down the river-bank after the boat. As he overtook it, Mother De Smet ran out the gang plank. "Boys!" shouted Father De Smet. "Get aboard! Get aboard!" Joseph and Jan instantly stopped the mule and, dropping the reins, raced up the gangplank, almost before the end of it rested safely on the ground. Father De Smet snatched up the reins. On went the boat at Netteke's best speed, which seemed no better than a snail's pace to the fleeing family. Sounds of the skirmish continued to reach their ears, even when they had gone some distance down the river, and it was not until twilight had deepened into dusk, and they were hidden in its shadows, that they dared hope the danger was passed. It was after ten o'clock at night when the "Old Woman" at last approached the twinkling lights of Antwerp, and they knew that, for the time being at least, they were safe.

They wore now beyond the German lines in country still held by the Belgians. Here, in a suburb of the city, Father De Smet decided to dock for the night. A distant clock struck eleven as the hungry but thankful family gathered upon the deck of the "Old Woman" to eat a meager supper of bread and cheese with only the moon to light their repast. Not until they had finished did Father De Smet tell them all that had happened to him during the few terrible moments when he was in the hands of the enemy.

"They overreached themselves," he said. "They meant to amuse themselves by prolonging my misery, and they lingered just a bit too long." He turned to Jan and Joseph. "You were brave boys! If you had not started the boat when you did, it is quite likely they might have got me, after all, and the potatoes too. I am proud of you."

"But, Father," cried Joseph, "who could have fired those shots? We didn't see a soul."

"Neither did I," answered his father; "and neither did the Germans for that matter. There was no one in sight."

"Oh," cried Mother De Smet, "it was as if the good God himself intervened to save you!"

"As I figure it out," said Father De Smet, "we must have stopped very near the trenches, and our own men must have seen the Germans attack us. My German friend had evidently been following us up, meaning to get everything we had and me too. But the smell of the onions was too much for him! If he hadn't been greedy, he might have carried out his plan, but he wanted our potatoes and our supper too; and so he got neither!" he chuckled. "And neither did the Kaiser get a toast from me! Instead, he got a salute from the Belgians." He crossed himself reverently. "Thank God for our soldiers," he said, and Mother De Smet, weeping softly, murmured a devout "Amen."

Little did Jan and Marie dream as they listened, that this blessing rested upon their own father, and that he had been one of the Belgian soldiers, who, firing from the trenches, had delivered them from the hands of their enemies. Their father, hidden away, in the earth like a fox, as little dreamed that he had helped to save his own children from a terrible fate.



XII

The Zeppelin Raid

When the Twins awoke, early the next morning, they found that Father and Mother De Smet had been stirring much earlier still, and that the "Old Woman" was already slipping quietly along among the docks of Antwerp. To their immense surprise they were being towed, not by Netteke, but by a very small and puffy steam tug. They were further astonished to find that Netteke herself was on board the "Old Woman."

"How in the world did you get the mule on to the boat!" gasped Jan, when he saw her.

"Led her right up the gangplank just like folks," answered Father De Smet. "I couldn't leave her behind and I wanted to get to the Antwerp docks as soon as possible. This was the quickest way. You see," he went on, "I don't know where I shall be going next, but I know it won't be up the Dyle, so I am going to keep Netteke right where I can use her any minute."

There was no time for further questions, for Father De Smet had to devote his attention to the tiller. Soon they were safely in dock and Father De Smet was unloading his potatoes and selling them to the market-men, who swarmed about the boats to buy the produce which had been brought in from the country.

"There!" he said with a sigh of relief as he delivered the last of his cargo to a purchaser late in the afternoon; "that load is safe from the Germans, anyway."

"How did you find things up the Dyle?" asked the merchant who had bought the potatoes.

Father De Smet shook his head.

"Couldn't well be worse," he said. "I'm not going to risk another trip. The Germans are taking everything they can lay their hands on, and are destroying what they can't seize. I nearly lost this load, and my life into the bargain. If it hadn't been that, without knowing it, we stopped so near the Belgian line of trenches that they could fire on the German foragers who tried to take our cargo, I shouldn't have been here to tell this tale."

"God only knows what will become of Belgium if this state of things continues," groaned the merchant. "Food must come from somewhere or the people will starve."

"True enough," answered Father De Smet. "I believe I'll try a trip north through the back channels of the Scheldt and see what I can pick up."

"Don't give up, anyway," urged the merchant. "If you fellows go back on us, I don't know what we shall do. We depend on you to bring supplies from somewhere, and if you can't get them in Belgium, you'll have to go up into Holland."

Mother De Smet leaned over the boatrail and spoke to the two men who were standing on the dock.

"You'd better believe we'll not give up," she said. "We don't know the meaning of the word."

"Well," said the merchant sadly, "maybe you don't, but there are others who do. It takes a stout heart to have faith that God hasn't forgotten Belgium these days."

"It's easy enough to have faith when things are going right," said Mother De Smet, "but to have faith when things are going wrong isn't so easy." Then she remembered Granny. "But a sick heart won't get you anywhere, and maybe a stout one will," she finished.

"That's a good word," said the merchant.

"It was said by as good a woman as treads shoe-leather," answered Mother De Smet.

"You are safe while you stay in Antwerp, anyway," said the merchant as he turned to say good-bye. "Our forts are the strongest in the world and the Germans will never be able to take them. There's comfort in that for us." Then he spoke to his horses and turned away with his load.

"Let us stay right here to-night," said Mother De Smet to her husband as he came on board the boat. "We are all in need of rest after yesterday, and in Antwerp we can get a good night's sleep. Besides, it is so late in the day that we couldn't get out of town before dark if we tried."

Following this plan, the whole family went to bed at dusk, but they were not destined to enjoy the quiet sleep they longed for. The night was warm, and the cabin small, so Father De Smet and Joseph, as well as the Twins, spread bedding on the deck and went to sleep looking up at the stars.

They had slept for some hours when they were suddenly aroused by the sound of a terrific explosion. Instantly they sprang to their feet, wide awake, and Mother De Smet came rushing from the cabin with the babies screaming in her arms.

"What is it now? What is it?" she cried.

"Look! Look!" cried Jan.

He pointed to the sky. There, blazing with light, like a great misshapen moon, was a giant airship moving swiftly over the city. As it sailed along, streams of fire fell from it, and immediately there followed the terrible thunder of bursting bombs. When it passed out of sight, it seemed as if the voice of the city itself must rise in anguish at the terrible destruction left in its wake.

Just what that destruction was, Father De Smet did not wish to see. "This is a good place to get away from," he said to the frightened group cowering on the deck of the "Old Woman" after the bright terror had disappeared. When morning came he lost no time in making the best speed he could away from the doomed city of Antwerp which they had thought so safe.

When they had left the city behind them and the boat was slowly making its way through the quiet back channels of the Scheldt the world once more seemed really peaceful to the wandering children. Their way lay over still waters and beside green pastures, and as they had no communication with the stricken regions of Belgium, they had no news of the progress of the war, until, some days later, the boat docked at Rotterdam, and it became necessary to decide what should be done next. There they learned that they had barely escaped the siege of Antwerp, which had begun with the Zeppelin raid.

Father De Smet was now obliged to confront the problem of what to do with his own family, for, since Antwerp was now in the hands of the enemy, he could no longer earn his living in the old way. Under these changed conditions he could not take care of Jan and Marie, so one sad day they said good-bye to good Mother De Smet, to Joseph and the babies, and went with Father De Smet into the city of Rotterdam.

They found that these streets were also full of Belgian refugees, and here, too, they watched for their mother. In order to keep up her courage, Marie had often to feel of the locket and to say to herself: "She will find us. She will find us." And Jan, Jan had many times to say to himself, "I am now a man and must be brave," or he would have cried in despair.

But help was nearer than they supposed. Already England had begun to organize for the relief of the Belgian refugees, and it was in the office of the British Consul at Rotterdam that Father De Smet finally took leave of Jan and Marie. The Consul took them that night to his own home, and, after a careful record had been made of their names and their parents' names and all the facts about them, they were next day placed upon a ship, in company with many other homeless Belgians, and sent across the North Sea to England.



XIII

Refugees

If I were to tell you all the strange new sights that Jan and Marie saw, and all the things they did in England, it would make this book so big you could not hold it up to read it, so I must skip all about the great house in the southern part of England where they next found themselves. This house was the great country place of a very rich man, and when the war broke out he had given it to be used as a shelter for homeless Belgians. There were the most wonderful woods and parks on the estate, and miles of beautiful drives. There were great gardens and stables and hothouses; and the house was much bigger and finer than any Jan and Marie had ever seen in all their lives. It seemed to them as if they had suddenly been changed into a prince and princess by some fairy wand. They were not alone in all this splendor; other lost little Belgian children were there, and there were lost parents, too, and it seemed such a pity that the lost parents and the lost children should not be the very ones that belonged together, so that every one could be happy once more. However, bad as it was, it was so much better than anything they had known since the dreadful first night of the alarm that Jan and Marie became almost happy again.

At night they and the other homeless children slept in little white cots set all in a row in a great picture gallery. They were given new clothes, for by this time even their best ones were quite worn out, and every day they had plenty of good plain food to eat. Every day more Belgians came, and still more, until not only the big house, but the stable and outbuildings were all running-over full of homeless people. One day, after they had been in this place for two or three weeks, Jan and Marie were called into the room where sat the sweet-faced lady whose home they were in. It was like an office, and there were several other persons there with her.

The sweet-faced lady spoke to them. "Jan and Marie," she said, "how would you like to go to live with a dear lady in America who would love you, and take care of you, so you need never be lonely and sad again?"

"But our mother!" gasped Marie, bursting into tears. "We have not found her!"

"You will not lose her any more by going to America," said the lady, "for, you see, we shall know all about you here, and if your mother comes, we shall be able to tell her just where to find you. Meanwhile you will be safe and well cared for, far away from all the dreadful things that are happening here."

"It is so far away!" sobbed Marie.

Jan said nothing; he was busy swallowing lumps in his own throat.

"You see, dears," the lady said gently, "you can be together there, for this woman has no children of her own, and is willing to take both of you. That does not often happen, and, besides, she is a Belgian; I know you will find a good home with her."

"You're sure we could be together?" asked Jan.

"Yes," said the lady.

"Because," said Jan, "Mother said I must take care of Marie."

"And she said she'd find us again if she had to swim the sea," said Marie, feeling of her locket and smiling through her tears.

"She won't have to swim," said the lady. "We will see to that! If she comes here, she shall go for you in a fine big ship, and so that's all settled." She kissed their woebegone little faces. "You are going to start to-morrow," she said. "The good captain of the ship has promised to take care of you, so you will not be afraid, and I know you will be good children."

It seemed like a month to Jan and Marie, but it was really only seven days later that they stood on the deck of the good ship Caspian, as it steamed proudly into the wonderful harbor of New York. It was dusk, and already the lights of the city sparkled like a sky full of stars dropped down to earth. High above the other stars shone the great torch of "Liberty enlightening the World." "Oh," gasped Marie, as she gazed, "New York must be as big as heaven. Do you suppose that is an angel holding a candle to light us in?"

Just then the captain came to find them, and a few minutes later they walked with him down the gangplank, right into a pair of outstretched arms. The arms belonged to Madame Dujardin, their new mother. "I should have known them the moment I looked at them, even if they hadn't been with the captain," she cried to her husband, who stood smiling by her side. "Poor darlings, your troubles are all over now! Just as soon as Captain Nichols says you may, you shall come with us, and oh, I have so many things to show you in your new home!"

She drew them with her to a quieter part of the dock, while her husband talked with the captain, and then, when they had bidden him good-bye, they were bundled into a waiting motor car and whirled away through miles of brilliantly lighted streets and over a wonderful bridge, and on and on, until they came to green lawns, and houses set among trees and shrubs, and it seemed to the children as if they must have reached the very end of the world. At last the car stopped before a house standing some distance back from the street in a large yard, and the children followed their new friends through the bright doorway of their house.

Madame Dujardin helped them take off their things in the pleasant hallway, where an open fire was burning, and later, when they were washed and ready, she led the way to a cheerful dining room, where there was a pretty table set for four. There were flowers on the table, and they had chicken for supper, and, after that, ice cream! Jan and Marie had never tasted ice cream before in their whole lives! They thought they should like America very much.

After supper their new mother took them upstairs and showed them two little rooms with a bathroom between. One room was all pink and white with a dear little white bed in it, and she said to Marie, "This is your room, my dear." The other room was all in blue and white with another dear little white bed in it, and she said to Jan, "This is your room, my dear." And there were clean white night-gowns on the beds, and little wrappers with gay flowered slippers, just waiting for Jan and Marie to put them on.

"Oh, I believe it is heaven!" cried Marie, as she looked about the pretty room. Then she touched Madame Dujardin's sleeve timidly. "Is it all true?" she said. "Shan't we wake up and have to go somewhere else pretty soon?"

"No, dear," said Madame Dujardin gently. "You are going to stay right here now and be happy."

"It will be a very nice place for Mother to find us in," said Jan. "She will come pretty soon now, I should think."

"I hope she may," said Madame Dujardin, tears twinkling in her eyes.

"I'm sure she will," said Marie. "You see everybody is looking for her. There's Granny, and Mother and Father De Smet, and Joseph, and the people in Rotterdam, and the people in England, too; and then, besides, Mother is looking for herself, of course!"

"She said she would surely find us even if she had to swim the sea," added Jan.



XIV

The Most Wonderful Part

And now comes the most wonderful part of the story!

Madame Dujardin prepared a bath and said to Marie: "You may have the first turn in the tub because you're a girl. In America the girls have the best of everything", she laughed at Jan, as she spoke. "I will help you undress. Jan, you may get ready and wait for your turn in your own room." She unbuttoned Marie's dress, slipped off her clothes, and held up the gay little wrapper for her to put her arms into, and just then she noticed the locket on her neck. "We'll take this off, too," she said, beginning to unclasp it.

But Marie clung to it with both hands. "No, no," she cried. "Mother said I was never, never to take it off. It has her picture in it."

"May I see it, dear?" asked Madame Dujardin. "I should like to know what your mother looks like." Marie nestled close to her, and Madame Dujardin opened the locket.

For a moment she gazed at the picture in complete silence, her eyes staring at it like two blue lights. Then she burst into a wild fit of weeping, and cried out, "Leonie! Leonie! It is not possible! My own sister's children!" She clasped the bewildered Marie in her arms and kissed her over and over again. She ran to the door and brought in Jan and kissed him; and then she called her husband. When he came in and saw her with her arms around both children at once, holding the locket in her hands, and laughing and crying both together, he, too, was bewildered.

"What in the world is the matter, Julie?" he cried.

For answer, she pointed to the face in the locket. "Leonie! Leonie!" she cried. "They are my own sister's children! Surely the hand of God is in this!"

Her husband looked at the locket. "So it is! So it is!" he said in astonishment. "I thought at first you had gone crazy."

"See!" cried his wife. "It's her wedding-gown, and afterward she gave me those very beads she has around her neck! I have them yet!" She rushed from the room and returned in a moment with the beads in her hand.

Meanwhile Jan and Marie had stood still, too astonished to do more than stare from one amazed and excited face to the other, as their new father and mother gazed, first at them, and then at the locket, and last at the beads, scarcely daring to believe the testimony of their own eyes. "To think," cried Madame Dujardin at last, "that I should not have known! But there are many Van Hoves in Belgium, and it never occurred to me that they could be my own flesh and blood. It is years since I have heard from Leonie. In fact, I hardly knew she had any children, our lives have been so different. Oh, it is all my fault," she cried, weeping again. "But if I have neglected her, I will make it up to her children! It may be, oh, it is just possible that she is still alive, and that she may yet write to me after all these years! Sorrow sometimes bridges wide streams!"

Then she turned more quietly to the children.

"You see, dears," she said, "I left Belgium many years ago, and came with your uncle to this country. We were poor when we came, but your uncle has prospered as one can in America. At first Leonie and I wrote regularly to each other. Then she grew more and more busy, and we seemed to have no ties in common, so that at last we lost sight of each other altogether." She opened her arms to Marie and Jan as she spoke, and held them for some time in a close embrace.

Finally she lifted her head and laughed. "This will never do!" she exclaimed. "You must have your baths, even if you are my own dear niece and nephew. The water must be perfectly cold by this time!"

She went into the bathroom, turned on more hot water, and popped Marie into the tub. In half an hour both children had said their prayers and were tucked away for the night in their clean white beds.

Wonderful days followed for Jan and Marie. They began to go to school; they had pretty clothes and many toys, and began to make friends among the little American children of the neighborhood. But in the midst of these new joys they did not forget their mother, still looking for them, or their father, now fighting, as they supposed, in the cruel trenches of Belgium. But at last there came a day when Aunt Julie received a letter with a foreign postmark. She opened it, with trembling fingers, and when she saw that it began, "My dear Sister Julie," she wept so for joy that she could not see to read it, and her husband had to read it for her.

This was the letter:

You will perhaps wonder at hearing from me after the long years of silence that have passed, but I have never doubted the goodness of your heart, my Julie, nor your love for your poor Leonie, even though our paths in life have led such different ways. And now I must tell you of the sorrows which have broken my heart. Georges was obliged to go into the army at a moment's notice when the war broke out. A few days later the Germans swept through Meer, driving the people before them like chaff before the wind. As our house was on the edge of the village, I was the first to see them coming. I hid the children in the vegetable cellar, but before I could get to a hiding-place for myself, they swept over the town, driving every man, woman, and child before them. To turn back then was impossible, and it was only after weeks of hardship and danger that I at last succeeded in struggling through the territory occupied by Germans to the empty city of Malines, and the deserted village where we had been so happy! On the kitchen door of our home I found a paper pinned. On it was printed, "Dear Mother -- We have gone to Malines to find you -- Jan and Marie." Since then I have searched every place where there seemed any possibility of my finding my dear children, but no trace of them can I find. Then, through friends in Antwerp, I learned that Georges had been wounded and was in a hospital there and I went at once to find him. He had lost an arm in the fighting before Antwerp and was removed to Holland after the siege began. Here we have remained since, still hoping God would hear our prayers and give us news of our dear children. It would even be a comfort to know surely of their death, and if I could know that they were alive and well, I think I should die of joy. Georges can fight no more; our home is lost; we are beggars until this war is over and our country once more restored to us. I am now at work in a factory, earning what keeps body and soul together. Georges must soon leave the hospital, then, God knows what may befall us. How I wish we had been wise like you, my Julie, and your Paul, and that we had gone, with you to America years ago! I might then have my children with me in comfort. If you get this letter, write to your heart-broken

Leonie.

It was not a letter that went back that very day; it was a cablegram, and it said:

Jan and Marie are safe with me. Am sending money with this to the Bank of Holland, for your passage to America. Come at once.         JULIE.

People do not die of joy, or I am sure that Father and Mother Van Hove would never have survived the reading of that message. Instead it put such new strength and energy into their weary souls and bodies that two days later they were on their way to England, and a week later still they stood on the deck of the Arabia as it steamed into New York Harbor. Jan and Marie with Uncle Paul and Aunt Julie met them at the dock, and there are very few meetings, this side of heaven, like the reunion of those six persons on that day.

The story of that first evening together can hardly be told. First. Father and Mother Van Hove listened to Jan and Marie as they told of their wanderings with Fidel, of the little old eel woman, of Father and Mother De Smet, of the attack by Germans and of the friends they found in Holland and in England; and when everybody had cried a good deal about that, Father Van Hove told what had happened to him; then Mother Van Hove told of her long and perilous search for her children; and there were more tears of thankfulness and joy, until it seemed as if their hearts were filled to the brim and running over. But when, last of all, Uncle Paul told of the plans which he and Aunt Julie had made for the family, they found there was room in their hearts for still more joy.

"I have a farm in the country," said Uncle Paul. "It is not very far from New York. There is a good house on it; it is already stocked. I need a farmer to take care of the place for me, and trustworthy help is hard to get here. If you will manage it for me, Brother Georges, I shall have no further anxiety about it, and shall expect to enjoy the fruits of it as I have never yet been able to do. Leonie shall make some of her good butter for our city table, and the children" here he pinched Marie's cheek, now round and rosy once more "the children shall pick berries and help on the farm all summer. In winter they can come back to Uncle Paul and Aunt Julie and go to school here, for they are our children now, as well as yours."

Father Van Hove rose, stretched out his one hand, and, grasping Uncle Paul's, tried to thank him, but his voice failed.

"Don't say a word, old man," said Uncle Paul, clasping Father Van Hove's hand with both of his. "All the world owes a debt to Belgium which it can never pay. Her courage and devotion have saved the rest of us from the miseries she has borne so bravely. If you got your just deserts, you'd get much more than I can ever give you."

In the end it all came about just as Uncle Paul had said, and the Van Hoves are living in comfort and happiness on that farm this very day.


The End



Suggestions To Teachers

American children who have been giving their pennies to help take care of little Belgian children will find this new "Twins" book one of the most appealing that Mrs. Perkins has ever written. The author's Preface states the sources of her inspiration. As usual, her story will be found sympathetic in spirit and accurate as to facts.

At the present day books are constantly issuing from the press which will assist teachers in planning their own preparation for the class reading of this book; for example, Griffis's: "Belgium: The Land of Art" and Gibson's: "A Journal from our Legation in Belgium". Books issued in past years which tell other stories of exile or emigration, or which deal with European countries neighboring Belgium, also have their place in the teacher's reading. We may suggest Griffis's: "The Pilgrims in Their Three Homes" and "Brave Little Holland", and Davis's "History of Medieval and Modern Europe" (sections 238, 266, and the account of the present war). A file of the National Geographic Magazine, accessible in most public libraries, will be found to contain many articles and illustrations which will be invaluable in this connection. Picture postcards, also, will supply a wealth of appropriate subjects. Children should be encouraged to bring material of this sort to school.

Once the historical and geographical background has been sketched, the teacher may safely trust the children to get the most out of the story. Fifth grade pupils can read it without preparation. Pupils in the fourth grade should first read it in a study period in order to work out the pronunciation of the more difficult words.

The possibilities for dramatization will be immediately apparent. In this, the author's illustrations will, as in all the "Twins" books, furnish hints as to scenes and action. They may likewise be used as the subjects of both oral and written compositions -- each pupil selecting the picture most interesting to him, and retelling its story in his own words.

The illustrations may be used, also, as models for the pupils' sketching; their simple style renders them especially suitable for this use.

<eob>

Tolstoi For The Young

By

Leo Tolstoy



Ivan The Fool

The Story Of Ivan The Fool And His Two Brothers Simon The Warrior And Taras The Pot-Bellied, And Of His Deaf And Dumb Sister, And The Old Devil And Three Little Devilkins.


Once upon a time there lived a rich peasant, who had three sons -- Simon the Warrior, Taras the Pot-bellied, and Ivan the Fool, and a deaf and dumb daughter, Malania, an old maid.

Simon the Warrior went off to the wars to serve the King; Taras the Pot-bellied went to a merchant's to trade in the town, and Ivan the Fool and the old maid stayed at home to do the work of the house and the farm. Simon the Warrior earned a high rank for himself and an estate and married a nobleman's daughter. He had a large income and a large estate, but he could never make both ends meet, for, what he managed to gather in, his wife managed to squander; thus it was that he never had any money.

And Simon the Warrior went to his estate one day to collect his income, and his steward said to him, "There is nothing to squeeze money out of; we have neither cattle, nor implements, nor horses, nor cows, nor ploughs, nor harrows; we must get all these things first, then there will be an income."

Then Simon the Warrior went to his father and said, "You are rich, father; and have given me nothing, let me have a third of your possessions and I will set up my estate."

And the old man replied, "Why should I? You have brought nothing to the home. It would be unfair to Ivan and the girl."

And Simon said, "Ivan is a fool and Malania is deaf and dumb; they do not need much, surely."

"Ivan shall decide," the old man said.

And Ivan said, "I don't mind; let him take what he wants."

Simon took a portion of his father's goods and moved them to his estate, and once more he set out to serve the King.

Taras the Pot-bellied made a great deal of money and married a merchant's widow, but still, it seemed to him that he had not enough, so he too went to his father and said, "Give me my portion, father." And the old man was loath to give Taras his portion, and he said, "You have brought us nothing; everything in the home has been earned by Ivan; it would be unfair to him and the girl."

And Taras said, "Ivan is a fool, what does he need? He cannot marry, for no one would have him, and the girl is deaf and dumb and does not need much either." And turning to Ivan, he said, "Let me have half the corn, Ivan. I will not take any implements, and as for the cattle, I only want the grey cob; he is of no use to you for the plough."

Ivan laughed.

"Very well," he said, "you shall have what you want."

And Taras was given his portion, and he carted the corn off to the town and took away the grey cob, and Ivan was left with only the old mare to work the farm and support his father and mother.


II

The old Devil was annoyed that the three brothers had not quarrelled over the matter and had parted in peace. He summoned three little Devilkins.

"There are three brothers," he said, "Simon the Warrior, Taras the Pot-bellied, and Ivan the Fool. I want them all to quarrel and they live in peace and goodwill. It is the Fool's fault. Go to these three brothers, the three of you, and confound them so that they will scratch out each others' eyes. Do you think you can do it?"

"We can," they said.

"How will you do it?"

"We will ruin them first," they said, "so that they have nothing to eat, then we will put them all together and they will begin to fight."

"I see you know your work," the old Devil said. "Go then, and do not return to me until you have confounded the whole three, or else I will skin you alive."

And the Devilkins set out to a bog to confer on the matter, and they argued and argued, for each wanted the easiest work, and they decided to cast lots and each to take the brother that fell to him, and whichever finished his work first was to help the others. And the Devilkins cast lots and fixed a day when they should meet again in the bog, in order to find out who had finished his work and who was in need of help.

The day arrived and the Devilkins gathered together in the bog. They began to discuss their work. The first to give his account was the one who had undertaken Simon the Warrior. "My work is progressing well," he said. "To-morrow Simon will return to his father."

"How did you manage it?" the others asked him.

"First of all," he said, "I gave Simon so much courage that he promised the King to conquer the whole world. And the King made him the head of his army and sent him to make war on the King of India. That same night I damped the powder of Simon's troops and I went to the King of India and made him numberless soldiers out of straw. And when Simon saw himself surrounded by the straw soldiers, a fear came upon him and he ordered the guns to fire, but the guns and cannon would not go off. And Simon's troops were terrified and ran away like sheep, and the King of India defeated them. Simon was disgraced. He was deprived of his rank and estate and to-morrow he is to be executed. I have only one day left in which to get him out of the dungeon and help him to escape home. To-morrow I shall have finished with him, so I want you to tell me which of you two is in need of help."

Then the second Devilkin began to tell of his work with Taras. "I do not want help," he said; "my work is also going well. Taras will not live in the town another week. The first thing I did was to make his belly grow bigger and fill him with greed. He is now so greedy for other people's goods that whatever he sees he must buy. He has bought up everything he could lay his eyes on, and spent all his money, and is still buying with borrowed money. He has taken so much upon himself, and become so entangled that he will never pull himself out. In a week he will have to repay the borrowed money, and I will turn his wares into manure so that he cannot repay, then he will go to his father."

"And how is your work getting on?" they asked the third Devilkin about Ivan.

"My work is going badly," he said. "The first thing I did was to spit into Ivan's jug of kvas to give him a stomach-ache and then I went into his fields and made the soil as hard as stones so that he could not move it. I thought he would not plough it, but the fool came with his plough and began to pull. His stomach-ache made him groan, yet still he went on ploughing. I broke one plough for him and he went home and repaired another, and again persisted in his work. I crawled beneath the ground and clutched hold of his ploughshares, but I could not hold them -- he pressed upon the plough so hard, and the shares were sharp and cut my hands. He has finished it all but one strip. You must come and help me, mates, for singly we shall never get the better of him, and all our labour will be wasted. If the fool keeps on tilling his land, the other two brothers will never know what need means, for he will feed them."

The first Devilkin offered to come and help to-morrow when he had disposed of Simon the Warrior, and with that the three Devilkins parted.


III

Ivan had ploughed all the fallow but one strip, and he went to finish that. His stomach ached, yet he had to plough. He undid the harness ropes, turned over the plough and set out to the fields. He drove one furrow, but coming back, the ploughshares caught on something that seemed like a root.

"What a strange thing!" Ivan thought. "There were no roots here, yet here's a root!"

He put his hand into the furrow and clutched hold of something soft. He pulled it out. It was a thing as black as a root and it moved. He looked closely and saw that it was a live Devilkin.

"You horrid little wretch, you!"

Ivan raised his hand to dash its head against the plough, but the Devilkin squealed, "Don't kill me, and I'll do whatever you want me to."

"What can you do?"

"Tell me what you want."

Ivan scratched his head.

"My stomach aches," he said; "can you make it well?"

"I can."

"Do it, then."

The Devilkin bent down, rummaged about with his nails in the furrow and pulled out three little roots, grown together.

"There," he said; "if any one swallows a single one of these roots all pain will pass away from him."

Ivan took the three roots, separated them and swallowed one. His stomach-ache instantly left him.

"Let me go now," the Devilkin begged once more. "I will dive through the earth and never bother you again."

"Very well," Ivan said; "go, in God's name."

At the mention of God the Devilkin plunged into the ground like a stone thrown into water, and there was nothing but the hole left. Ivan thrust the two remaining little roots into his cap and went on with his ploughing. He finished the strip, turned over his plough and set off home. He unharnessed and went into the house, and there was his brother, Simon the Warrior, sitting at table with his wife, having supper. His estate had been taken from him; he had escaped from prison and come back to live with his father.

As soon as Simon the Warrior saw Ivan, he said to him, "I have come with my wife to live with you; will you keep us both until I find another place?"

"Very well," Ivan said, "you can live here."

When Ivan sat down by the table, the smell of him was displeasing to the lady and she said to her husband, "I cannot sup together with a stinking peasant."

And Simon the Warrior said, "My lady says you do not smell sweet; you had better eat in the passage."

"Very well," Ivan said. "It is time for bed anyway, and I must feed the mare."

Ivan took some bread and his coat and went out for the night.


IV

That night, having freed himself of Simon the Warrior, the first little Devilkin set out to seek Ivan's Devilkin, to help him plague the Fool as they had agreed. He came to the fields, looked all round for his mate, but he was nowhere to be seen; he only found a hole. "I see some misfortune has happened to my mate; I must take his place. The ploughing is all finished; I must upset the Fool at the mowing."

And the Devilkin went to the meadow and flooded it and trampled the hay in the mud.

Ivan awoke at daybreak, put his scythe in order and set out to the meadow to mow the hay. Ivan swung the scythe once, he swung it twice, but the scythe grew blunt and would not cut; he had to sharpen it. Ivan struggled and struggled and struggled.

"This won't do," he said; "I must go home and bring a whetstone and a hunk of bread. If it takes me a week I'll not give up until I've mowed it every bit."

And the Devilkin grew pensive when he heard these words.

"The Fool has a temper," he said; "I can't catch him this way; I must think of something else."

Ivan returned, sharpened his scythe and began to mow. The Devilkin crept into the grass, caught hold of the scythe by the heel and pushed the point into the ground. It was hard for Ivan, but he mowed all the grass, except a little piece in the swamp.

The Devilkin crept into the swamp, thinking, "Even if I have to cut my hands I won't let him mow that!"

Ivan came to the swamp. The grass was not thick, but the scythe could not cut through it. Ivan grew angry and began to mow with all his might. The Devilkin began to lose hold, seeing that he was in a bad plight, but he had no time to get away and took refuge in a bush. Ivan swung the scythe near the bush and cut off half the Devilkin's tail. He finished mowing the grass, told the old maid to rake it up and went away to mow the rye.

He came to the field with his sickle, but the Devilkin with the clipped tail was there before him. He had entangled the rye, so that the sickle could not take it. Ivan went back for his reaping-hook and reaped the whole field of rye. "Now," he said, "I must tackle the oats."

At these words the Devilkin with the clipped tail thought, "I did not trip him up with the rye, but I'll do so with the oats. If only the morrow would come!"

In the morning the Devilkin hurried off to the field of oats, but the oats were all harvested. Ivan had reaped them overnight so that less of the grain should be wasted. The Devilkin lost his temper at that.

"He has mutilated and exhausted me, the fool! I've never had such trouble on the battlefield even. The wretch doesn't sleep and you can't get ahead of him. I'll creep into the stacks of sheaves and rot the grain."

And the Devilkin crept into a stack of sheaves, and began to rot them. He heated them, grew warm himself and fell asleep.

Ivan harnessed the mare and set out with his sister to gather in the sheaves. He stopped by the stack and began to throw the sheaves into the cart. He had thrown up two sheaves and was going to take up a third, when the fork dug into the Devilkin's back. He looked at the prongs and saw a live Devilkin with his tail clipped, wriggling and writhing and trying to get away.

"You horrid little wretch! You here again!"

"I'm not the same one," the Devilkin pleaded. "The other was my brother. I belong to your brother Simon."

"Whoever you are you shall share the same fate."

Ivan was about to dash it against the cart, when the Devilkin cried out, "Spare me! I'll not worry you again, and I'll do whatever you want me to."

"What can you do?"

"I can make soldiers out of anything you choose."

"What good are they?"

"You can make them do anything you like. Soldiers can do everything."

"Can they play songs?"

"They can."

"Very well; make some, then."

And the Devilkin said, "Take a sheaf of rye and bump it upright on the ground, saying, -- 

My slave bids you be a sheaf no more. Every straw contained in you, Must turn into a soldier true."

Ivan took the sheaf and banged it on the ground and repeated the Devilkin's words. And the sheaf burst asunder and every straw turned into a soldier and at their head the drummer and bugler were playing. Ivan laughed aloud.

"That was clever of you," he said. "It will amuse Malania."

"Let me go now," the Devilkin begged.

"Not yet," Ivan said. "I shall want to make the soldiers out of chaff so as not to waste the grain. Show me first how to turn the soldiers into a sheaf again, so that I can thrash it."

And the Devilkin said, "Repeat the words -- 

My slave bids every soldier be a straw And turn into a sheaf once more."

Ivan repeated the Devilkin's words, and the soldiers turned into a sheaf again.

And again the Devilkin pleaded, "Let me go."

"Very well," Ivan said, taking him off the prongs. "Go, in God's name."

At the mention of God the Devilkin plunged into the ground like a stone thrown into water, and there was nothing but the hole left.

When Ivan reached home, his other brother, Taras, and his wife were sitting at table and having supper. Taras could not pay his debts; he fled from his creditors and came home to his father. As soon as he saw Ivan he said, "Until I can make some more money, will you keep me and my wife?"

"Very well," Ivan said. "You can live here."

Ivan took off his coat and sat down to table.

And Taras' wife said, "I cannot sup with a fool; he smells of sweat."

Taras the Pot-bellied said, "You do not smell sweet, Ivan; go and eat in the passage."

"Very well," Ivan said; "it's time for bed, anyhow, and I must feed the mare."

He took his coat and a piece of bread, and went out.


V

That night, having disposed of Taras, the third little Devilkin came to help his mates plague Ivan, as they had agreed. He came to the ploughed field and looked and looked, but could see no one; he only found the hole. Then he went to the meadow and found a piece of tail in the swamp, and in the rye-stubble field he found another hole.

"I see some misfortune has happened to my mates. I must take their places and tackle the Fool."

The Devilkin set out to find Ivan.

Ivan had finished his work in the fields and had gone into the copse to cut wood.

The brothers found it too crowded to live together in their father's house and they ordered Ivan to fell timber to build themselves new houses.

The Devilkin rushed into the wood and crept into the knots of the trees to prevent Ivan from felling them.

Ivan had cut a tree in the right way so that it should fall on to a clear space, but the tree seemed to be possessed, and fell over where it was not wanted, and got entangled among the branches. Ivan lopped them off with his bill-hook and at last, with great difficulty, brought down the tree. He began to fell another and the same thing was repeated. He struggled and struggled and succeeded only after great exertion. He began on a third and the same thing happened. Ivan had intended to fell fifty trees at least, and he had not managed more than ten, and night was coming on. Ivan was exhausted, and the steam rose from him and floated through the wood like a mist; yet still he would not give up. He felled another tree and his back began to ache so that he could not go on. He stuck his axe into the trunk of a tree and sat down to rest.

When the Devilkin realized that Ivan had ceased to work, he rejoiced. "He is worn out at last," he thought; "now I can rest too." And he sat himself astride on a branch, exulting.

Ivan rose, took out his axe, flourished it aloft, and brought it down so heavily that the tree came down with a crash. The Devilkin had no time to disentangle his legs; the branch broke and pinned down his paw.

Ivan began to clear the tree and behold! there was a live Devilkin. Ivan was amazed.

"You horrid little wretch! You here again!"

"I am not the same one," the Devilkin said. "I belong to your brother Taras."

"Whoever you may be, you shall share the same fate." And Ivan raised the axe to bring it down on its head, but the Devilkin began to plead.

"Don't kill me," he said, "and I'll do whatever you want me to."

"What can you do?"

"I can make as much money as you like."

"Very well," Ivan said; "make it, then."

And the Devilkin taught him what to do.

"Take some leaves from this oak and rub them in your hands and gold will fall to the ground."

Ivan took the leaves and rubbed them in his hand and gold rained down.

"This is well," he said; "on holidays it will amuse the children."

"Let me go," the Devilkin begged.

"I don't mind," Ivan said, and taking up his axe, he freed the Devilkin of the branch. "Go, in God's name."

At the mention of God the Devilkin plunged into the ground like a stone thrown into water and there was nothing but the hole left.


VI

The brothers built themselves houses and began to live apart. Ivan finished his work in the fields, brewed some beer and invited his brothers to a feast. The brothers did not accept his invitation.

"We do not go to feast with peasants," they said.

Ivan treated the peasants and the peasant-women and drank himself until he got tipsy, and he went into the street and joined the dancers and singers. He approached the women, and bade them sing his praises.

"I will give you something you have never seen in your lives," he said.

The women laughed and began to sing his praises, and when they had finished, they said, "Well, give us what you promised."

"I will bring it in a moment," Ivan said, and he took his seed-basket and ran into the wood.

The women laughed. "What a fool!" they said, and forgot all about him, when behold! Ivan returned, his basket full of something.

"Shall I share it out?"

"Do."

Ivan took up a handful of gold and threw it to the women. Heavens! The women rushed to pick it up, the peasants after them, snatching it out of each others' hands. One old woman was nearly killed in the fray.

Ivan laughed.

"You fools!" he said. "Why did you hurt Granny? If you are not so rough I'll give you some more."

He scattered more gold. The whole village came up. Ivan emptied his basket. The people asked for more, but he said, "Not now; another time I'll give you more. Now let us dance. You play some songs."

The women began to play.

"I don't like your songs," Ivan said.

"Do you know any better ones?"

"You shall see in a moment."

Ivan went into a barn, took up a sheaf, thrashed it, stood it up, and banged it on the floor, and said -- 

My slave bids you be a sheaf no more. Every straw contained in you Must turn into a soldier true.

And the sheaf burst asunder and turned into soldiers, and the drummers and buglers played at their head. Ivan asked the soldiers to play some songs, and led them into the street. The people were amazed.

When the soldiers had played their songs Ivan took them back into the barn, forbidding any one to follow. He turned the soldiers into a sheaf again and threw it on a pile of straw, then he went home and lay down to sleep in the stables.


VII

Simon the Warrior heard of these things next morning, and went to his brother.

"Tell me," he said, "where did you get the soldiers from, and where did you take them to?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"Matter, indeed! With soldiers one can do anything. One can conquer a kingdom."

Ivan wondered.

"Really! Then why didn't you tell me before?" he said. "I will make you as many soldiers as you like. It is well Malania and I have threshed so much straw."

Ivan took his brother to the barn and said, "Look here, if I make the soldiers you must take them away at once, for if we have to feed them they will eat up the whole village in a day."

Simon the Warrior promised to take the soldiers away, and Ivan began to make them. He banged a sheaf on the threshing-floor and a company appeared. He banged another sheaf and a second company appeared. He made so many soldiers that they filled the whole field.

"Are there enough now?" he asked.

Simon was overjoyed and said, "That will do, Ivan, thank you."

"Very well. If you want more, come back and I'll make them for you. There is plenty of straw this year."

Simon the Warrior soon put his troops in order, and went away to make war.

He had no sooner gone than Taras the Pot-bellied came along. He, too, had heard of yesterday's affair and he said to his brother, "Tell me where you get gold money from. If only I could get hold of some I could make it bring in money from the whole world."

Ivan wondered.

"Really? Then why didn't you tell me before? I'll make you as much as you like."

Taras was overjoyed.

"I shall be satisfied with three baskets full," he said.

"Very well; come into the wood," Ivan said; "but I had better harness the mare, for you won't be able to carry it away."

They rode into the wood. Ivan began to rub the oak leaves, and made a heap of gold.

"Is it enough?" he asked.

Taras was overjoyed.

"It will do for the present, thank you, Ivan," he said.

"Very well," Ivan said; "if you want more, come back and I'll make it for you. There are plenty of leaves left."

Taras the Pot-bellied gathered up a whole cartload of money, and went off to trade.

Both brothers had gone -- Simon to make war and Taras to trade. And Simon the Warrior conquered a kingdom, and Taras the Pot-bellied made much money in trade.

When the two brothers met they told each other how they had come by their soldiers and money.

Simon the Warrior said to his brother, "I have conquered a kingdom for myself and live well, only I have not enough money to feed my soldiers."

And Taras the Pot-bellied said, "I have made a heap of money, only unfortunately I have no one to guard it."

And Simon the Warrior said, "Let us go to our brother Ivan. I will ask him to make more soldiers and give them to you to guard your money, and you must ask him to make more money and give it to me to feed my soldiers."

And they came to Ivan.

And Simon said, "I haven't enough soldiers, brother. Will you make another couple of sheaves for me?"

Ivan shook his head.

"No," he said; "I won't make you any more soldiers."

"But you promised you would."

"I know I promised, but I won't make any more."

"Why not, you fool?"

"Because your soldiers killed a man. I will not let you have any more."

And he was obstinate, and would not make any more soldiers.

Then Taras the Pot-bellied asked Ivan the Fool to make him more golden money.

Ivan shook his head.

"No," he said; "I won't make any more money."

"But you promised."

"I know I promised, but I won't make any more."

"Why not, you fool?"

"Because your money took a cow away from a woman in the village."

"But how can that be?"

"The woman had a cow. The children used to drink the milk, but the other day they came to beg a little milk of me. 'But where's your cow?' I asked them, and they said, 'Taras' bailiff came and gave mother three golden coins and she gave him the cow; now we have no milk to drink.' I thought you only wanted to play with the golden coins, but you've taken away the cow from the children; I won't give you any more."

And the Fool was obstinate and kept to his word.

And the brothers went away and deliberated over their difficult situation in order to find a way out.

Simon said, "This is what we must do. You give me some of your money to feed my soldiers, and I'll give you half my kingdom and soldiers to guard your money."

Taras agreed. The brothers divided their possessions, and both became kings and both were rich.


VIII

And Ivan lived at home, supporting his father and mother and working in the fields with his deaf and dumb sister.

One day Ivan's yard-dog fell sick. He grew mangy, and was near dying. Ivan pitied it. He took a piece of bread from his sister, put it in his cap, carried it out and threw it to the dog. The creases in his cap parted and out rolled one of the little roots with the bread. The dog ate it up. As soon as it had swallowed the root it began to jump about and bark and play and wag its tail. It was quite well again.

The father and mother were amazed.

"How did you cure the dog?" they asked.

And Ivan said, "I had two little roots that could cure any pain, and the dog swallowed one."

It happened at the time that the King's daughter fell ill, and the King proclaimed to every town and village that he would reward any man who could cure her, and that if he were an unmarried man he should have her for his wife. The news came to Ivan's village.

And the father and mother summoned Ivan and said to him, "Have you heard of the King's promise? You told us you had a little root that could cure any sickness; go, cure the King's daughter, you will then be happy for life."

"Very well," Ivan said, "I will go."

And Ivan prepared himself for the journey, and they dressed him in his best clothes. When he came out on the doorstep he saw a beggar-woman with a crippled hand.

"I heard that you can cure the sick," she said. "Cure my hand, for I cannot even put on my own shoes."

"Very well," Ivan said. And he took the little root out of his cap, gave it to the beggar-woman and told her to swallow it. As soon as she swallowed it, she recovered, and began to wave her hand.

The father and mother came out to bid good-bye to Ivan, and they heard that he had given away his last root and had nothing left with which to cure the King's daughter, and they began to scold him.

"You pity a beggar-woman, yet have no pity for the King's daughter," they reproached him.

But Ivan was sorry for the King's daughter. He harnessed the mare, threw some straw into the cart and got in.

"Where are you going to, you fool?"

"To cure the King's daughter."

"But you have nothing to cure her with now."

"It doesn't matter," he said, and drove away.

He came to the King's palace, and as soon as he stepped over the threshold the King's daughter got well.

The King was overjoyed. He ordered Ivan to be brought to him, and dressed him in fine clothes.

"You must be my son-in-law," he said.

"Very well," Ivan said.

And Ivan married the princess. Her father died soon after, and Ivan became King.

All three brothers were now kings.


IX

The three brothers lived and reigned.

The elder brother Simon the Warrior lived well. With his straw soldiers he gathered together real soldiers. Throughout the whole of his kingdom he ordered a levy of one soldier for every ten houses, and each soldier had to be tall and whole of body and clean of face. In this way he gathered many soldiers and trained them. If any one opposed him he sent his soldiers off at once and imposed his will, and people began to fear him. His life was a very goodly one. Whatever he saw and wanted was his. He sent his soldiers and they brought him all he wanted.

Taras the Pot-bellied also lived well. He did not lose the money Ivan had given him, but increased it a hundredfold. He introduced law and order into his kingdom. He stowed his money away in coffers and levied taxes on the people. There was a poll-tax, and tolls for walking and driving, and a tax on shoes and stockings and frills. He got whatever he wanted. For money people brought him everything, and even worked for him, for every one wanted money.

Ivan the Fool, too, did not live badly. As soon as his father-in-law was dead he took off his royal robes and gave them to his wife to stow away in a chest. And he put on his coarse linen shirt and breeches and peasant shoes and began to work once more.

"It's so dull for me," he said. "I've got fat, lost my appetite and can't sleep."

He brought his father and mother and sister to live with him, and began to work as of old.

"But you are a king," people remonstrated.

"Even a king must eat," he said.

One of his ministers came to him and said, "We have no money to pay salaries."

"Don't pay them, then," he said.

"But no one will serve us."

"What does it matter? They needn't. They'll have more time for work. There's the manure to cart; heaps of it lying about."

When people came to Ivan for justice and said, "That man stole my money," Ivan said, "Never mind; he must have wanted it."

And all realized that Ivan was a fool. And his wife said to him, "People say you are a fool."

"What does it matter?" Ivan said.

His wife reflected awhile, but she was also a fool.

"Why should I go against my husband?" she said. "Where the needle goes, the thread follows."

So she took off her royal robes, put them away in a chest and went to Malania to learn to work. When she knew how, she began to help her husband.

All the wise left Ivan's kingdom, and only the fools remained.

Nobody had money. They lived and worked, fed themselves and others.


X

The old Devil waited and waited for news of the Devilkins. He was expecting to hear that they had ruined the three brothers, but no news came. He set out himself to find them. He searched and searched, and found nothing but three holes.

"They've not been able to manage it, evidently," he thought. "I must tackle the job myself."

He went to look for the brothers, but they were no longer in their old places. He found them in their different kingdoms. All three lived and reigned. The old Devil was annoyed.

"Now we'll see what I can do!" he said.

First of all he went to King Simon.

He did not go in his own shape, but disguised himself as a general. In that guise he appeared before King Simon.

"I have heard that you are a great warrior, King Simon," he said. "I am well versed in these things and want to serve you."

And King Simon began to ask him all manner of questions, and seeing that he was a clever man, he took him into his service.

The new commander instructed King Simon how to collect a large army.

"First of all," he said, "we must get more soldiers. There are many idle people in your kingdom. We must conscript all the young men without exception, then you will have an army five times as large as the one you have now. Secondly, we must get new guns and cannons. I will get guns that will fire a hundred bullets at one shot; they will rain out like peas. And I will get cannons that will consume with fire either man or horse or wall; they will burn everything."

King Simon listened to the new commander, and enrolled all the young men as soldiers and built new factories where he manufactured new guns and cannons, then he made war on a neighbouring king. As soon as he was faced by the opposing army, King Simon ordered his soldiers to rain bullets against it and shoot fire from their cannons, in this way wiping out half the hostile troops. The neighbouring king was alarmed; he surrendered and gave up his kingdom. King Simon rejoiced.

"Now," he said, "I will make war on the King of India."

And the King of India heard of King Simon's doings. He adopted all his methods, and invented some improvements of his own. He not only enrolled all the young men as soldiers, but the unmarried women as well, and in consequence had a larger army than King Simon. And he made guns and cannons like King Simon's, and invented machines to fly in the air and drop explosive bombs from above.

And King Simon set out to make war on the King of India, thinking he would beat him as easily as he had beaten the other king, but the scythe that had cut so well had lost its edge. The King of India did not give Simon time to open fire, for he sent his women to fly in the air and drop explosive bombs on Simon's troops. And the women rained down bombs from above like borax upon cockroaches and Simon's troops scattered and fled, and Simon was left alone.

The King of India took possession of Simon's kingdom, and Simon the Warrior escaped as best he could.

Having disposed of this brother, the old Devil went to King Taras.

He changed himself into a merchant and settled in Taras' kingdom, where he opened establishments and began to circulate money freely. He paid high prices for everything, and the people flocked to him for the sake of the extra profit. And the people came to have so much money that they were able to settle all their arrears and to pay their taxes at the proper time. King Taras rejoiced.

"Thanks to the merchant," he thought, "I have more money than ever, and I'll be able to live better than I used to."

And he began making all sorts of new plans, and decided to have a new palace built for himself. He proclaimed to the people that he wanted timber and stone and labour, for which he was prepared to pay a high price. King Taras thought that for his money people would flock to work for him as of old. But lo! all the timber and stone was taken to the merchant, and all the labourers flocked to work for him. King Taras raised his price, and the merchant raised his. King Taras had much money, but the merchant had more and beat the King. The King's palace could not be built.

King Taras had arranged to make a new garden. When the autumn came he proclaimed that he wanted men to come and plant his garden, but no one came, for the people were all digging for the merchant.

Winter came. King Taras wanted to buy some sable skins for a new coat. He sent a messenger to buy it, but the messenger returned empty-handed, and said that there were no sable skins, for the merchant had bought them all at a higher price, and made himself a sable carpet.

King Taras wanted to buy some stallions. He sent a messenger, but the messenger returned and said that the merchant had all the good stallions; they were carting water for him to make a pond.

And the King's plans fell to pieces, for no one would work for him. All worked for the merchant, and only brought him the merchant's money to pay the taxes.

And the King came to have so much money that he did not know where to put it all, but he lived badly. The King gave up making plans; he would have been contented to live quietly somehow, but even that was difficult. He was hampered on all sides. His cook and coachman and servants left him to go to the merchant's. He even went short of food. When he sent to the market to buy some provisions there were none left, for the merchant had bought up everything, and the people only brought the King money for their taxes.

King Taras lost patience and banished the merchant from his kingdom. The merchant settled on the very border, and did exactly the same as before, and for his money the people dragged everything away from the King and brought it to the merchant. Life became very hard for the King. For whole days he did not eat, and to make matters worse a rumour went abroad that the merchant had boasted that he would buy the King himself. King Taras lost courage, and did not know what to do.

Simon the Warrior came to him and said, "Will you support me? I have been beaten by the King of India."

King Taras himself was in a sad plight.

"I haven't eaten anything myself for two days," he said.


XI

Having disposed of the two brothers, the old Devil went to Ivan. He changed himself into a general and came to Ivan, and began to persuade him to set up a large army.

"A king should not live without an army," he said. "Give me the power, and I'll collect soldiers from among your people and organize an army."

Ivan listened to all he had to say.

"Very well," he said, "organize one, then; only teach the soldiers to sing nice songs, for I like singing."

And the old Devil went through Ivan's kingdom to collect a voluntary army. To each recruit who should offer himself he promised a bottle of vodka and a red cap.

The fools laughed at him.

"We have plenty of drink," they said; "we brew it ourselves, and as for caps, our women can make us any kind we like -- embroidered ones and even ones with fringes."

And no one offered himself.

The old Devil went back to Ivan and said, "Your fools won't enlist of their own accord; we'll have to force them."

"Very well; force them, then."

And the old Devil proclaimed throughout the kingdom that every man must enlist as a soldier, and if he fails to do so Ivan will have him put to death.

The fools came to the Devil and said, "You tell us that if we won't enlist as soldiers the King will have us put to death, but you don't say what will happen to us when we become soldiers. People say that soldiers are killed."

"You can't get over that."

When the fools heard this they kept to their decision.

"We won't go," they said. "We'd sooner die at home since we have to die in either case."

"What fools you are!" the old Devil said. "A soldier may or may not be killed, but if you don't go King Ivan will have you put to death for certain."

The fools reflected over this; then went to Ivan the Fool and said, "A general has appeared among us who orders us all to enlist as soldiers. 'If you go as a soldier,' he says, 'you may or you may not be killed, but if you don't go, King Ivan will have you put to death for certain.' Is it true?"

Ivan laughed.

"How can I alone have you all put to death? Had I not been a fool I would have explained it to you, but I don't understand it myself."

"Then we won't go," the fools said.

"Very well, don't."

The fools went to the general and refused to enlist as soldiers.

The old Devil saw that his plan would not work, so he went to the King of Tarakan and wormed himself into his favour.

"Come," he said, "let us go and make war on King Ivan. He has no money, but grain and cattle and all manner of good things he has in abundance."

The King of Tarakan prepared to make war. He gathered together a large army, repaired his guns and cannons and marched across the border on his way to Ivan's kingdom.

People came to Ivan and said, "The King of Tarakan is marching on us with his army."

"Very well; let him," Ivan said.

When the King of Tarakan crossed the border he sent his vanguard to find Ivan's troops. They searched and searched, but no troops were to be found anywhere. Should they wait and see if they showed themselves? But there was no sign of any troops and no one to fight with. The King of Tarakan sent men to seize the villages. The soldiers came to one village and the fools -- men and women alike -- rushed out and stood gaping at them in wonder. The soldiers began to take away their corn and cattle and the fools let them have what they wanted, making no resistance. The soldiers went to another village and the same thing was repeated. And they marched one day and another, and still the same thing happened. Everything was given up without any resistance and the fools even invited the soldiers to stay with them. "If you find it hard to live in your parts, good fellows, come and settle with us altogether." And the soldiers marched from village to village and no troops were to be found anywhere; the people lived, fed themselves and others; no one offered any resistance and every one invited them to settle there.

And the soldiers grew weary of the job and they went back to their King of Tarakan.

"We can't fight here," they said; "take us to another place. This is not war; this is child's-play. We can't fight here."

The King of Tarakan grew angry. He ordered his soldiers to go over the whole kingdom and lay waste the villages and burn the corn and kill the cattle.

"If you won't do what I tell you," he said, "I will punish you all."

The soldiers were frightened and began to carry out the King's commands. They burnt the houses and corn and killed the cattle. The fools made no resistance, they only wept. The old men wept and the old women and the little children.

"Why do you treat us like this?" they said. "Why do you waste the good things? If you want them, why not take them?"

And the soldiers grew to loathe their work. They refused to go further and the troops dispersed.


XII

And the old Devil went away, having failed to bring Ivan to reason by means of the soldiers.

The old Devil changed himself into a clean gentleman and came to live in Ivan's kingdom, hoping to ruin Ivan by money, as he had done Taras.

"I want to do you good and teach you common sense," he said. "I will build myself a house in your midst and open an establishment."

"Very well," the people said; "you can live here."

The clean gentleman spent the night and in the morning he went out to the square with a bag of gold and a bundle of papers and said, "You all live like swine. I want to teach you how you ought to live. Build me a house according to this plan. You will work for me and I will teach you and pay you in golden money." And he showed them the gold.

The fools marvelled. They had no money in circulation, but exchanged thing for thing, or paid by labour. And they began to exchange things with the gentleman and to work for his golden coins. And the old Devil, as in Taras' kingdom, began to circulate gold, and people brought him things and worked for him.

The old Devil rejoiced.

"At last my plan is beginning to work!" he thought. "I will ruin him as I ruined Taras, and will get him completely in my power."

The fools collected the golden coins and gave them to the women to make themselves necklaces and to the girls to plait into their hair; the children even played with the coins in the street. After a while every one had enough and refused to take more. And the clean gentleman's house was not half finished, and the corn and cattle had not yet been stored up for the year. And the gentleman invited people to come and work for him to bring him corn and rear his cattle, offering to pay many golden coins for everything brought and every piece of work done.

But no one would come and work, and no one would bring him anything, unless a chance boy or girl brought him an egg in exchange for a golden coin; and no one else came and he was left without any food. And the clean gentleman was hungry and went through the village to buy himself something for dinner. He went into one house and offered a golden coin for a chicken, but the mistress would not take it.

"I have many such coins," she said.

He went into another place to buy a salt herring, offering a golden piece. "I don't want it, my good man," the mistress said. "I have no children to play with them, and have three of these pieces already as curiosities."

He went into a peasant's for some bread. The peasant too would not take the money.

"I don't want it," he said. "But if you want the bread in Christ's name, then wait, and I'll tell my old woman to cut you some."

The old Devil spat on the ground and fled from the peasant. To hear the word Christ was worse than a knife to him, let alone to take anything in His name.

And so he got no bread. All had gold; wherever the old Devil went no one would give him anything for money, and every one said, "Bring us something else instead, or come and work, or take it in Christ's name." And the Devil had nothing to offer but money and had no liking for work, and he could not take anything in Christ's name. He lost his temper.

"What more do you want when I offer you money?" he said. "You can buy anything you like for gold and employ any kind of labour."

But the fools did not heed him.

"We don't need money," they said. "We exchange everything in kind and have no taxes to pay; what good would it be to us?"

The old Devil went supperless to bed.

The story reached Ivan the Fool. People came to him and said, "What shall we do? A clean gentleman has appeared in our midst who likes to eat and drink well, and dress in fine clothes, but he won't work and won't take anything in Christ's name; he only offers us golden coins. People gave him what he wanted until they had enough of these coins, and now no one gives him anything. What are we to do with him? He may die of hunger."

Ivan listened to what they had to say.

"He must be fed, certainly. Let him act as a shepherd to you all in turn."

Since there was no way out, the old Devil had to go about shepherding. He went from house to house until it came to Ivan's turn. The old Devil came in to dinner and the deaf and dumb girl was getting it ready. She had often been deceived by lazy folk who came in early to dinner without having done their share of work and ate up all the porridge, so she invented a means of finding out the sluggards by their hands. Those who had horny hands were put at the table; the others were given the leavings. The old Devil sat down by the table, but the deaf and dumb girl seized him by the hands and looked at them to see if they had any blisters, but they were clean and smooth and the finger nails were long. The girl grunted and pulled the old Devil away from the table.

Ivan's wife said to him, "Don't be offended, fine gentleman. My sister-in-law never lets any one sit at the table who hasn't horny hands. In good time, when the others have finished, you shall get what is left."

And the old Devil was hurt that in the King's house they should want to feed him with the pigs. And he said to Ivan, "What a stupid custom there is in your kingdom that all people must work with their hands! I suppose you were too stupid to think of anything else. Do you think it's only with the hands people work? Do you know what wise men work with?"

And Ivan said, "How are we fools to know; we work only with our hands and backs."

"That is because you are fools. I will teach you how to work with the head, then you will know that it is more profitable than to work with the hands."

Ivan wondered.

"Really! No wonder people call us fools!"

And the old Devil said, "Only it's not easy to work with the head. You won't give me any dinner because my hands are smooth, but you don't know that it's a hundred times harder to work with the head. Sometimes one's head nearly splits."

Ivan grew thoughtful.

"Why should you torture yourself so, my good man? Wouldn't it be better to do the easier work with your hands and back?"

And the Devil said, "I torture myself because I pity you fools. If I were not to torture myself you would remain fools for ever. I have worked with the head and now I'm going to teach you."

Ivan wondered.

"Teach us, then," he said, "so that when our hands are tired we can work with the head."

The Devil promised to teach them.

And Ivan proclaimed throughout his kingdom that a clean gentleman had appeared among them who would teach every one to work with his head and that it was more profitable to work with the head than with the hands, and he bade every man come and hear him.

There was a high tower in Ivan's kingdom and a steep staircase leading up to it and there was a turret on the top. And Ivan took the gentleman up the tower, so that he might be seen by all.

And the gentleman took his place on the top of the tower and began to speak, and the fools flocked to look at him. They thought that the gentleman would really show them how to work with the head instead of the hands, but he merely told them in words how they could live without working at all. The fools did not understand him. They stared and stared, then went home to attend to their own affairs.

The old Devil stood on top of the tower one day and another, speaking all the time. He was hungry, but it never occurred to the fools to bring him some bread up the tower. They thought that if he could work with the head better than with the hands, he could easily make himself some bread. The old Devil stood on the tower for another day, still speaking. The people came and stared at him for a while; then went their ways.

"Well, has the gentleman begun to work with his head?" Ivan asked.

"Not yet; he is still jabbering."

The Devil stood on the tower for another day and began to grow faint. He swayed and knocked his head against a pillar. One of the fools saw him and told Ivan's wife, who hastened to Ivan at the ploughing.

"Come, come," she said. "They say the gentleman has begun to work with his head."

Ivan wondered.

"Really?" he said, and turning his horse round, he went to the tower. When he got there, the old Devil, who was quite faint with hunger by this time, was staggering and knocking his head against the pillars, and when Ivan came up he fell with a crash down the stairs, counting each step on the way with a knock of his head.

"Well," Ivan said, "the clean gentleman spoke truly when he said that the head splits sometimes. Blisters on the hands are nothing to this; after such work there will be bumps on the head."

The old Devil fell to the bottom of the stairs and thumped his head against the ground. Ivan was about to go up and see how much work he had done, when suddenly the earth opened and the old Devil fell through. Only a hole was left.

Ivan scratched his head.

"You horrid wretch! One of those devils again! The father of the others, no doubt. What a huge one too!"

Ivan is living to this day and people flock to his kingdom. His own brothers have come to him and he supports them. When any one comes and says, "Feed me," Ivan says, "Very well, you can live with us; we have plenty of everything." Only there is a special custom in his kingdom -- whoever has horny hands comes to table; whoever has smooth ones eats the leavings.



Where There Is Love, There Is God Also


In the town there was a shoemaker by the name of Martin, who lived in a basement with a tiny little window looking out into the street. Martin could see the people pass, and though he only got a glimpse of their feet, he still knew every one, for Martin could recognize people by their boots. Martin had lived in that basement for many a long year and had numbers of acquaintances. There were not many pairs of boots in the neighbourhood that had not been through his hands at least once or twice -- some for new soles, others for a patch or a stitch, or a second time for new tops, perhaps. Martin had plenty of work, for he always did it well; he gave good leather, did not overcharge, and kept true to his word. If he could do a piece of work for the time it was required, he took it; if not, he would not deceive his customers and told them so beforehand. And all knew Martin and he had no lack of work.

Martin had always been a good man, but as he grew older he began to think the more about his soul and to draw nearer to God. Martin's wife had died when he had still worked for a master, and he was left with a boy of three years old. Their children never survived; the eldest were all dead. At first Martin wanted to send his little son to a sister in the country, but he felt sorry for the child, thinking, "It will be hard for the poor boy to grow up in a strange family; I will keep him with me."

And Martin left his master and went into lodgings with his little son. But God had not ordained Martin to be happy in his children. The boy had no sooner grown up and become a help and a comfort to his father than he fell sick, tossed about with fever for a week and died. Martin buried his son and gave himself up to despair. His despair was so great that he even began to complain against God. Martin was so lonely that many were the times he prayed to God to let him die, reproaching Him for having spared an old man like himself and taken his only beloved son. Martin gave up going to church.

One day an old countryman came to visit him, who had been on a pilgrimage for eight years. Martin opened his heart to the old man and complained about his sorrow.

"I have no desire to live even," he said; "I only want to die. That is all I pray to God about. I am a desperate man now."

And the old man said to him, "It is not well what you say, Martin; we cannot judge the ways of God; they are beyond our understanding. He has judged it fitting to take away your son and to let you live, so it must be for the best. You despair because you want to live only for your own personal pleasure."

"And what else should I live for?" Martin asked.

And the old man said, "You must live for God, Martin. He gave you life and you must live for Him. When you begin to live for Him and cease to worry about anything, then all will become easy for you."

Martin was silent a while; then asked, "How can one live for God?"

And the old man said, "We must live for God as Christ taught us. You can read, can you not? Then buy the Gospels and read them and you will find out how to live for God. The Gospels tell us everything."

Martin took these words to heart. That very day he bought a copy of the New Testament, printed in large type, and began to read it.

Martin had intended to read only on holidays, but when he once began he grew so light-hearted that he read every day. Sometimes he got so absorbed in his reading that the oil in the lamp burnt low and still he could not tear himself away.

Martin read every evening, and the more he read the more clearly he understood what God required of him and how he was to live for God. And his heart grew lighter than ever. At one time when he went to bed he would sigh and moan and think of his boy; now he only said to himself, "Glory to Thee, glory to Thee, God! Thy will be done!"

And a change came into Martin's life. On holidays he used to hang about the public-houses to drink a cup of tea and did not refuse vodka even when it came his way. He would drink, as it happened, with some acquaintance, and though not exactly drunk, would come out of the public-house in an excited mood and speak vain words, giving back rough word for rough word.

But now this had all left him. His life became a peaceful and happy one.

In the morning he would sit down to his work and keep on for the necessary time, then he would take the lamp off the wall, put it on the table, fetch the Bible from a shelf, open it, and sit down to read. And the more he read, the more he understood, and the serener and lighter grew his heart.

One day Martin sat reading until late into the night. He was reading Luke's Gospel and had come to the sixth chapter and the verses, "And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek, offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise."

And he also read the verses where our Lord says, "And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to me and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like. He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock; and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it; for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great."

When Martin read these words a feeling of joy entered his heart. He took off his spectacles, laid them on the Bible, then resting his elbows on the table, he began to ponder over what he had read. He compared his own life to the light of these words. "Is my house built on a rock or on sand?" he thought. "If on a rock it is well. It seems so easy when one sits alone here, and one thinks one has done all that God commands, but no sooner does one cease to be on one's guard than one falls into sin. I must persevere; it brings such happiness! Help me, oh God!"

With this thought in his mind, he was about to go to bed, but was loath to leave his Bible, and went on reading the seventh chapter. He read about the centurion, the widow's son, and the answer to John's disciples, and he came to the passage where a rich Pharisee invited the Lord to his house; and about the woman who was a sinner and anointed His feet and washed them with her tears, and how the Lord comforted her. And he came to the forty-fourth verse and began to read the words, "And he turned to the woman and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss, but this woman since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet; my head with oil thou didst not anoint, but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment."

Martin read these verses and thought, "He gave no water for His feet, and no kiss, and he did not anoint His head with oil." Once more Martin took off his spectacles and laid them on the Bible.

"He must have been like me, that Pharisee. Like me he thought only of himself -- how to get a cup of tea, how to live in warmth and comfort. He cared only for himself, with never a thought about his guest. And the Lord Himself was his guest! I wonder if I would act like that if He came to visit me?"

And Martin rested his elbows on the table and his head on his hands and fell into a doze.

"Martin!" Some one suddenly breathed into his ear.

Martin started. "Who is that?" he asked, half asleep.

He turned and looked at the door, but no one was there. He called again and this time he heard a voice say clearly, "Martin! Martin! Look out for me in the street to-morrow; I am coming to see you."

Martin roused himself, got up from the chair and began to rub his eyes. He did not know whether he had heard the words in a dream or when awake. He turned out the lamp and went to bed.

At daybreak next morning Martin arose, lit the stove, prepared some soup and porridge, got the samovar ready, put on his apron and sat down at the window to his work. As he worked he thought of what had happened yesterday. Now it seemed to him that he had heard the voice in his dreams, now that he had really heard it when awake.

"Things like that have happened before," he thought.

Martin sat at the window and did not work so much as peer out into the street, and when an unfamiliar pair of boots came along, he would stoop down and look up to catch a glimpse of the person to whom they belonged. A yard-porter passed in new felt boots and a water-carrier; then an old soldier of Nicholas' reign came alongside the window, spade in hand. Martin recognized him by his felt boots. The old man was called Stepan and a merchant who lived near by kept him out of charity. His duties were to help the yard-porter. He stopped opposite Martin's window to clear away the snow. Martin looked at him and again went on with his work.

"What a fool I am getting in my old age," Martin thought, amused at his own fancies. "Stepan is shovelling away the snow and I thought it was Christ come to visit me. Old dotard that I am!"

Yet after a dozen stitches or so Martin was again drawn to the window. He looked out and saw that Stepan had leaned his spade against the wall and was resting and trying to warm himself. The man was old and broken and had no strength even to clear away the snow. "Why not give him a cup of tea while the samovar is still on the boil?" Martin thought. And he put down his awl, rose, brought the samovar to the table, poured out a cup of tea and tapped on the window. Stepan turned and came up. Martin beckoned to him and went to open the door.

"Come in and get warm," he said; "you must be quite frozen."

"Christ save us! but my bones do ache," Stepan said. Stepan came in, shook the snow off himself and began to wipe his boots so as not to dirty the floor, reeling as he did so.

"Don't bother to wipe your feet," Martin said; "I will wipe the floor afterwards; I am used to that. Come in and sit down. Here is a cup of tea."

And Martin poured out two cups, gave one to his guest, poured some of his own into a saucer and began to blow on it in order to cool it.

Stepan finished his cup, turned it upside down in the saucer, put the remaining bit of sugar on top and began to thank Martin, who could see that the old man wanted some more.

"Have another cup," Martin said and poured out more tea for his guest and for himself, and as he drank, he kept peering out of the window.

"Are you expecting some one?" Stepan asked.

"I? I hardly like to tell you whom I expect. But I wait and wait. A certain word took possession of my heart. Was it a dream or not, I cannot tell. It was like this, brother; I was reading the Gospels last night about Christ our Father and how He suffered on earth. You have heard tell of it, I daresay."

"Yes," Stepan said, "but we are ignorant folk and cannot read."

"Well, I was reading how the Lord walked on earth, how He went to visit a Pharisee who did not receive Him well. And I wondered, as I read, how any man could receive the Lord without due honour. 'Supposing such a thing were to happen to me,' I thought, 'what would I not do to receive Him? And the Pharisee did nothing!' Thinking thus I fell asleep, and as I slept I heard a voice call to me. I rose; the voice seemed to whisper 'Expect me; I am coming to-morrow.' I heard it twice. Well, would you believe it? the idea took hold of my mind, and though I upbraid myself, I keep on expecting the Lord to come to me."

Stepan shook his head, but made no remark. He finished his cup of tea and laid it down on its side in the saucer, but Martin took it up and filled it again.

"Have some more, bless you! I was thinking, too, that our Lord despised no one when He walked on earth; He was mostly with common folk. He went about with plain people and chose His disciples from men of our kind -- simple workmen and sinners like ourselves. 'He who raises himself,' He said, 'shall be humbled, and he who humbles himself shall be raised. You call Me Lord,' he said, 'and I will wash your feet. He who would be first,' He said, 'let him be the servant of all, because,' He said, 'blessed are the poor, the humble, the meek, the merciful.'"

Stepan forgot his tea. He was an old man and easily moved to tears; and as he listened the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Have some more," Martin said, but Stepan crossed himself, thanked Martin, pushed away his cup and rose.

"Thank you Martin," he said; "you have nourished my body and my soul."

"You are welcome another time. I shall always be pleased to see you; come again."

Stepan went out; Martin poured himself out a last cup of tea, drank it, cleared away the dishes and sat down again by the window to work, stitching the back seam of a boot. As he stitched he peered out of the window to see if Christ was coming, and he kept on thinking of Him and His doings and recalling His words.

Two soldiers passed; one in Government boots, the other in boots of his own; then the owner of the next house went by in clean goloshes, and a baker with a basket. All these passed on; then a woman came up in woollen stockings and coarse country shoes. She went by the window and stopped by the wall. Martin looked up and saw that she was a stranger, poorly clad, with a baby in her arms. She was standing with her back to the wind, trying to wrap up the baby, but there was nothing to wrap it in. Her garments were summer ones and ragged, too. Through the window Martin heard the baby crying; the woman tried to comfort it but could not.

Martin rose and going out at the door and up the steps, he called to her.

"Come this way, my dear!"

The woman turned to him.

"Don't stand in the cold there with the baby; come inside in the warm; you can make him more comfortable here. Come along!"

The woman was surprised to see an old man in an apron and spectacles on his nose inviting her to his room, but she followed him. They descended the stairs and entered the room. Martin led her to the bed.

"Come and sit here, my dear," he said. "It is nearer to the stove; you can warm yourself and feed the baby."

"I haven't any milk; I have eaten nothing myself since morning," the woman said, yet putting the child to the breast.

Martin shook his head. He got some bread and a cup, opened the oven door and filled the cup with soup. He then took the porridge-pot out of the oven, but the porridge was not quite done. He spread a cloth and put the soup and bread on the table.

"Sit down and have something to eat, my dear. I'll look after the baby. I have had children of my own and know how to nurse them."

The woman crossed herself, sat down by the table and began to eat, and Martin sat on the bed with the baby. He clucked and clucked, but having no teeth he could not do it well, and the baby would not stop its crying. And Martin tried to amuse him with his finger. He poked the finger straight at the baby's mouth, then drew it back again. He would not let the child take the finger in its mouth because it was black with cobbler's wax. The child looked at the finger, stopped crying and began to laugh. Martin was pleased.

As the woman ate she told him about herself, saying who she was and where she was going.

"I am a soldier's wife," she said. "It is now eight months that my husband has been taken away and I haven't heard a word from him. I had a place as a cook when the child was born, but they would not keep me after that. I've been without a place for three months now and eaten everything I possessed. I wanted to go as a wet-nurse, but no one would have me because they said I was too thin. I went to a merchant's wife with whom our grandmother is in service and she promised to take me. I thought she meant at once, but she told me to come next week, and she lives a long way. I'm quite worn out, and the baby is half-starved. If our landlady did not take pity on us, I don't know how we should live."

Martin sighed and said, "Have you no warm clothes?"

"How can I have warm clothes! I pawned my last shawl yesterday for sixpence!"

The woman went up to the bed and took the child. Martin rummaged about among the things hanging on the wall and brought out an old coat.

"Though it isn't much of a thing, it will do to wrap up in," he said.

The woman looked at the coat; then at the old man. She took the coat and burst into tears. Martin turned away, crawled under the bed and pulled out a box. He rummaged about in it and once more sat down facing the woman.

And the woman said, "Christ save you, Grandfather. It must have been He who sent me to your window, otherwise the child and I would have been starved to death. It was mild when I started, but it's very cold now. The dear Lord made you look out of the window and caused you to pity me."

Martin smiled and said, "He did make me, indeed! I was not gazing idly out of the window, my dear."

And Martin told the woman his dream and how he had heard a voice and how the voice had promised him that the Lord should come and visit him this day.

"All things are possible," the woman said, and she rose, put on the coat, wrapped the child in it and began to take her leave, thanking Martin.

"Take this in Christ's name," Martin said, thrusting a sixpence into her hand. "It will do to take out your shawl."

The woman crossed herself, Martin did likewise, then accompanied her to the door.

When she had gone Martin ate some soup, cleared the table, and again sat down to work. But he did not forget the window. As soon as a shadow fell across it, he looked up to see who it was. Acquaintances passed and strangers, and nothing particular happened. Suddenly Martin saw an old apple-woman stop by his window. She was carrying a basket of apples. She must have sold nearly all, for only a few remained. Over her shoulders was a bag of chips and shavings, she had collected no doubt in half-finished houses, and was taking home. The bag made her shoulder ache it seemed and she wanted to change it over to the other shoulder. She let it down on the pavement, placed her basket of apples on a post and shook the bag. As she was doing so a boy in a ragged cap appeared from somewhere, snatched an apple out of the basket and was about to slip away when the old woman saw him and caught him by the sleeve. The boy struggled to get away, but the old woman held him fast with both hands. She had knocked off his cap and clutched him by the hair. The boy screamed, the woman cursed. Martin did not wait to put the awl in its place, but dropped it on the floor and rushed out at the door and stumbled up the stairs, dropping his spectacles on the way. He ran out into the street. The old woman was pulling the boy by the hair, cursing and threatening to take him to the policeman; the boy struggled and resisted her. "Why do you strike me?" he was saying. "I didn't take anything!"

Martin tried to part them; he took the boy by the hand and said, "Let him go, Granny. Forgive him for Christ's sake."

"I'll forgive him so that he won't forget it for a long time! I'll take the rascal to the police-station!"

Martin began to plead with her.

"Let him go, Granny; he won't do it again. Let him go for Christ's sake!"

The old woman released the boy, who was about to run away when Martin stopped him.

"Ask Granny to forgive you and don't do it again in future; I saw you take the apple."

The boy burst into tears and begged the old woman to forgive him.

"There now, here's an apple for you," and Martin took an apple from the basket and gave it to the boy. "I'll pay for it, Granny," he said.

"You shouldn't spoil the rascal," the old woman said. "You ought to give him something he wouldn't forget in a week."

"Ah, Granny, Granny!" Martin said; "that is how we judge, but God does not judge like that. If the boy is to be whipped for an apple what do you suppose we deserve for our sins?"

The old woman was silent.

And Martin told her the parable of the Lord who forgave his servant a large debt and how the servant then seized his own debtor by the throat. The old woman listened; the boy, too, stood and listened.

"God bade us forgive," Martin said, "that we may be forgiven. Forgive every one, even a thoughtless boy."

The old woman shook her head with a sigh.

"It's true enough," she said, "but boys get very spoilt nowadays."

"Then we old folk must teach them better," Martin said.

"That's just what I said," the old woman replied. "I had seven of my own, but now I've only a daughter left." And the old woman began to tell him where and how she lived with her daughter and how many grandchildren she had. "You see," she said, "I'm old now, yet still I work, for the sake of the grandchildren. And nice children they are, too. No one is so kind to me as they. The youngest won't leave me for any one. It's nothing but Granny dear, Granny darling all the time."

The old woman had quite softened by now.

"Children will be children," she said to Martin in reference to the boy. "The Lord bless them."

She was about to raise her bag on to her shoulder when the boy rushed up and said, "Let me carry it, Granny; I'm going your way."

The old woman shook her head and put the bag on the boy's shoulder. And they walked down the street side by side. The old woman had forgotten to ask Martin to pay for the apple. Martin stood and watched them, listening to their voices as they talked together.

When they were out of sight he turned in, found his spectacles on the stairs quite whole, took up his awl and sat down to his work once more. After a while he could not see to pass the thread through the holes and he noticed the lamplighter lighting the street lamps. "I must light up," he thought. And he trimmed the lamp, hung it up and went on with his work. He finished the boot he was doing and turned it over to examine it. He then put away his tools, cleared up the bits of leather and thread and awls, took down the lamp, put it on the table and took the Bible down from the shelf. He wanted to open it at the place he had marked with a piece of morocco, but it opened at another place. And as he opened the Gospels Martin recalled his dream of last night. And no sooner had he thought of it than he seemed to hear some one move behind him, as though some one were coming towards him. He turned, and it seemed to him that people were standing in the dark corner, but he could not make out who they were. And a voice whispered into his ear, "Martin, Martin, don't you know me?"

"Who is it?" Martin asked.

"It is I," the voice said.

And Stepan stepped out of the dark corner, smiling, and vanished like a cloud, and he was no more.

"It is I," the voice said again, and from out the dark corner stepped the woman with the baby, and she smiled and the child smiled, and they too vanished.

"It is I," said the voice once more, and out stepped the old woman and boy with an apple in his hand, and both smiled and also vanished.

And a feeling of gladness entered Martin's soul. He crossed himself, put on his spectacles and began to read the Gospel just where it had opened. At the top of the page were the words, "For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger and ye took me in...."

And at the bottom of the page he read, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these brethren, ye have done it unto me."

And Martin understood that his dream had come true and that his Saviour had really come to him that day, and that he had welcomed Him.




A Prisoner


An officer by the name of Jilin served in the army in the Caucasus.

One day he received a letter from home. It was from his mother, who wrote, "I am getting old now, and I want to see my beloved son before I die. Come and say good-bye to me, and when you have buried me, with God's grace, you can return to the Army. I have found a nice girl for you to marry; she is clever and pretty, and has some property of her own. If you like her perhaps you will marry and settle down for good."

Jilin pondered over the letter. It was true; his mother was really failing fast, and it might be his only chance of seeing her alive. He would go home, and if the girl was nice, he might even marry.

He went to his colonel and asked for leave, and bidding good-bye to his


fellow-officers, gave his men four bucketfuls of vodka as a farewell treat, and got ready to go.

There was a war in the Caucasus at the time. The roads were not safe by day or by night. If a Russian ventured away from his fort, the Tartars either killed him or took him off to the hills. So it had been arranged that a body of soldiers should march from fortress to fortress to convoy any person who wanted to travel. The soldiers marched in front and behind; the travellers in between them.

It was summer. At daybreak the baggage-train was loaded behind the fort; the convoy came out and started along the road. Jilin was on horseback; his things were on a cart with the baggage-train.

They had about twenty miles to go. The baggage-train moved along slowly; now the soldiers would stop, now a wheel came off a cart, now a horse would refuse to go on, and then everybody had to wait.

It was already past noon and they had not covered half the distance. It was hot, dusty, the sun scorching and no shade at all -- bare steppe, with not a tree or a bush the whole way.

Jilin rode on ahead and stopped to wait until the baggage-train should catch him up. He heard the signal-horn sounded; the company had stopped again. Jilin thought, "Why shouldn't I go on alone without the soldiers? I have a good horse, and if I come across any Tartars I can easily gallop away. I wonder if it would be safe?"

As he stood there thinking it over, another officer, by the name of Kostilin, rode up with a rifle and said, "Let us go on alone, Jilin. I'm dreadfully hungry, and the heat's unbearable. My shirt is wringing wet."

Kostilin was a big man and stout; his face was burning red, and the perspiration poured from his brow.

Jilin deliberated for a moment and said, "Is your rifle loaded?"

"It is."

"Very well; come along. Only the condition is to be that we don't part."

And they set off down the road alone. They were riding along the steppe talking together and keeping a sharp look-out from side to side. They could see a long way round them. When they left the steppe they came to a road running down a valley between two hills. And Jilin said, "Let's go up on that hill and look about; some Tartars might easily spring out from the hills and we shouldn't see them."

"What's the use?" Kostilin said. "We'd better go on."

Jilin paid no heed to him.

"You wait down here," he said, "and I'll just go up and have a look." And he turned his horse to the left up the hill. Jilin's horse was a hunter and carried him up the hill as though it had wings. He had bought it for a hundred roubles as a colt, and broken it in himself. When he reached the top of the hill he saw some thirty Tartars a few paces ahead of him. He turned hastily, but the Tartars had seen him and gave chase down the hill, getting their rifles out as they went. Jilin bounded down as fast as the horse's legs would carry him, crying out to Kostilin, "Get your rifle ready!" And in thought he said to his horse, "Get me out of this, my beauty; don't stumble, or I'm lost. Once I reach the rifle, they shan't take me alive!"

But Kostilin, instead of waiting when he saw the Tartars, set off full gallop in the direction of the fortress, lashing his horse now on one side, now on the other, and the horse's switching tail was all that could be seen of him in the clouds of dust.

Jilin saw that it was all up with him. The rifle was gone; with a sword alone he could do nothing. He turned his horse in the direction of the convoy, hoping to escape, but six Tartars rushed ahead to cut him off. His horse was a good one, but theirs were better, and they were trying to cross his path. He wanted to turn in another direction, but his horse could not pull up and dashed on straight towards the Tartars. A red-bearded Tartar on a grey horse caught Jilin's eyes. He was yelling and showing his teeth and pointing his rifle at him.

"I know what devils you are!" Jilin thought. "If you take me alive, you'll put me in a pit and have me flogged. I'll not be taken alive!"

Though Jilin was a little man, he was brave. He drew his sword and dashed at the red-bearded Tartar, thinking, "I'll either ride him down or kill him with my sword."

But he had no time to reach the Tartar; he was fired at from behind and his horse was hit. It fell to the ground full weight, pinning Jilin's leg. He attempted to rise, but two evil-smelling Tartars were already sitting on him, twisting his arms behind him. He struggled, flung the Tartars off, but three others leapt from their horses and fell on him, beating him on the head with the butt ends of their rifles. A mist rose before his eyes and he staggered. The Tartars seized him, and taking spare girths from their saddles twisted his hands behind him and tied them with a Tartar knot and dragged him to the saddle. They knocked off his cap, pulled off his boots, searched him all over, took his money and watch and tore his clothes. Jilin looked round at his horse. The poor creature lay on its side just as it had fallen, struggling with its legs in the air and unable to get them to the ground. There was a hole in its head from which the dark blood was oozing, laying the dust for a yard around.

One of the Tartars approached it and took off the saddle. As it was still struggling, he drew a dagger and cut its windpipe. A whistling sound came from its throat; the horse gave a shudder and died.

The Tartars took off the saddle and strappings. The red-bearded Tartar mounted his horse, the others lifted Jilin into the saddle behind him, and, to prevent his falling off, they strapped him to the Tartar's girdle, and took him off to the hills.

Jilin sat behind the Tartar, rocking from side to side, his face touching the evil-smelling Tartar's back. All he could see was the man's broad back and sinewy neck, the closely-shaven bluish nape peeping out from beneath his cap. Jilin had a wound in his head, from which the blood poured and congealed over his eyes, but he could not shift his position on the saddle, nor wipe off the blood. His arms were twisted so far behind his back that his collar-bones ached. They rode over the hills for some time, then they came to a river which they forded and got out on to a road running down a valley. Jilin wanted to see where they were going, but his eyes were matted with blood and he could not move.

It began to get dark; they forded another river and rode up a rocky hill; there was a smell of smoke and a barking of dogs. They had reached a Tartar village. The Tartars got off their horses; the Tartar children gathered round Jilin, yelling and throwing stones at him. A Tartar drove them away, took Jilin off the horse and called his servant. A man with high cheek-bones came up, clad in nothing but a shirt, and that so torn that his breast was bare. The Tartar gave him some order. The man brought some shackles, two blocks of oak with iron rings attached, and a clasp and lock was fixed to one of the rings.

They untied Jilin's arms, put on the shackles, took him to a shed, pushed him in and locked the door. Jilin fell on to a dung heap. He groped about in the darkness to find a softer place and lay down.


II

Jilin did not sleep the whole of that night. The nights were short. Through a chink he saw that it was getting light. He got up, made the chink a little bigger and peeped out.

He saw a road at the foot of a hill, to the right of which was a Tartar hut with two trees near it. A black dog lay on the threshold and a goat and kids were moving about and swishing their tails. Then he saw a young Tartar woman coming from the direction of the hill. She wore a coloured blouse and trousers with a girdle round her waist, high boots on her feet and a kerchief on her head, on which she was carrying a tin pitcher of water. Her back moved gracefully as she walked; she was leading a closely-shaven Tartar boy, who wore nothing but a shirt. The Tartar woman went into the hut with the water; the red-bearded Tartar of yesterday came out in a silken tunic, a silver-hilted knife stuck in his girdle and slippers on bare feet. A high, black sheepskin cap was pushed far back on his head. He stretched himself as he came out and stroked his red beard. He gave some order to his servant and went away.

Then two boys rode past. They had been to water their horses and the horses' noses were still wet. Some more closely-shaven boys came out, dressed only in shirts with no trousers. A whole group of them came up to the shed, and taking up a piece of stick, they thrust it through the chink. Jilin grunted at them and the boys ran off, yelling, their little white knees gleaming as they went.

Jilin was thirsty; his throat was parched. "If only some one would come," he thought. Soon the door of the shed opened and the red-bearded Tartar entered with another, shorter than he, and dark. He had bright black eyes, a ruddy complexion and a short beard. He had a jolly face, and was always laughing. This man was dressed better than the first, in a blue silken tunic, trimmed with braid. The knife in his broad girdle was of silver, the shoes on his feet were of red morocco, embroidered in silver thread, and over these he wore a thicker pair of shoes. His cap was high and of white sheepskin.

The red-bearded Tartar entered, muttering some angry words. He leant against the doorpost, playing with his dagger and looking askance at Jilin, like a wolf. The dark man, quick and lively and moving as if on springs, came up to Jilin and squatted down in front of him, showing his teeth. He clapped Jilin on the shoulder and began to jabber something in his own language, blinking his eyes and clacking his tongue. "Good Russ! Good Russ!" he said.

Jilin understood nothing. "I am thirsty; give me some water," he said.

The dark man laughed. "Good Russ!" he kept on saying.

Jilin made signs with his lips and hands that he wanted some water. The dark man laughed, and putting his head out at the door, he called to some one "Dina!"

A little girl came up. She was about thirteen, slight and thin, her face resembling the dark man's. She was obviously his daughter. She, too, had bright, black eyes and a rosy complexion. She was clad in a long blue blouse with broad sleeves, and loose at the waist -- the hem and front and sleeves were embroidered in red. She wore trousers and slippers and shoes with high heels over them; she had a necklace round her throat made out of Russian coins. Her head was bare. Her black plait was tied with a ribbon, the ends of which were trimmed with silver roubles.

Her father said something to her. She ran away and came back again with a tin jug of water. She gave it to Jilin and also squatted down in front of him, huddled up, so that her shoulders came lower than her knees. She sat staring at Jilin as he drank, as at some strange animal.

Jilin handed her back the jug. She took it and bounded out like a wild goat. Even her father could not help laughing. He sent her off somewhere else. She ran away with the jug and brought back some unleavened bread on a round wooden platter, and huddling down in front of him once more, she again stared at him open-eyed.

The Tartars went out and locked the door.

After a while the red-bearded man's servant came up and called to Jilin. He too, did not know Russian, only Jilin understood that he wanted him to go somewhere.

Jilin followed him limping, for the shackles impeded his walking. He followed the servant. They came to a Tartar village, consisting of about ten houses, a Tartar church with a dome on top in the midst of them. In front of one house stood three saddled horses; some boys were holding them by their bridles. The dark little Tartar rushed out of this house and beckoned to Jilin to come to him. He laughed, jabbered something in his own tongue and went in again. Jilin came to the house. The room was large, the mud walls smoothly plastered. Near the front wall lay a pile of brightly coloured feather beds, on the side walls hung rich rugs with rifles and pistols and swords fastened to them, all inlaid in silver. At one wall was a small stove on a level with the earthen floor, which was beautifully clean. In the near corner a felt carpet was spread on which were rich rugs and down cushions. On these rugs, in slippers only, sat some Tartars -- the dark one, the red-bearded one and three guests. All had down cushions at their backs. In front of them, on a wooden platter, were some millet pancakes, some melted butter in a cup and a jug of Tartar beer. They took the pancakes up with their fingers, and their hands were all greasy with the butter.

The dark Tartar jumped up and bade Jilin sit down, not on the rugs, but on the bare floor. Then he sat down on his rug again, and treated his guests to more pancakes and beer. The servant made Jilin sit down in the place assigned to him, took off his overshoes, which he placed by the door where the other shoes were standing, and sat down on the felt carpet, nearer to his master. He watched the others eating, his mouth watering. When the Tartars had finished, a woman came in dressed like the girl in trousers and a kerchief on her head. She cleared away the remains, and brought a basin and a narrow-necked jug of water. The Tartars washed their hands, laid them together, fell on their knees and said their prayers in their own tongue. When they had finished one of the guests turned to Jilin and addressed him in Russian.

"You were captured by Kasi-Mohammed," he said, indicating the red-bearded Tartar, "but he has given you to Abdul-Murat." And he indicated the dark Tartar. "Abdul-Murat is now your master."

Jilin was silent.

Abdul-Murat now began to speak, pointing at Jilin and laughing. "A soldier Russ, a good Russ," he said.

And the interpreter said, "He wants you to write home asking your people to send a ransom for you. When the money comes, he will let you go."

Jilin reflected and said, "How much does he want?"

The Tartars deliberated among themselves; the interpreter said, "Three thousand roubles."

"I can't pay as much as that," Jilin said.

Abdul leapt up and began to gesticulate violently. He was saying something to Jilin, thinking that he would understand.

"How much will you give?" the interpreter asked.

After reflection Jilin said, "Five hundred roubles."

At this the Tartars all began talking together. Abdul shouted at the red-bearded Tartar, jabbering away till he foamed at the mouth. The red-bearded Tartar merely frowned and clacked his tongue.

They grew silent and the interpreter said, "The master thinks a ransom of five hundred roubles is not enough. He himself paid two hundred roubles for you. Kasi-Mohammed was in his debt, and he took you in payment. He wants three thousand roubles and refuses to let you go for less. If you won't pay the money you'll be flung into a pit and flogged."

"The more you show you're afraid of them, the worse it is," Jilin thought. He leapt to his feet and said, "Tell the dog that if he begins to threaten me, he shan't have a farthing! I won't write home at all! I was never afraid of you, and I'm not going to be now, you dogs!"

The interpreter conveyed his words, and again the Tartars began to speak all at once.

They jabbered for a long time, then the dark one sprang up and came to Jilin.

"Russ," he said, "djigit, djigit Russ!" (Djigit in their tongue means brave.) He laughed and said a few words to the interpreter, who turned to Jilin.

"Will you give a thousand roubles?"

Jilin stuck to his own.

"I won't give more than five hundred, not if you kill me."

The Tartars conferred together, and sent the servant off somewhere, and when he was gone they stared now at Jilin, now at the door.

The servant returned, followed by a stout, bare-footed man, in torn clothes. On his feet were also shackles. Jilin gave an exclamation of surprise. It was Kostilin. He, too, had been captured then. The Tartars sat them down side by side, and they began to tell each other of their experiences, the Tartars looking on in silence. Jilin told Kostilin what had happened to him, and Kostilin told Jilin that his horse had got tired, his rifle missed fire, and that this same Abdul had caught him up and captured him.

Abdul jumped up and began to speak, pointing at Kostilin. The interpreter explained that they both belonged to the same master, and that the one who would produce the money first would be the first to be set free.

"See how quiet your comrade is," he said to Jilin. "You get angry and he has written home asking to have five thousand roubles sent him. He will be well fed, and no one will do him any harm."

And Jilin said, "My comrade can do what he likes. He may be rich, and I am not. I won't go back on my word. You can kill me if you like, but you get no advantage by that; I won't write for more than five hundred roubles."

The Tartars were silent. Suddenly Abdul sprang up, took out a pen, ink and a scrap of paper from a little box, put them in Jilin's hands and slapping him on the shoulder, said, "Write." He had agreed to the five hundred roubles.

"One moment," Jilin said to the interpreter; "tell him that he must feed and clothe us well, and that he must put us together so that we don't feel so lonely, and he must remove our shackles."

He looked at Abdul as he spoke and smiled. Abdul too smiled and said, "You shall have the best of clothes -- coats and boots fit to be married in, and you shall be fed like princes, and you can be together in the shed if you like, but I can't take off the shackles because you might escape. You shall have them removed at night." He rushed up to Jilin and slapped him on the shoulder. "Fine fellow! fine fellow!" he said.

Jilin wrote the letter, but did not address it correctly, so that it should not reach home. "I will escape, somehow," he thought.

Jilin and Kostilin were taken back to the shed. They were given some straw, a jug of water and bread, two old coats and some worn boots, evidently taken from the bodies of dead soldiers. At night their shackles were removed and they were locked in the shed.


III

Thus Jilin and his comrade lived for a month. Their master was always cheerful. "You, good fellow, Ivan! I, Abdul, good fellow, too!" But he fed them badly. All the food they got was some unleavened bread of millet flour, or millet cakes, and sometimes nothing but raw dough.

Kostilin sent another letter home and did nothing but mope and wait for the money to arrive. He would sit in the barn day after day, either counting the days for the letter to come or sleeping. Jilin knew that his letter would not reach home, but he never wrote another.

"Where on earth could mother get so much money from?" he thought. "She lived mostly on what I used to send her, and if she has to procure five hundred roubles she'll be quite ruined. With God's help I'll get away myself."

So he kept his eyes open, planning how to run away.

He would walk about the village whistling, or doing something with his hands, such as modelling dolls out of clay, or plaiting baskets out of twigs. Jilin was very clever with his hands.

One day he modelled a doll with a nose, arms and legs and in a Tartar shirt, and he put this doll on the roof of the shed. The Tartar girls went to fetch water. The master's daughter Dina caught sight of the doll, and called to the others. They put down their pitchers and looked up laughing. Jilin took down the doll and held it out to them. They laughed, but dared not take it. He left the doll and went into the shed to see what would happen.

Dina ran up, looked about her, snatched up the doll and ran off with it.

The following morning, at daybreak, Dina came out on the threshold with the doll. She had bedecked it in bits of red stuff, and was rocking it to and fro like a baby and singing a lullaby. An old woman came out and began to scold her. She snatched the doll away from the child and broke it, and sent Dina off to her work.

Jilin made another doll -- a better one this time -- and gave it to Dina.

One day Dina brought Jilin a jug, and sitting down, she looked up at him, laughing and pointing to the jug.

"What is she so pleased about?" Jilin thought. He took up the jug to have a drink, thinking it was full of water, but it turned out to be milk. "How nice!" he said, and finished it. Dina was overjoyed.

"Nice, nice, Ivan!" She jumped up and clapped her hands in glee, then she seized the jug and ran away.

After that she brought Jilin milk in secret every day. When the Tartar women used to make cheese cakes out of goat's milk, which they baked on the roof, she would steal some and bring them to him. Once the master killed a sheep, and Dina brought Jilin a piece of the flesh hidden in her sleeve. She would throw the things down and run away.

One day there was a terrible storm; the rain poured down in torrents for a whole hour. The rivers became turbid. At the ford, the water rose till it was seven feet high and the current was so strong that it moved the stones along. Rivulets flowed everywhere and there was a roar in the hills. After the storm streams flowed down the village everywhere. Jilin asked his master for a knife, and with it he shaped a small cylinder and made a wheel out of a piece of board, to which he fixed two dolls, one on each side. The little girls brought him some bits of stuff with which he dressed the dolls -- one as a peasant, the other as a peasant woman. He made them fast and set the wheel so that the stream should work it. When the wheel began to whirl the dolls danced.

The whole village gathered round -- boys and girls and women and men came to look on, the latter clacking their tongues.

"Ah, Russ! Ah, Ivan!" they said.

Abdul had a Russian watch which was broken. He called Jilin and showed it to him. Jilin said, "Give it to me and I'll mend it."

He took it to pieces with the knife, sorted the pieces out, put them together again and the watch went quite well.

The master was pleased and presented him with one of his old tunics, all in holes. Jilin had to take it, besides, it would come in useful to cover up with at night.

From that day Jilin's fame as a man skilled in handiworks spread fast. People began to flock to him from distant villages, one bringing the lock of a rifle or a pistol that wanted mending; another a watch or a clock. The master gave him some tools -- pincers, gimlets and a file.

One day a Tartar fell ill, and they came to Jilin, saying, "Come and heal him." Jilin did not know how to heal the sick, but he went just the same thinking, "The man will recover of his own accord." He disappeared into the shed and mixed up some sand and water. In the presence of the Tartars he mumbled some words over the mixture, and gave it to the sick man to drink. Fortunately the Tartar got well.

Jilin began to understand a little of their tongue. Some of the Tartars got quite used to him, and when they wanted him would call "Ivan, Ivan!" Others again looked at him askance as at some wild beast.

The red-bearded Tartar did not like Jilin. He frowned when he saw him, and either turned away or cursed. There was another old man, who did not live in the village, but somewhere at the foot of a hill. He came to the village only sometimes. Jilin saw him when the man went to the Mosque to say his prayers. He was short and had a white towel wound round his cap. His beard and moustaches were clipped and white as down; his face was wrinkled and brick-red. He had a hooked nose like a hawk's, and cruel grey eyes. He had no teeth, but two tusks in front. He would pass with his turban on his head, leaning on his staff, and peering round like a wolf. When he saw Jilin he snorted and turned away.

One day Jilin went to the hills to find out where the old man lived. He strolled down a path and saw a little garden and a stone wall; within the stone wall were wild cherry trees and peaches and a hut with a flat roof. He came a little closer and saw some hives made of plaited straw and humming bees flying hither and thither. The old man was on his knees, doing something to the hives. Jilin stood on tiptoe in order to get a better view; his shackles rattled. The old man turned and gave a yell and pulling a pistol out of his belt he aimed at Jilin, who just managed to shield himself behind the stone wall.

The old man came to the master to complain. The master summoned Jilin and laughing, asked him, "Why did you go to the old man's place?"

"I didn't mean to do him any harm," he said. "I only wanted to see how he lived."

The master conveyed his words to the old man.

But the old man was angry. He jabbered away, showing his tusks, and shook his fists menacingly at Jilin.

Jilin could not understand all he said, but he gathered that the old man was warning the master not to keep any Russians about the place, but to have them all killed.

The old man went away.

Jilin asked the master who the old man was, and the master said, "He is a great man! He was the bravest of us all, and killed many Russians, and he was rich, too. He had three wives and eight sons, who all lived in the same village. The Russians came, destroyed the village, and killed seven of his sons. One son only remained, and he surrendered to the Russians. The old man followed them, and also gave himself up. He lived with the Russians for three months, when he found his son. With his own hand he killed him and escaped. After that he gave up fighting. He went to Mecca to pray to God; that is why he wears a turban. Any man who has been to Mecca is called a Hadji and has to wear a turban. He does not like you Russians. He wanted me to kill you, but I can't kill you because I paid money for you. Besides, I have taken a fancy to you, Ivan; I would not let you go at all, if I had not given my word." He laughed and added in Russian, "You are a good fellow, Ivan, and I, Abdul, am a good fellow too."


IV

Jilin lived in this way for a month. During the day he wandered about the village or busied himself with some handicraft, and at night he dug in his shed. The digging was difficult because of the stones, but he worked away at them with his file and at last made a hole beneath the wall big enough to crawl through. "If only I knew the neighbourhood well and which way to turn," he thought; "the Tartars would not tell me."

He chose a day when the master was away, left the village after dinner and went up a hill, hoping to find out the lie of the land from there. But before the master departed he told one of his boys to look after Jilin and not let him out of his sight. The boy ran after Jilin, crying, "Don't go away! My father told you not to! I'll call for help!"

Jilin tried to soothe him.

"I'm not going far," he said. "I only want to go to the top of that hill to find a certain herb with which to cure your people when they are sick. Come with me; I can't run away with the shackles on my feet. I'll make you a bow and some arrows to-morrow."

After some persuasion the boy went with him. The hill did not seem very far off, but it was difficult to get there shackled as he was. He struggled and struggled until he got to the top. Jilin sat down and began to look about him. To the south, beyond the shed, a herd of horses could be seen in a valley, and at the bottom of the valley was another village. Beyond the village was a steep hill and another hill beyond that. Between the two hills was a dark patch that looked like a wood; hill upon hill rose beyond it, and higher than all rose the snow-capped mountains as white as sugar, the peak of one standing out above the rest. To the east and west were other such hills; here and there were villages in the valleys from which the smoke curled up. "This is all Tartar country," he thought. He looked in the direction of Russia -- below was a river, and the village he lived in, surrounded by gardens. On the river bank, looking as tiny as dolls, sat Tartar women, washing clothes. Beyond the village was a hill, lower than the one to the south and beyond that two wooded hills. Between these two hills was a plain and away in the distance on this plain smoke seemed to rise. Jilin tried to recollect where the sun rose and set when he lived in the fort. He came to the conclusion that the fortress must lie in that very valley. Between these two hills would he have to make his way when he escaped.

The sun began to set. The snow-clad mountains turned from white to red; the dark mountains grew darker still; a vapour rose from the valley, and the plain where he supposed the fortress to be seemed on fire with the sunset's glow. Jilin gazed intently; something seemed to quiver in that plain, like smoke rising from a chimney, and Jilin felt sure that the Russian fortress was there.

It was getting late. The Mullah's cry was heard. The flocks and herds were driven home; the cows were lowing. The boy kept on begging "Come home," but Jilin had no desire to move.

They returned home. "Now that I know the place I must lose no time in running away," Jilin thought. He wanted to escape that very night, for the nights were dark then; the moon had waned, but as luck would have it, the Tartars returned that evening. Sometimes when they brought cattle home they would come back in a jolly mood, but this time there were no cattle, and on the saddle of his horse they brought back the red-bearded Tartar's brother who had been killed. They returned in a gloomy mood and gathered the village together for the burial. Jilin, too, came out to look on. They wrapped the body in a sheet and without a coffin carried it out and laid it on the grass beneath some plane-trees. The Mullah arrived and the old men; they wrapped towels around their caps, took off their shoes, and squatted down on their heels before the body. In front was the Mullah, behind him three old men in turbans, and behind them three other Tartars. They sat silent, eyes downcast, for a long time, then the Mullah raised his head and said, "Allah!" (meaning God). After this word he again bowed his head, and there was another long silence. They all sat motionless. Again the Mullah raised his head and said "Allah!" All repeated "Allah!" and again there was silence. The dead man lay on the grass motionless and the others, too, seemed dead. Not a single man moved. The only sound to be heard was the rustling of the leaves on the plane-trees. After a while the Mullah said a prayer; all rose, and raising the dead man with their hands they carried him away. They brought him to a pit. It was not an ordinary pit, but hollowed out under the ground like a vault. They lifted the dead man under the arms, bent him into a sitting posture and let him down into the pit, gently, his hands folded in front of him.

The master's servant brought some green rushes which they stuffed into the pit, then they hastily covered it with earth, levelled the ground properly and placed a stone, upright, at the head of the grave. They stamped down the soil and once more sat down round the grave side by side. For a long time they were silent.

"Allah! Allah!" they sighed and rose.

The red-bearded Tartar gave some money to the old men, then he took a whip, struck himself three times on the forehead and went home.

In the morning Jilin saw the red-bearded Tartar leading a mare out of the village, followed by three other Tartars. When they left the village behind them the red-bearded Tartar took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves -- his arms were strong and muscular -- and taking out a dagger, he sharpened it on a whetstone. The other Tartars raised the mare's head and he cut her throat. The mare dropped down and he began to skin her with his big hands. Women and girls came up and washed the entrails. The mare was cut up and the pieces carried to the red Tartar's hut, where the whole village gathered for a funeral feast.

For three days they ate the mare's flesh and drank beer in honour of the dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the fourth day, about dinner time, Jilin saw that they were preparing to go away somewhere. The horses were brought out, they got ready, and about ten of the Tartars, the red one among them, went away, Abdul remaining at home. There was a new moon and the nights were still dark.

"To-night we must escape," Jilin thought, and he unfolded his plan to Kostilin. But Kostilin was afraid.

"How can we run away? We don't know the way even."

"I know the way."

"We couldn't get there in one night."

"If we can't, we can hide in the wood. I've got some cakes here for us to eat. What's the good of sitting here? If they send your ransom, well and good, but supposing they can't raise the money? The Tartars are getting vicious because our people have killed one of their men. They will probably kill us."

Kostilin reflected.

"Very well; let us go," he said.


V

Jilin went down the hole and made it a little bigger so that Kostilin could crawl through, then they sat down to wait till all grew quiet in the village.

When the Tartars had all retired to rest Jilin crawled under the wall and got outside. "Follow me," he whispered to Kostilin.

Kostilin crept into the hole, but his foot hit against a stone and made a clatter. The master had a speckled watch-dog -- a vicious creature it was, called Ulashin. The dog growled and rushed forward, followed by other dogs. Jilin gave a low whistle and threw it a cake. Ulashin recognized him, wagged his tail and ceased his growling.

The master heard the dog and called from the hut, "Hait, hait, Ulashin!"

But Jilin stroked the dog by the ears and it did not move. It rubbed itself against Jilin's legs and wagged its tail.

They sat crouching round the corner. All grew quiet; only a sheep was heard to cough in a barn, and below, the water rippled over the stones. It was dark; the stars were high in the sky and the new moon looked red as it set behind the hill, horns upwards. A mist as white as milk lay over the valley.

Jilin got up and turning to Kostilin said, "Let us come, brother."

They set off, but they had no sooner done so than the Mullah intoned from the roof "Allah Besmilla! Ilrachman!" That meant that the people would be going to the Mosque. They sat down again, crouching behind the wall. For a long time they sat there waiting till the people went past. All grew quiet again.

"Now then; with God's help we must get away," Jilin said.

They crossed themselves and started. They went through the yard and downhill to the river which they forded and came out into the valley. The mist hung low and dense; above, the stars were visible. By the stars Jilin could tell the direction they had to take. It was cool in the mist and walking was easy, only their boots were uncomfortable, being old and worn out. Jilin cast his off and went bare-foot. He leapt over the stones, gazing up at the stars. Kostilin began to lag behind.

"Slower, please," he said, "these cursed boots hurt my feet."

"Take them off and you'll find it easier."

Kostilin too went barefoot, but that was still worse. The stones cut his feet and he lagged behind more than ever.

Jilin said to him, "The cuts on your feet will heal up soon enough, but if the Tartars catch us it will be much more serious; they will kill us."

Kostilin did not say anything, but walked along, groaning.

They walked along the valley for a long time, when suddenly they heard the barking of dogs. Jilin stopped and looked about him. He climbed up the hill on all fours.

"We mistook our way, and turned to the right. Another Tartar village lies here; I saw it from the hill the other day. We must turn back and go to the left up the hill. There must be a wood here."

And Kostilin said, "Let us rest a while; my feet are all bleeding."

"They'll get better in good time, brother. Walk more lightly -- like this."

And Jilin turned back and went up the hill to the left into the wood. Kostilin kept on lagging behind and groaning. Jilin remonstrated with him and walked on ahead.

They reached the top of the hill, where they found a wood, as Jilin had surmised. They went into it. The brambles tore the last of their clothes. At last they found a path and followed it.

"Stop!" Jilin said. There was a trampling of hoofs on the path. They listened. It sounded like the trampling of horses' hoofs, but the sound ceased. They moved on and again they heard the trampling. They stopped again, and the sound ceased. Jilin crept nearer and in a patch of light on the path he saw something standing. It seemed like a horse, yet not like a horse, and it had something queer on its back that was not a man. The creature snorted. "What a strange thing!" Jilin thought, and gave a low whistle. The animal bounded off the path into the thicket and there was a sound of cracking branches as though a storm had swept through the wood.

Kostilin fell to the ground in terror; Jilin laughed, saying, "It's a stag. Can't you hear how it's breaking the branches with its antlers? We are afraid of him and he is afraid of us."

They went on further. The Great Bear was already setting and the dawn was not far off. They did not know whether they were going in the right direction. It seemed to Jilin that the Tartars had brought him along this path when they captured him and that it was still another seven miles to the fortress, but he had nothing certain to go by, and at night one could easily mistake the way.

Kostilin dropped to the ground and said, "Do what you like, but I can't go any further. My legs won't carry me."

Jilin attempted persuasion.

"It's no good," Kostilin said; "I can't go on."

Jilin grew angry and vented his disgust.

"Then I'm going alone -- good-bye."

Kostilin jumped up and followed.

They walked another three miles. The mist grew denser; they could not see ahead of them and the stars were no longer visible.

They suddenly heard a trampling of horses coming from the direction in which they were going. They could hear the horse's hoofs hit against the stones. Jilin lay flat down and put his ear to the ground to listen.

"There is certainly a horseman coming towards us," he said. They ran off the path into the thicket and sat down to wait. After a while Jilin crept out into the path to look. A mounted Tartar was coming along, driving a cow and humming softly to himself. When he had passed Jilin turned to Kostilin, "Thank God the danger is over. Come, let us go."

Kostilin attempted to rise, but dropped down again.

"I can't, I can't! I've no more strength left."

The man was heavy and stout and had perspired freely. The heavy mist had chilled him, tired and bleeding as he was, and made him quite stiff. Jilin tried to lift him, but Kostilin cried out, "Oh, it hurts!"

Jilin turned to stone.

"Why did you shout? The Tartar is still near; he will have heard you," he remonstrated, while to himself he thought, "The man is evidently exhausted; what shall I do with him? I can't desert him." "Come," he said, "climb on to my back, then, and I'll carry you if you really can't walk."

He helped Kostilin up, put his arms under his thighs and carried him on to the path.

"For heaven's sake don't put your arms round my neck or you'll throttle me. Hold on to my shoulders."

It was hard work for Jilin; his feet, too, were bleeding and tired. He bent down now and then to get him in a more comfortable position, or jerked him up so that he sat higher up, and went on his weary way.

The Tartar had evidently heard Kostilin's cry. Jilin heard some one following behind, calling out in the Tartar tongue. Jilin rushed into the thicket. The Tartar seized his gun and aimed; the shot missed; the Tartar yelled and galloped down the path.

"I'm afraid we're lost," Jilin said. "He'll collect the Tartars to hunt us down. If we don't cover a couple of miles before they've time to set out, nothing will save us." To himself he thought, "Why the devil did I saddle myself with this block? I should have got there long ago had I been alone."

Kostilin said, "Why should you be caught because of me?"

"I can't go alone; it would be mean to desert a comrade."

Again he raised Kostilin on to his shoulders and went on. They walked along for another half-mile. They were still in the wood and could not see the end of it. The mist had dispersed; the clouds seemed to gather; the stars were no longer visible. Jilin was worn out. They came to a spring walled in by stones. He stopped and put Kostilin down.

"Let us rest a minute or two and have a drink and a bite of this cake. We can't be very far off now."

He had no sooner lain down to take a drink from the spring than he heard the stamping of horses behind him. Again they rushed into the thicket to the right and lay down on a slope.

They heard a sound of Tartar voices. The Tartars stopped at the very spot where they had turned off the path. They seemed to confer for a bit and then set a dog on the scent. There was a crackling among the bushes and a strange dog appeared. It stopped and began to bark. The Tartars followed it. They were also strangers. They bound Jilin and Kostilin and took them off on their horses.

When they had ridden for about two miles they were met by the master, Abdul, and two other Tartars. He exchanged some words with the strange Tartars, after which Jilin and Kostilin were removed to his horses and he took them back to the village.

Abdul was no longer laughing, and did not say a word to them.

They reached the village at daybreak and were placed in the street. The children gathered round them and threw stones at them and lashed them with whips, yelling all the time.

All the Tartars collected in a circle, the old man from the hills among them. They began to talk; Jilin gathered that they were considering what was to be done with him and Kostilin. Some said that they should be sent into the hills, and the old man persisted that they should be killed. Abdul would not agree to either plan, saying, "I paid money for them and must get their ransom."

The old man said, "They will not pay the ransom; they'll only do a great deal of harm. It is a sin to keep Russians. Kill them and have done with it."

The Tartars dispersed. The master came to Jilin and said to him, "If your ransom does not come in two weeks, I'll have you flogged, and if you attempt to run away again, I'll kill you like a dog. Write home, and write to the point!"

They brought them pen and paper and they wrote home. The shackles were put on them and they were taken behind the Mosque, where there was a pit of about twelve feet deep, into which they were flung.


VI

Life was very hard for them now. Their shackles were never removed, and they were never allowed out into the fresh air. Raw dough was thrown down to them, as one throws a scrap to a dog, and water was let down in a jug. The stench in the pit was awful and it was damp as well. Kostilin grew quite ill; he swelled very much and every bone in his body ached. He either groaned or slept all the time. Jilin, too, was depressed; he saw that their position was hopeless and did not know how to get out of it.

He tried to make a tunnel but there was nowhere to throw the earth, and when the master saw it, he threatened to kill him.

One day when he was most downcast, squatting in the pit and thinking of his freedom, a cake fell from above, then another, and some cherries rained down. Jilin looked up and saw Dina. She looked at him, laughed and ran away.

"I wonder if Dina would help us?" Jilin thought.

He cleared a space in the pit, dug a little clay and began to make some dolls. He moulded some men and horses and dogs, thinking, "When Dina comes, I will throw these up to her."

But Dina did not come the next day. Jilin heard a stamping of horses; some Tartars seemed to have come and all gathered at the Mosque, shouting and arguing. It was something about the Russians. The voice of the old man was heard, too. Jilin could not understand all they said, but he made out that the Russians were near, that the Tartars were afraid of them and did not know what to do with their prisoners.

After a while they dispersed. Suddenly Jilin heard a rustling overhead and saw Dina crouching at the edge of the pit, her knees higher than her head. She bent over so that the coins at the end of her plaits dangled over the pit. Her eyes were twinkling like two stars. From her sleeve she took two cakes made of cheese and threw them down to him. Jilin picked them up and said, "What a long time it is since you've been to see me! I've made you some toys. Look, here they are!" He threw them up to her one by one. She shook her head and averted her gaze. "I don't want them, Ivan," she said. "They want to kill you, Ivan," she added, pointing to her throat.

"Who wants to kill me?"

"My father. The old man told him to, but I'm sorry for you."

Jilin said, "If you are sorry for me, bring me a long pole."

She shook her head, as much as to say that it was impossible.

He put up his hands and implored her, "Please, Dina! Be a dear and bring it!"

"I can't," she said; "they'll catch me at home." Then she went away.

In the evening Jilin sat in the pit wondering what would happen. He kept looking up; the stars were visible, but the moon had not yet risen. The Mullah's call was heard, and all grew quiet. Jilin began to doze, thinking "The child is afraid." Suddenly some clay dropped on to his head. He looked up, and saw a long pole poking into the opposite wall of the pit; it began to slide down. Jilin took hold of it and lowered it with a feeling of gladness at his heart. It was a stout, strong pole; he had noticed it many times on the roof of the master's hut.

He looked up. The stars were shining high in the sky and above the pit Dina's eyes gleamed in the darkness like a cat's. She leant her head over the pit and whispered, "Ivan, Ivan!" making signs to him to speak low.

"What is it?" Jilin asked.

"They've all gone but two."

"Come, Kostilin," Jilin said; "let us try our luck for the last time; I'll help you up."

But Kostilin would not listen to him.

"No," he said; "it seems that I can't get away from here. How can I come when I've hardly strength enough to move?"

"Well, good-bye, then. Don't think ill of me."

He kissed Kostilin, and seizing the pole, he asked Dina to hold it at the top and swarmed up. Twice he fell back again; the shackles hindered him. But Jilin persevered and got to the top somehow. Dina clutched hold of his shirt and pulled at him with all her might, unable to control her laughter.

When he clambered out Jilin handed her the pole, saying, "Put it back in its place, Dina, for if they notice its absence they'll beat you."

Dina dragged the pole away, and Jilin went down the hill. When he got to the bottom he sat down under its shelter, took a sharp stone and tried to wrench the lock off the shackles. But the lock was a strong one and would not give way, and it was difficult to get at it. Suddenly he heard some one coming downhill, skipping lightly. "It must be Dina again," he thought.

She came up, took the stone and said, "Let me try."

She knelt down and tried to wrench the lock off, but her little hands were as slender as little twigs and there was no strength in them. She threw the stone down and burst into tears. Jilin made another attempt, while Dina squatted down beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

Jilin looked round; to the left the sky was all red; the moon was beginning to rise. "I must cross the valley and be under shelter of the wood before the moon rises," he thought. He got up and threw away the stone. "I must go as I am in the shackles. Good-bye, Dina, dear; I shall always remember you."

Dina seized hold of him and groped about his coat with her hand to find a place to thrust some cakes into. Jilin took the cakes.

"Thank you, little one," he said. "There won't be any one to make you dolls when I am gone." He stroked her head.

Dina burst into tears and, covering her face with her hands, she fled up the hill, bounding along like a wild goat. The coins in her plait could be heard jingling in the darkness.

Jilin crossed himself, took the lock of his shackles in his hand to prevent a clatter and started on his way, dragging his shackled leg and gazing at the red in the sky where the moon was rising. This time he knew the way. He had to go straight on for six miles. If only he could reach the wood before the moon had quite risen! He forded the river. The red light over the hill had paled. He walked along the valley, looking back now and then; the moon was not yet visible. The light grew brighter and brighter; one side of the valley was quite light. The shadows crept along the foot of the hill, drawing nearer to him.

Jilin kept in the shadow. He hurried, but the moon moved faster than he; the hilltops on the right were already lit up. As he neared the wood, the moon rose over the hills, all white, and it grew as light as day. All the leaves on the trees could be seen distinctly. It was still and light on the hills; there was a dead silence, except for the murmur of the river below.

He reached the wood without meeting any one. He chose a dark spot and sat down to rest.

When he had rested a while and eaten a cake, he found a stone and once more tried to wrench the lock of the shackles. He cut his hands, but could not manage it. He rose and went on his way. After a mile he was quite worn out and his feet ached terribly. At every dozen steps or so he stopped. "It can't be helped," he thought. "I must drag myself on so long as my strength holds out, for if I once sit down I shan't be able to get up again. I can't reach the fortress to-night, that is obvious; as soon as it gets light I'll hide in the wood and go on again when it gets dark."

He walked the whole night, meeting only two Tartars, but Jilin heard them from a distance and took refuge behind a tree.

The moon began to pale; the dew fell; it was near dawn, but Jilin had not yet reached the end of the wood. "I'll walk another thirty steps or so then I'll creep into the thicket and sit down," he thought. He covered the thirty steps and saw that he had come to the edge of the wood. When he came out it was quite light. Before him stretched the steppe and to the left, near the foot of a hill, he saw a dying fire from which the smoke rose and men were sitting about it.

He looked intently; there was a flash of guns -- they were soldiers, Cossacks!

Jilin was overjoyed. He summoned his remaining strength and began to descend the hill, thinking, "God forbid that any mounted Tartar should see me now in the open field; though near my own people, I could not escape."

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than he saw three Tartars standing on a hill, not more than a few yards away. They had seen him and dashed down towards him. His heart gave a great bound. He waved his arms and shouted with all his might, "Help, help, brothers!"

The soldiers heard him; a few Cossacks sprang upon their horses and dashed forward to cut across the Tartars' path.

The Cossacks were far off and the Tartars were near, but Jilin made one last effort; lifting the shackles with his hand, he ran towards the Cossacks. He hardly knew what he was doing and crossed himself wildly, crying, "Help, brothers, help!"

The Cossacks numbered about fifteen.

The Tartars grew afraid and stopped in hesitation before they reached him. Jilin managed to get to the Cossacks. They surrounded him, asking who he was and where he came from, but Jilin was quite beside himself and could only repeat, through his tears, "Brothers, brothers!"

The soldiers came up and crowded round him, one giving him bread, another porridge, another some vodka to drink, another gave him his cloak to cover him, and another wrenched off the shackles.

The officers recognized him and took him to the fortress. His men were delighted to see him; his fellow-officers gathered about him.

Jilin told them all that had happened to him and ended by saying, "That's how I went home and got married. I wasn't meant to marry, evidently."

And Jilin remained in the army in the Caucasus. It was not until a month later that Kostilin was released, after paying a ransom of five thousand roubles. He was brought back in a half-dead condition.




Emelian And The Empty Drum


Emelian was a labourer and worked for a master. He was walking through a field one day on his way to work, when a frog hopped in front of him and he just missed crushing it by stepping across. Suddenly some one called to him from behind. He turned, and there stood a beautiful maiden, who said to him, "Why don't you marry, Emelian?"

"How can I, dear maiden? I possess nothing but the clothes I stand up in, and who would have a husband like that?"

"Marry me," the maiden said.

Emelian looked at her in admiration.

"I would with pleasure," he said, "but how should we live?"

"What a thing to trouble about,


"Indeed!" the maiden said. "One has only to work the more and sleep the less and one can always be clothed and fed."

"Very well; let us marry, then," Emelian said. "Where shall we live?"

"In the town."

Emelian and the maiden went to the town. She took him to a little house on the very edge and they married and set up housekeeping.

One day the King went for a drive beyond the town, and when passing Emelian's gate, Emelian's wife came out to look at him. When the King saw her he marvelled.

"What a beauty!" he thought. He stopped the carriage and called her to him.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Emelian the peasant's wife."

"How came a beauty like you to marry a peasant?" he asked. "You should have been a queen."

"Thank you for your kind words," she said; "a peasant husband is good enough for me."

The King talked to her a while and went on his way. When he returned to the palace Emelian's wife did not go out of his head for a moment. The whole night he could not sleep and kept on thinking how he could take her away from Emelian, but no possible way occurred to him. He summoned his servants and asked them to think of a way.

And the servants said to him, "Get Emelian to come and be a labourer in the palace. We will wear him out with work, then his wife will become a widow and you can have her."

The King followed their advice. He sent a messenger to tell Emelian that he was to come and be a yard-porter in the palace and bring his wife to live with him there.

The messenger came to Emelian and repeated the King's words. And Emelian's wife said to her husband, "It can't be helped; you must go. You can work there in the day and return to me at night."

Emelian went away. When he came to the palace the King's steward said to him, "Why have you come without your wife?"

"Why should I drag her about with me? She has a home of her own."

In the King's yard Emelian was given enough work for two men. Emelian set about it, not expecting to get it all finished, but behold! before evening came it was all done. The steward, seeing that he had got through the work, gave him four times as much for the morrow.

Emelian went home. The house was scrubbed and cleaned, the fire lighted, the bread baked, the supper cooked. His wife was sitting at the table sewing, waiting for him. She flew to the door to meet him, then laid the supper and fed him well; afterwards she began to ask him about his work.

"It's rather bad," he said; "they set me tasks beyond my strength; they wear me out with too much work."

"Don't you think about the work," she said, "don't look back to see how much you have done, nor look ahead to see how much there is left. Just keep straight on and all will be done in time."

Emelian went to bed. In the morning he again set out to the palace. He began his work and did not look round once, and behold! by evening it was all finished; he went home when it was still light.

Again they increased Emelian's work, but Emelian finished it all in time and went home for the night as usual. A week passed. The King's servants saw that they could not get the better of Emelian by giving him rough work so they gave him difficult work instead, but even that did not help. No matter what they set him to do -- carpentering, stone-cutting, thatching -- he got everything done in time and went home for the night to his wife. Another week passed.

The King summoned his servants and said, "Is it for nothing that I keep you? Two weeks have passed and still I do not see the fruits of your work. You promised to wear Emelian out with work and each night from my window I see him going home singing to himself. Are you making sport of me, eh?"

The King's servants began to excuse themselves. "We are doing the best we can. We thought at first to wear him out with rough work, but you can't get him anyhow. We set him all kinds of tasks, such as sweeping, but he doesn't know what it means to be tired. Then we gave him difficult work, thinking that he wouldn't have brains enough to do it, yet still, we couldn't get the better of him. No matter what the work, he tackles it and gets it all done in time. He must either be extraordinarily strong or his wife must be a witch. We are sick of him ourselves. We want to set him such a task that he cannot possibly do. We thought of asking him to build a temple in a single day. You must send for him and command him to build a temple opposite the palace in a single day, and if he fails to do it, we can cut off his head for disobedience."

The King sent for Emelian.

"Build me a new temple in the square opposite the palace; by to-morrow evening it must all be finished. If you do it, I will reward you; if not, I will cut off your head."

Emelian listened to the King's words; then turned and went his way home. When he got there he said to his wife, "Make yourself ready, wife; we must run away or else we are both lost."

"Why," she said, "have you grown so faint-hearted that you want to run away?"

"How can I help it when the King commanded me to build a temple to-morrow before nightfall? If I fail to do it, he will have my head cut off. There is only one way out. We must run away while there is yet time."

The wife did not approve of his words.

"The King has many soldiers; we shall not be able to escape them. And while you have strength enough you must obey the King's command."

"But how can I obey if it's beyond my strength?"

"My dear, don't get excited. Have your supper and go to bed; get up early in the morning and you'll manage in good time."

Emelian went to bed. His wife woke him in the morning.

"Go," she said; "make haste and finish the temple. Here are nails and a hammer. There is still a day's work for you left to do."

Emelian set out. When he came to the square, there in the middle stood a new temple not quite finished. Emelian set to work to finish it and by the evening it was all done.

The King awoke and looking out of the palace window he saw a new temple in the square. Emelian was busy around, knocking a nail in here and there. The King was not pleased with the temple; he was annoyed that he had no pretext for cutting off Emelian's head and taking his wife for himself.

Again the King summoned his servants.

"Emelian has done this task too," he said, "and I have no reason for cutting off his head. This was not difficult enough; we must give him something more difficult still. You decide what it shall be, or else I'll have your heads cut off first."

And the servants bethought them to set Emelian to make a river that was to wind round the palace and have ships sailing on it.

The King summoned Emelian and set him the new task.

"If you could make a temple in a single night," he said, "you can do this too. See that it is all finished by to-morrow, or else I shall cut off your head."

Emelian's spirits fell lower than ever and he went home to his wife in a sad mood.

"Why so sad?" asked his wife. "Has the King set you a new task?"

Emelian told her what it was.

"We must run away," he concluded.

And the wife said, "We cannot escape the soldiers. You must obey."

"But how can I?"

"My dear, don't worry. Have your supper and go to bed. Get up early in the morning and all will be ready in time."

Emelian went to bed. In the morning his wife woke him.

"Go to the palace," she said; "everything is finished. Only by the harbour, opposite the palace, there is a little mound that wants levelling; take the spade and level it."

Emelian set out. He came to the town and there around the palace a river flowed with ships sailing on it. Emelian went up to the harbour opposite the palace and he saw an uneven place and began to level it.

The King awoke and looking out of his palace window he saw a river where there was not one before and ships were sailing on it and Emelian was levelling a little mound with his spade. And the King was alarmed. He took no pleasure in the river or the ships, he was only annoyed that he could not cut off Emelian's head. "There is no task he cannot do," he thought. "What shall we do now?"

And the King summoned his servants and conferred with them.

"Think of a task," he said, "that will be beyond Emelian's strength, for so far he has done everything we have thought of and I cannot take away his wife."

And the courtiers thought for a long time, then came to the King and said, "You must summon Emelian and say to him, 'Go to -- I don't know where, and bring me -- I don't know what.' He won't be able to escape you then, for wherever he goes you can say it was not the right place and whatever he brings was not the right thing. Then you can cut off his head and take away his wife."

The King was pleased with the idea. He sent for Emelian and said to him, "Go to -- I don't know where, and bring me -- I don't know what. And if you don't, I'll cut off your head."

Emelian went back to his wife and told her what the King had said. The wife reflected.

"Well," she said. "Be it on the King's own head what his courtiers have taught him. We must act with cunning now."

She sat and thought it over for a while; then said to her husband, "You must go a long way to our old grandmother, a peasant soldier's mother, and ask her to help you. She will give you something which you must take straight to the palace and I will be there already. I cannot escape them now; they will take me by force, but only for a short while. If you do what grandmother tells you, you will soon set me free."

And the wife prepared Emelian for the journey and gave him a bundle and a spindle.

"Give grandmother this spindle," she said; "by this she will know that you are my husband."

And the wife showed him the way. Emelian left the town and saw some soldiers drilling. He stopped and watched them. The soldiers finished their drill and sat down to rest. Emelian approached them and asked, "Can you tell me, mates, how to get to -- I don't know where and bring back -- I don't know what."

The soldiers were perplexed at his words.

"Who sent you?" they asked.

"The King," he said.

"We too," they said, "since the day we became soldiers want to go to -- we don't know where and find -- we don't know what, but we've never been able to find it and so cannot help you."

Emelian sat with the soldiers awhile then went on his way. He wandered and wandered till he came to a wood. In the wood was a cottage and in the cottage sat an old woman, a peasant soldier's mother, spinning at her wheel, and she wept as she spun and moistened her fingers with the tears that flowed from her eyes.

"Who are you?" she cried in anger when she saw Emelian.

Emelian gave her the spindle and said that his wife had sent him. The old woman instantly softened and began to ask him questions. And Emelian told her his whole story of how he had married the maiden and gone to live in the town, and how he had been taken to the King's as a yard-porter, and of the work he had done in the palace, and the temple he had built in a night, and the river and ships he had made, and that now the King had sent him to -- I don't know where to bring back -- I don't know what.

The old woman listened to what he had to say and ceased her weeping. She began to mutter to herself, "The time has come, I see. Very well," she said aloud; "sit down, my son, and have something to eat."

Emelian had something to eat and the old woman said to him, "Here is a ball of thread; roll it before you and follow wherever it leads. You will have to go a long way, to the very sea. When you come to the sea you will see a large town. Ask to be allowed to stay the night in the outermost house and look for what you want there."

"But by what signs shall I know it, grandmother?"

"When you see that which men listen to more than to father or mother, that will be the thing you want. Seize it and take it to the King. He will tell you you haven't brought the right thing, and you must say to him, 'If it is not the right thing then I must break it.' Then strike this thing; carry it out to the river; break it and throw it into the water. Then you will get back your wife and dry up my tears."

Emelian took leave of the grandmother and went where the ball of thread took him to. The ball rolled and rolled till it brought him to the sea, where there was a large town. Emelian knocked at a house and asked to be allowed to stay the night. The people let him in. He went to bed. In the morning he woke early and heard the father of the house trying to wake his son to chop some wood. The son would not listen to him. "It is early yet," he said, "there's plenty of time."

And he heard the mother near the stove say, "Do go, my son. Your father's bones ache; surely you wouldn't let him go? Get up."

The son only smacked his lips and went to sleep again. He had no sooner fallen asleep than there was a banging and a rumbling in the street. The son jumped up, dressed and ran out. Emelian ran out after him to see what it was that a son obeyed more than father or mother.

When Emelian got outside he saw a man coming up the street carrying some round object on his belly that he was beating with sticks. It was this thing that had made the noise and that the son had obeyed. Emelian approached and examined it. The thing was round like a small tub with skin drawn tightly on either side of it.

"What is this thing called?" he asked.

"A drum," they said.

"Is it empty?"

"Yes," they said.

Emelian wondered and asked the people to give him the thing, but they would not. Emelian gave up asking and followed the drummer. He walked about the whole day and when the drummer went to bed at night, Emelian seized the drum and ran away with it. He ran and ran until he came to his own town. He wanted to give his wife a surprise, but she was not at home. She had been taken to the King the day after Emelian had left.

Emelian went to the palace and asked to be announced as the man who had gone to -- I don't know where and brought back -- I don't know what. The King was informed of his return and he ordered Emelian to come to him on the morrow. Emelian again demanded to see the King, saying, "I have brought back what I was ordered to; let the King come out to me, or I will go in to him myself."

The King came out.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

Emelian told him.

"That was not the place," he said. "And what have you brought?"

Emelian wanted to show him, but the King would not even look.

"That was not the thing," he said.

"If it is not the thing," Emelian said, "I must break it and let it go to the devil."

Emelian came out of the palace and struck the drum. He had no sooner done so than all the King's troops gathered around him. They saluted Emelian and waited for his commands. From the window of his palace the King called to the troops, forbidding them to follow Emelian, but the troops would not listen to the King and followed Emelian. When the King saw this he ordered Emelian's wife to be given back to him and he begged Emelian to give him the drum.

"I can't," Emelian said. "I was told to break it and throw the bits into the river."

Emelian took the drum to the river and the soldiers followed him. Emelian struck the drum and broke it into little bits which he threw into the water and the troops all scattered and dispersed. And Emelian took his wife back home.

From that day the King left off worrying him and Emelian and his wife lived happily ever after.




The Great Bear


A long, long time ago there was a big drought on the earth. All the rivers dried up and the streams and wells, and the trees withered and the bushes and grass, and men and beasts died of thirst.

One night a little girl went out with a pitcher to find some water for her sick mother. She wandered and wandered everywhere, but could find no water, and she grew so tired that she lay down on the grass and fell asleep. When she awoke and took up the pitcher she nearly upset the water it contained. The pitcher was full of clear, fresh water. The little girl was glad and was about to put it to her lips, but she remembered her mother and ran home with the pitcher as fast as she could. She hurried so much that she did not notice a little dog in her path; she stumbled over it and dropped the pitcher. The dog whined pitifully; the little girl seized the pitcher.

She thought the water would have been upset, but the pitcher stood upright and the water was there as before. She poured a little into the palm of her hand and the dog lapped it and was comforted. When the little girl again took up the pitcher, it had turned from common wood to silver. She took the pitcher home and gave it to her mother.

The mother said, "I shall die just the same; you had better drink it," and she handed the pitcher to the child. In that moment the pitcher turned from silver to gold. The little girl could no longer contain herself and was about to put the pitcher to her lips, when the door opened and a stranger entered who begged for a drink. The little girl swallowed her saliva and gave the pitcher to him. And suddenly seven large diamonds sprang out of the pitcher and a stream of clear, fresh water flowed from it. And the seven diamonds began to rise, and they rose higher and higher till they reached the sky and became the Great Bear.




Three Questions


It once occurred to a King that if he knew the right moment when to begin on any work and the right kind of people to have or not to have dealings with and the thing to do that was more important than any other thing, he would always be successful.

And he proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to any one who could tell him what was the right moment for any action, and who were the most essential of all people, and what was the most essential thing of all to do.

Many learned men came to the King and answered his questions in different ways.

In answer to the first question some said that to know the right time for any action, one must draw up a time-table of all the days, months and years and observe it


strictly, then one could do everything at the proper time. Others said that it was impossible to decide beforehand the proper time for any action; the only thing one could do was to waste no time in vain amusements, but to pay attention to what was going on around one, and to do the thing that came to hand. A third said that however attentive the King might be to what went on around him, one man alone could not decide the proper time for every action and that he needed a council of wise men to advise him. Still a fourth maintained that as certain action had to be decided at once and could not wait a council the proper thing to do was to find out beforehand what was going to happen so as to be always prepared. But as only magicians knew what was going to happen, then it followed that in order to find out the proper time for any action one must consult the magicians.

The second question, too, was answered in various ways. Some said that the most essential people to the King were his helpers and ministers; others said priests; still others that the most essential people to the King were doctors; a fourth party said that the most essential people to the King were soldiers.

To the third question about the most important occupation, some declared it was science, others, the art of war, and others, divine worship.

The answers being different, the King agreed with none of them and gave no man the promised reward. But still wishing to find out the answers to his questions, he resolved to consult a hermit who was famous throughout the land for his wisdom.

The hermit lived in a wood which he never left, and received none but common folk. For this reason the King put on simple garments, and, dismissing his body-guard before he reached the hermit's cell, he climbed down from his horse and went the rest of the way alone and on foot.

He found the hermit digging a bed in front of the hermitage. When the hermit saw the King, he greeted him and went on with his digging. He was frail and thin and each time he dug his spade into the ground and turned over a little soil, he gasped for breath.

The King approached him and said, "I have come, oh, wise hermit, to ask you to give me the answers to these three questions -- what hour must one remember and not allow to slip by, so as not to regret it afterwards? What people are the most essential and with whom should one or should one not have dealings? What things are the most essential to do and which of those things must one do first of all?"

The hermit heard what the King had to say, but made no reply. He spat on his hand and went on with his digging.

"You are tired," the King said; "give me the spade and I will do the digging for you."

The King took the spade and began to dig, but after a while he stopped and repeated his question. The hermit made no reply, but stretched out his hand for the spade.

"You rest now," he said, "and I will work."

But the King would not give up the spade and went on with the digging. One hour passed and another; the sun began to set behind the trees when the King stuck his spade into the ground and said, "I came to you, wise man, to find the answers to my three questions. If you cannot answer them, then tell me and I will go my way home."

"Some one is running hither," the hermit said. "Let us see who it is."

The King turned and saw a bearded man running towards them. The man's hands were clasped over his stomach and the blood flowed from beneath them. He fell at the King's feet and lay motionless, rolling his eyes and moaning faintly.

The King and the hermit unfastened the man's clothes. He had a large wound in his stomach. The King bathed it as well as he could with his handkerchief and bandaged it with the hermit's towel. The blood did not cease to flow, and several times the King had to remove the bandages, soaked with warm blood, and rebathe and rebandage the wound.

When the blood ceased to flow, the wounded man came to himself and asked for some water. The King brought some fresh water and raised it to the wounded man's lips.

The sun had quite set meanwhile and it began to get cold. The King, with the hermit's help, carried the wounded man into the cell and put him on the bed. The wounded man shut his eyes and went to sleep. The King was so tired with the walk and the work that he curled up by the door and fell into a sound sleep. He slept through the whole mild summer night, and when he awoke in the morning he could not make out where he was and who was the strange bearded man staring at him from the bed with glistening eyes.

"Forgive me," the bearded man said in a faint voice, when he saw that the King was awake and observing him.

"I don't know you and have nothing to forgive you for," the King said.

"You don't know me, but I know you. I am your enemy who vowed to be revenged on you for having executed my brother and taken away my property: I knew that you went alone to the hermit and resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did not come. I lost patience and came out to find you, when I stumbled upon your body-guard. They recognized me and wounded me. I escaped from them, but would have died from loss of blood had you not bound my wound. I wanted to kill you and you saved my life. If I continue to live I will serve you as your most faithful slave should you desire it, and I will order my sons to do likewise. Forgive me."

The King was very glad that he had been able to make peace with his enemy so easily, and not only forgave him but promised to return his property and to send him his own servants and physician.

Taking leave of the wounded man the King came out of the cell and sought for the hermit with his eyes. Before going away he wanted to ask him for the last time to answer his three questions. The hermit was on his knees by the beds they had dug yesterday, sowing vegetable seeds.

The King approached him and said, "For the last time, wise man, I ask you to answer my questions."

"But they are answered already," the hermit said, squatting on his emaciated legs and looking at up the King, who stood before him.

"How?" the King asked.

"Don't you see?" the hermit began; "had you not pitied my weakness yesterday and dug these beds for me and gone back alone, the man would have attacked you and you would have regretted that you had not stayed with me. The important hour at the time was when you dug these beds, and I was the most essential person to you, and the most essential act was to do me a kindness. And later, when the man ran up, the most important hour was when you looked after him, for, had you not bandaged his wound, he would have died without making his peace with you. He was the most essential man to you at that time, and what you did for him was the most essential thing to be done. Always bear in mind that the most important time is now, for it is the only time we have any power over ourselves; the most essential man is the one with whom you happen to be at the moment, because you can never be sure whether you will ever have relations with any one else, and the most essential thing to do is a kindness to that man, for it was for this purpose we were sent into the world."



The Godson


I

A son was born to a poor peasant. He rejoiced and went to a neighbour to ask him to stand as godfather to the boy. The neighbour refused. He did not want to be godfather to a poor man's son. So the peasant went to another neighbour and he, too, refused. He walked from house to house, but could find no one who would be godfather to his son, so he set out to another village. On his way he met a stranger, who stopped him and said, "Good day, peasant; where are you going to?"

"God has given me a child," the peasant said, "to gladden my sight in my youth, to comfort me in my old age and to pray for my soul when I die. No one in our village will be godfather to him, so I am going to seek one elsewhere."

"Let me be his godfather," the stranger said.

The peasant rejoiced. He thanked the stranger and said, "But whom shall I ask to be his godmother?"

"Go into the town," the stranger said; "in the square you will see a stone house with shop windows; go in and ask the merchant to let his daughter stand as godmother to your son."

The peasant was doubtful.

"But how can I ask a rich merchant? He will be too proud to let his daughter come to a poor man like me."

"That won't be your fault; go and ask him. Have everything ready by the morning and I'll come to the christening."

The peasant went home, then drove into the town to the merchant. He had no sooner stopped in the yard than the merchant came out.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"God has given me a child," the peasant said, "to gladden my sight in my youth, to comfort me in my old age and to pray for my soul when I die. Will you be kind enough to let your daughter come and be godmother to the child?"

"When is the christening?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Very well; go, in God's name. To-morrow my daughter will be at the church."

The next day the godmother and godfather came; the child was christened, but directly after the christening the godfather disappeared. No one knew who he was and no one saw him from that day.


II

The child grew up to the parents' great joy; and he was strong and industrious and clever and humble. When he was ten years old the parents sent him to school, and what it took others five years to learn the boy learnt in one. And there was no one in the village who could teach him more.

Easter came round and the boy went to his godmother to give her the Easter greeting. When he returned home he said, "Father and mother, where does my godfather live? I should like to give him the Easter greeting, too."

And the father said, "We don't know where your godfather lives, dear son. We, too, have worried over that. We have not seen him since you were christened. We have not heard of him and don't know where he lives, nor whether he is alive at all."

The boy bowed to his father and mother.

"Let me go," he said, "to seek my godfather. I want to find him and give him the Easter greeting."

The father and mother gave their consent and the boy set out to find his godfather.


III

The boy left the house and set out on his way. About midday he met a stranger and the stranger stopped and said, "Good day to you, boy. Where are you going?"

And the boy said, "I went to my godmother to give her the Easter greeting and when I returned home I asked my parents where my godfather lived, because I wanted to give him the greeting too, but my parents said, 'We don't know where your godfather lives, dear son. We have not heard of him since you were christened and we don't know anything about him, or whether he is alive at all.' And I wanted to see my godfather, so I am going to find him."

"I am your godfather," the stranger said.

The boy rejoiced and gave him the Easter greeting.

"Where are you going to, godfather? If you are going in our direction come in to us, or if you are going home, may I come with you?"

And the stranger said, "I have no time to come to you now, because I have some business in the villages. I shall not be home until to-morrow, then you can come to me if you like."

"But how shall I find you, godfather?"

"Walk straight towards the east until you come to a wood in the midst of which you will find a clearing. Sit down to rest in that clearing and look about you to see what is happening. When you come out of the wood you will see a garden and in the garden is a house with a golden roof. That is my house. Go in at the gate; I will meet you there myself."

Saying these words the godfather vanished from the godson's sight.


IV

The boy followed the godfather's directions. He wandered and wandered till he came to a wood and found the clearing, and in the midst of the clearing stood a pine tree to a branch of which a heavy block of oak was attached with string, and beneath the block was a trough of honey. As the boy was wondering why the honey and the block were there, a crackling was heard among the trees and out came a family of bears. The mother came in front and a yearling and some cubs followed behind. The mother, sniffing the air, went straight to the trough, the cubs following. She thrust her muzzle into the honey and called to the cubs to do the same. They scampered up and thrust in their muzzles. The block swung back a little and returning, hit against the cubs. When the mother saw this, she shoved the block away with her paw. The block swung back further, and returning more forcibly struck one cub on the back, another on the head. The cubs jumped away, howling with pain. The mother bear growled, and seizing the block in her fore-paws, flung it away from her violently. The block flew up high. The yearling ran up to the trough, thrust his muzzle into the honey, the other cubs followed him, but no sooner had they got there than the block swung back, struck the yearling on the head and killed him. The mother-bear growled more angrily as she seized the block and flung it away with all her might. The block flew higher than the branch, the string it was tied to even slackened; the mother-bear and the cubs came up to the trough; the block flew higher and higher, then stopped and began to descend; the lower it got the swifter became its course. It crashed down on the mother-bear's head. She fell over; her legs twitched and she died. The cubs ran away into the wood.


V

The boy wondered and went on further. He came to a large garden and in the garden was a high house with a golden roof. At the gate stood his godfather, smiling. He greeted his godson, made him come inside the gate and took him round the garden. He had never even dreamt of such beauty and joy as there was in that garden.

The godfather took the boy into the house and he found that more wonderful still. The godfather showed him all the rooms -- one more beautiful than the other -- then he brought him to a sealed door. "Do you see this door?" he asked. "It is not locked, only sealed. It can be opened, but I forbid you to do it. You can live here and go where you like and do what you like; taste of every pleasure; I forbid you only one thing -- to pass that door. But if it should happen that you do go in, remember what you saw in the wood." With these words the godfather went away, and the godson was left alone. His life was so full of pleasure and such a happy one that when he had been there thirty years it seemed to him no more than three hours. Thus the thirty years passed and the godson came to the sealed door, thinking, "I wonder why my godfather forbade me to go into this room? I will go in and see what is there."

He pushed the door; the seal gave way and the door opened. The godson went in and saw that the room was large and more beautiful than all the others, and in the middle of it stood a golden throne. The godson wandered and wandered over the room; then he stopped by the throne, mounted the steps and sat down. He saw a sceptre by the throne and he took it up in his hand. He had no sooner touched the sceptre than the walls of the room rolled asunder. The godson looked about and saw the whole world and everything people were doing in it. Straight before him was the sea and ships sailing on it. To the right were foreign lands, where heathens lived. To the left were Christians, but not Russians. On the fourth side were our own Russian people.

"I will look and see what is happening at home," he said. "I wonder if the corn is good this year?"

He looked at his father's fields and saw the sheaves standing in them. He began to count the sheaves to see if the harvest had been good, when he saw a cart coming over the field with a peasant sitting in it. He looked closer and saw that it was Vasily, a thief. Vasily stopped by the sheaves and began putting them into the cart. The godson could not endure this and cried aloud, "Father, they are stealing your sheaves!"

The father awoke in the night. "I dreamt that some one was stealing my sheaves," he said; "I will go and see." He got upon his horse and rode out.

When he got to the fields he saw Vasily and called aloud for help. Some peasants came up. Vasily was beaten, bound and taken to prison.

The godson then looked towards the town where his godmother lived and saw that she had married a merchant. She was lying in bed and her husband got up to leave her to go to another woman. And the godson cried aloud to his godmother, "Get up! Your husband is going to do something wicked!"

The godmother jumped up, dressed and set out to find her husband. She brought him to shame, beat the other woman and would not take her husband back again.

The godson looked again towards his home and saw his mother lying in the house and that a robber had stolen in and was breaking open a trunk. The mother awoke and cried out in terror. The robber raised his axe, and was about to kill her, but the godson could endure no more; he thrust the sceptre straight into the robber's temple and killed him on the spot.


VI

He had no sooner slain the robber than the walls rose up again and the room became as before.

The door opened and the godfather entered. He approached the godson, took him by the hand, led him from the throne and said, "You did not obey my commands. You did one wrong thing in opening the forbidden door, another when you mounted the throne and took my sceptre into your hand, and a third wrong, which has added to the evil in the world. Had you sat on the throne an hour longer, you would have ruined half mankind."

And the godfather once more led the godson up to the throne and he took the sceptre in his hand and the walls rolled asunder.

And the godfather said, "See what you have done to your father. Vasily sat in prison for a year and learnt every kind of wickedness and came out completely corrupted. See, he has driven off two of your father's horses and is now setting fire to his barns. This is what you have done to your father."

As soon as the godson saw his father's barns burst into flame the godfather hid the view from his sight and bade him look in another direction.

"See," he said; "it is now a year since your godmother's husband left her, and he goes after other women and his wife has taken to drink and his former mistress has fallen to still lower depths. This is what you have done to your godmother."

This sight, too, he hid from the godson's gaze and bade him look towards his own home. His mother was weeping and saying, "It would have been better if the robber had killed me than that I should have so many sins on my soul."

"This is what you have done to your mother."

This sight, too, the godfather shut out and bade the godson look below. And he saw two keepers guarding the robber in a dungeon.

And the godfather said, "This man has killed nine people. He should have atoned for his sins himself, but in killing him you have taken them upon your own soul. Now you must answer for all his sins. This is what you have done to yourself. When the mother-bear first pushed the block aside she merely disturbed her cubs; when she pushed it a second time, she killed her yearling; when she pushed it a third time, she was killed herself. You have done exactly the same. I give you a term of thirty years. Go into the world and atone for the robber's sins; if you fail to do so, you will have to take his place."

"But how shall I atone for his sins?" the godson asked.

And the godfather said, "When you have rid the world of as much evil as you brought into it, then you will have atoned for your own and the robber's sins."

And the godson asked, "How can I rid the world of evil?"

And the godfather said, "Walk straight towards the east until you come to some fields on which you will find some people. Take note of what they are doing and teach them what you know, then go on further, observing everything on the way. On the fourth day you will come to a wood in which you will find a cell, and in this cell a hermit lives. Tell this hermit all that has happened and he will instruct you in what you are to do. When you have done all that the hermit has told you, you will have atoned for your own and the robber's sins."

With these words the godfather put the godson out at the gate.


VII

And the godson set out, thinking as he walked, "How can I rid the world of evil? People rid the world of evil by banishing evil men or putting them in prison or executing them. But how can I rid the world of evil without taking other men's sins upon myself?" And the godson wondered and wondered, but could come to no decision.

He wandered and wandered till he came to a field on which tall rich corn was growing, ready to be harvested. And the godson saw a calf that had strayed in among the corn and he saw men on horseback chasing the calf this way and that and trampling down the corn. Each time the calf was about to come out of the corn some one rode up and the calf got frightened and ran back again, the men after it. In the road stood a woman, crying, "They will chase my calf to death!"

And the godson said to the men, "What are you doing? Come out of the corn and let the woman call to her calf."

The men did so. The woman came up to the edge of the field and called to the calf, who pricked up its ears, listening awhile, then it ran towards her and buried its nose in her skirts, nearly knocking her down. The men were glad, and the woman was glad, and the calf, too, was glad.

The godson went on his way thinking, "I see that evil breeds evil. The more people try to drive away evil, the more the evil grows, which shows that it is impossible to drive out evil by evil. But how can one drive it out? I don't know. It is well that the calf obeyed its mistress; if it had not done so, how should we have got it out of the corn?"

And the godson wondered and wondered, but could come to no decision and went on further.


VIII

He wandered and wandered till he came to a village where he asked to be allowed to stay the night at the first house. The mistress let him in. Besides herself no one was in the house. The mistress was busy cleaning.

When the godson came in he climbed on to the stove and began watching to see what the mistress was doing. She had finished cleaning the floor and was scrubbing the table. She scrubbed it and wiped it with a dirty cloth. She rubbed the cloth one way, but the table would not come clean. The cloth left streaks of dirt. She rubbed it the other way -- the first streaks came out, new ones were made. She rubbed it lengthwise again and the same thing happened. The dirty cloth rubbed out one streak of dirt and left another. The godson watched for some time and then said, "What are you doing, mistress?"

"Don't you see that I'm cleaning the house for the festival? I can't get the table clean, anyhow. The dirt will not come off and I'm quite worn out."

"You should rinse out the cloth, then wipe the table."

The mistress did as he told her and the table came clean. "Thank you," she said, "for your lesson."

In the morning the godson took leave of the mistress and went on further. He wandered and wandered till he came to a wood where he saw some peasants making hoops. He approached them and saw them struggling and struggling, but they could not bend the wood. He looked closer and saw that the block on which they were working was not firmly fixed. And the godson said, "What are you doing, brothers?"

"Making hoops, as you see. We have steamed the wood twice, yet cannot bend it. We are quite worn out."

"You should fix the block more firmly, mates. It moves round with you as it is."

The peasants did so and their work went smoothly afterwards.

The godson stayed the night with them, then went on his way. He walked the whole of that day and the night and just before daybreak he came upon some shepherds encamped for the night, and joined them. They had settled their cattle and were trying to light a fire. They took some dry twigs and lighted them, and not giving them time to burn up, they put some damp brushwood on top and smothered the fire. The shepherds took some more dry twigs and lighted them, and again they smothered the fire with damp brushwood. For a long time they struggled, but could get no fire.

And the godson said, "Don't be in such a hurry to put on the brushwood, but wait until the twigs have caught well. When the fire gets hot then you can put on the brushwood."

The shepherds did as he told them. When the twigs had caught well, they put on the brushwood, and in a few minutes they had a blazing fire.

The godson stayed with them for a while then went on further. He wondered what these three things he had seen might mean, but could not understand, nor see the reason of them.


IX

The godson wandered and wandered until nightfall, when he came to a wood, and in the wood was a cell. He went up to the cell and knocked at the door.

A voice from within asked, "Who is that?"

"A great sinner. I have come to atone for the sins of another."

And the hermit asked, "What are these sins you have taken upon yourself?"

And the godson told him everything about his godfather and the mother-bear and the cubs and about the throne in the sealed room, and about his godfather's commands, and about the peasants who had trampled the corn in the field, and the calf that had come to its mistress at her call.

"I know now," he said, "that you cannot drive out evil by evil, but I don't know how it can be driven out and I want you to tell me."

And the hermit said, "Tell me what else you have seen on the way?"

The godson told him about the woman and how she had tried to clean the table, and of the peasants who had tried to make the hoops, and the shepherds who had tried to light a fire.

The hermit waited until he had finished, then he went into his cell and brought out a jagged axe.

"Come," he said.

The hermit walked away from the cell and pointed to a tree. "Cut it down," he said.

The godson felled it.

"Chop it into three parts."

The godson chopped it into three parts. The hermit again went into his cell and brought out a light.

"Set fire to those three logs," he said.

The godson made a fire and burnt the three logs till only three pieces of charcoal were left.

"Now plant them half into the ground, like this."

The godson planted them.

"Do you see a river there by that hill? Fetch some water in your mouth and water them. Water this one in the way you taught the woman to clean, this one in the way you taught the hoopers, and this one in the way you taught the shepherds. When the three pieces of charcoal grow into apple-trees you will know how to rid the world of evil, and will then have atoned for your sins."

With these words the hermit went into his cell. The godson pondered and pondered and could not understand what the hermit had said, but he did what the hermit had told him.


X

The godson went to the river, filled his mouth with water and watered one piece of charcoal; then he went again and again, until he had watered the other two. The godson was tired and hungry. He went to the hermit's cell to ask for some food. When he opened the door there was the hermit lying dead on a bench. The godson looked about the cell and found some rusks, which he ate; then he discovered a spade and went out to dig a grave for the old man. By night he carried water to water the pieces of charcoal, and by day he dug the grave. He had no sooner finished it and was about to bury the hermit, when some people came from the village to bring the hermit food.

When the people heard that the hermit was dead they asked the godson to take his place. They buried the hermit, left the bread with the godson and went away, promising to bring him more food later on.

And the godson fell into the hermit's place and he lived and nourished himself with the food people brought him, and went on watering the pieces of charcoal as the hermit had bidden him do.

The godson lived thus for a year and many people began to visit him. He grew famous throughout the country as a saint who saved his soul by carrying water in his mouth from beneath a hill, and watering stumps of charcoal. People flocked to him. Rich merchants brought him gifts, but the godson used nothing but what he needed, giving the rest to the poor.

And the godson began to live thus -- for half the day he carried water in his mouth to water the pieces of charcoal, for the other half he rested and received people.

And the godson came to think that he had been told to live thus and that in this way he would atone for his sins.

The godson lived thus for another year, not missing a single day for watering the charcoal, yet not a single piece had begun to sprout.

One day when he was sitting in his cell he heard a horseman gallop past, singing to himself. The hermit came out to see what manner of man he was. And he saw that the man was young and strong and was dressed in fine clothes and seated on a spirited horse.

The godson stopped him and asked him who he was and where he was going. The man pulled up.

"I am a robber," he said; "I roam the highway and kill whomever I have a mind to. The more men I kill the merrier are my songs."

The godson was horrified and thought, "How can one destroy evil in such a man? It is well to talk to the people who come to me; they repent of their own accord, but this man glories in the evil he does." The godson said nothing to him and turned away, thinking, "What shall I do? If this robber makes up his mind to stay here, he will scare away my people and no one will come to see me. They will lose some good thereby, and I shall have nothing to live on."

And the godson stopped and said to the robber, "People come to me not to boast of the evil they do, but to repent and pray for their sins to be forgiven them. You repent likewise, if you have the fear of God in your heart, and if you do not seek repentance, go away from this place and do not come back again, so as not to hinder me or scare away my people. If you fail to listen to my words God will punish you."

The robber laughed.

"I am not afraid of your God and I won't listen to you. You are not my master to order me about. You live by your piety, I by my robbery. We must all live. Teach the women who come to you, but let me alone. Since you have dared to mention the name of God to me I will kill two extra people to-morrow. I would kill you now, only I don't want to soil my hands, but take care never to cross my path again."

The robber threatened him thus and rode away. He did not come again and the godson lived in the hermitage as before for another eight years.


XI

One night the godson set out to water his pieces of charcoal and when he had finished he sat down in his cell to rest. He peered along the path now and again to see if any visitor was coming, but no one came that day. The godson sat alone until evening and he grew lonesome and weary and began to think about his life. He recollected how the robber had reproached him for living by his piety. He began to look back upon his life. "I am not living as the hermit told me," he thought. "The hermit imposed a penance on me and I have used it as a means of earning my bread and even gaining fame thereby. I have been so led astray over it that I am even dull when people do not come to see me, and when they do come, I rejoice when they praise my saintliness. This is not the way one must live. I have been blinded by fame. Not only have I not atoned for past sins but have taken new ones upon myself. I will go away to another place far into the wood, where the people will not find me, and I will live alone there and atone for my past sins, taking care not to commit new ones."

Thinking thus the godson took a bag of rusks and a spade, and he left the cell and set out down a ravine to build himself a mud hut in the thicket and disappear from people's sight.

The godson was walking along with his bag and spade when the robber jumped out upon him. The godson was afraid and would have run away, but the robber stopped him.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

The godson told him that he wanted to go away from people and bury himself in a wild part of the wood where no one would come to him.

The robber wondered.

"But what will you live on if no one comes to see you?"

The godson had not thought of that, but now the robber had mentioned it he remembered that he had to eat.

"On what God gives," he said.

The robber made no reply and went his way.

"Why didn't I say anything to him about his life?" the godson thought. "He may be repentant now. He seemed softer of manner and did not threaten to kill me to-day." And he called to the robber saying, "It is time you repented. You cannot get away from God."

The robber turned his horse round, seized a knife from his girdle and brandished it aloft. The godson took fright and ran away into the wood.

The robber did not trouble to go after him, he merely said, "I have let you off twice, old man; take care not to come my way a third time, or I'll kill you."

With these words the robber rode away.

That evening the godson went to water his pieces of charcoal and behold! one of the pieces had sprouted! A young apple-tree had shot forth.


XII

The godson hid himself from the eyes of men and began to live alone. His rusks were all gone. "I must hunt for some roots," he thought, but he had no sooner gone out than he saw a bag of rusks hanging on the branch of a tree. He took the bag and began to eat.

When that was all gone he found another bag in the very same place. Thus the godson lived. He had only one care -- his fear of the robber. When he heard him coming he hid himself, thinking, "If he kills me I shall not be able to atone for my sins."

Another ten years passed. One apple-tree grew up, the other pieces of charcoal remained as they were before.

One day the godson went out early to do his watering. He moistened the soil around the stumps until he was tired and sat down to rest. As he rested he thought, "I have sinned greatly in fearing death. If it be God's will I will atone for my sins by death even."

The thought had no sooner occurred to him than he heard the robber come along cursing at some one. And the godson thought, "Besides God no one can do me either good or evil." And he went to meet the robber. He saw that the robber was not alone. On the saddle, behind him, was another man, and this man's hands were bound and his mouth was gagged. The man made no sound and the robber kept on abusing him. The godson approached the robber and stopped before his horse.

"Where are you taking this man to?" he asked.

"Into the wood. He is a merchant's son and won't tell me where his father's money is hidden. I will keep him prisoner until he tells me."

The robber was about to go on, but the godson would not let him, seizing the horse by the bridle.

"Let the man go," he said.

The robber grew angry and raised his arm to strike him.

"Do you want to share his fate? I told you I would kill you. Let go!"

The godson was not afraid.

"I won't let go," he said. "I'm not afraid of you; I only fear God. He tells me not to let go. Set the man free."

The robber frowned; he seized the knife from his girdle, cut the cords and released the merchant's son.

"Be gone, the two of you!" he said, "and don't come across my path a second time!"

The merchant's son fled. The robber was about to go, but the godson stopped him and once more beseeched him to abandon his wicked life. The robber stood and listened without saying a word, then turned and rode away.

In the morning the godson went to water his pieces of charcoal. Behold! another one had burst forth, another apple-tree had grown!


XIII

Ten more years passed. The godson lived desiring nothing, afraid of nothing, and a feeling of gladness always at his heart. And he thought one day, "What blessings the good Lord gives us! And we torment ourselves for nothing. People should live in joy and happiness." And he remembered the evil men suffered and how they tormented themselves and he grew to pity them. "It is in vain that I live as I do," he thought; "I must go among people and tell them what I know."

The thought had no sooner occurred to him than he heard the robber come along, but he took no notice of him, thinking, "What is the use of talking to that man? He will not understand."

This was his first thought, but in a little while he repented of it and went out in the road. The robber sat on his horse, frowning and looking at the ground. When the godson saw him, a feeling of pity came over him; he rushed up and seized the robber's knee.

"My dear brother," he said, "take pity on your soul! Don't you know that the spirit of God is in you? You torment yourself and others, and as time goes on your torments will grow worse, and God loves you and wants to heap His blessings upon you. Don't destroy yourself, brother; change your way of life."

The robber frowned and turned away. "Leave me alone," he said.

The godson clutched the robber's knee still firmer and the tears stood in his eyes. The robber raised his eyes to his, gazed into them for a long time, then climbed down from his horse and fell on his knees before the godson.

"You have subdued me, old man," he said. "For twenty years I struggled against you, but you have won. I am powerless before you. Do what you want with me. When you spoke to me the first time, I grew more hardened still. I only began to take your words to heart when you went away from people and I knew that you needed nothing from them. It was then I began to supply you with rusks."

And the godson recollected that the woman had only managed to clean the table after she had washed the cloth. When he ceased to care for himself and cleansed his heart, he was able to cleanse the hearts of others.

And the robber continued, "And my heart turned when I saw that you had no fear of death."

And the godson remembered that the hoopers began to bend the hoops only when they had made the block firm. When he ceased to fear death and established his life firmly in God he had been able to subdue this man's wild heart.

And the robber said, "And the heart in me melted altogether when I saw that you pitied me and wept before me."

The godson rejoiced. He led the robber to the place where his pieces of charcoal were planted and behold! a third apple-tree had grown. And the godson remembered that when the shepherds had allowed their dry twigs to catch well, a big fire blazed up. It was only when his heart grew warm that he had been able to kindle the heart of another.

And the godson rejoiced that he had now atoned for all his sins.

He told the robber everything and died. The robber buried him and began to live as the godson had told him, and to teach other men what he knew.

<eob>

The Sandman's Hour

By

Abbie Phillips Walker



Where The Sparks Go


One night when the wind was blowing and it was clear and cold out of doors, a cat and a dog, who were very good friends, sat dozing before a fire-place.  The wood was snapping and crackling, making the sparks fly. Some flew up the chimney, others settled into coals in the bed of the fireplace, while others flew out on the hearth and slowly closed their eyes and went to sleep.

One spark ventured farther out upon the hearth and fell very near Pussy. This made her jump, which awakened the dog.

"That almost scorched your fur coat, Miss Pussy," said the dog.

"No, indeed," answered the cat.  "I am far too quick to be caught by those silly sparks."

"Why do you call them silly?" asked the dog.  "I think them very good to look at, and they help to keep us warm."

"Yes, that is all true," said the cat, "but those that fly up the chimney on a night like this certainly are silly, when they could be warm and comfortable inside; for my part, I cannot see why they fly up the chimney."

The spark that flew so near Pussy was still winking, and she blazed up a little when she heard the remark the cat made.

"If you knew our reason you would not call us silly," she said.  "You cannot see what we do, but if you were to look up the chimney and see what happens if we are fortunate enough to get out at the top, you would not call us silly."

The dog and cat were very curious to know what happened, but the spark told them to look and see for themselves.  Pussy was very cautious and told the dog to look first, so he stepped boldly up to the fireplace and thrust his head in.  He quickly withdrew it, for his hair was singed, which made him cry and run to the other side of the room.

Miss Pussy smoothed her soft coat and was very glad she had been so wise; she walked over to the dog and urged him to come nearer the fire, but he realized why a burnt child dreads the fire, and remained at a safe distance.

Pussy walked back to the spark and continued to question it.  "We cannot go into the fire," she said. "Now, pretty, bright spark, do tell us what becomes of you when you fly up the chimney.  I am sure you only become soot and that cannot make you long to get to the top."

"Oh, you are very wrong," said the spark.  "We are far from being black when we fly up the chimney, for once we reach the top, we live forever sparkling in the sky.  You can see, if you look up the chimney, all of our brothers and sisters, who have been lucky and reached the top, winking at us almost every night. Sometimes the wind blows them away, I suppose, for there are nights when we cannot see the sparks shine."

"Who told you all that?" said the cat.  "Did any of the sparks ever come back and tell you they could live forever?"

"Oh no!" said the spark; "but we can see them, can we not?  And, of course, we all want to shine forever."

"I said you were silly," said the cat, "and now I know it; those are not sparks you see; they are stars in the sky."

"You can call them anything you like," replied the spark, "but we make the bright light you see."

"Well, if you take my advice," said the cat, "you will stay right in the fireplace, for once you reach the top of the chimney out of sight you go.  The stars you see twinkling are far above the chimney, and you never could reach them."  But the spark would not be convinced.  Just then some one opened a door and the draught blew the spark back into the fireplace. In a few minutes it was flying with the others toward the top of the chimney.

Pussy watched the fire a minute and then looked at the dog.

"The spark may be right, after all," said the dog. "Let us go out and see if we can see it."

Pussy stretched herself and blinked.  "Perhaps it is true," she replied; "anyway, I will go with you and look."





The Good Sea Monster


On an island of rocks out in the ocean lived a sea monster.  His head was large, and when he opened his mouth it looked like a cave.

It had been said that he was so huge that he could swallow a ship, and that on stormy nights he sat on the rocks and the flashing of his eyes could be seen for miles around.

The sailors spoke of him with fear and trembling, but, as you can see, the sea monster had really been a friend to them, showing them the rock in the storm by flashing his eyes; but because he looked so hideous all who beheld him thought he must be a cruel monster.

One night there was a terrible storm, and the monster went out into the ocean to see if any ship was wrecked in the night, and, if possible, help any one that was floating about.

He found one little boy floating about on a plank. His name was Ko-Ko, and when he saw the monster he was afraid, but when Ko-Ko saw that the monster did not attempt to harm him he climbed on the monster's back and he took him to the rocky island. Then the monster went back into the sea and Ko-Ko wondered if he were to be left alone.  But after a while the monster returned and opened his mouth very wide.

Ko-Ko ran when he saw the huge mouth, for he thought the monster intended to swallow him, but as he did not follow him Ko-Ko went back.

The monster opened his mouth again, and Ko-Ko asked, "Do you want me to go inside?" and the monster nodded his head.

"It must be for my own good," said Ko-Ko, "for he could easily swallow me if he wished, without waiting for me to walk in."

So Ko-Ko walked into the big mouth and down a dark passage, but what the monster wanted him to do he could not think.  He could see very faintly now, and after a while he saw a stove, a chair, and a table. "I will take these out," said Ko-Ko, "for I am sure I can use them."

He took them to a cave on the island, and when he returned the monster was gone; but he soon returned, and again he opened his mouth.

Ko-Ko walked in this time without waiting, and he found boxes and barrels of food, which he stored away in the cave.  When Ko-Ko had removed everything the monster lay down and went to sleep.

Ko-Ko cooked his dinner and then he awoke the monster and said, "Dinner is ready," but the monster shook his head and plunged into the ocean. He soon returned with his mouth full of fish.  Then Ko-Ko knew that the monster had brought all the things from the sunken ship for him, and he began to wish that the monster could talk, for he no longer feared him.

"I wish you could talk," he said.

"I can," the monster replied.  "No one ever wished it before.  An old witch changed me into a monster and put me on this island, where no one could reach me, and the only way I can be restored to my original form is for some one to wish it."

"I wish it," said Ko-Ko.

"You have had your wish," said the monster, "and I can talk; but for me to become a man some one else must wish it."

The monster and Ko-Ko lived for a long time on the island.  He took Ko-Ko for long rides on his back, and when the waves were too high and Ko-Ko was afraid the monster would open his mouth and Ko-Ko would crawl inside and be brought back safe to the island.

One night, after a storm, Ko-Ko saw something floating on the water, and he jumped on the monster's back and they swam out to it.

It proved to be a little girl, about Ko-Ko's age, who had been on one of the wrecked vessels, and they brought her to the island.

At first she was afraid of the monster, but when she learned that he had saved Ko-Ko as well as her and brought them all their food she became as fond of him as Ko-Ko was.

"I wish he were a man," she said one day, as she sat on his back with Ko-Ko, ready for a sail.  Splash went both children into the water, and there in place of the monster was an old man.  He caught the children in his arms and brought them to the shore.

"But what will we do for food, now that you are a man?" asked Ko-Ko.

"We shall want for nothing now," replied the old man.  "I am a sea-god and can do many things, now that I have my own form again.  We will change this island into a beautiful garden, and when the little girl and you are grown up and married you shall have a castle, and all the sea-gods and nymphs will care for you.  You will never want for anything again.

"I will take you out on the ocean on the backs of my dolphins."

Ko-Ko and the little girl lived on the enchanted island, and all the things that the old sea-god promised came true.





Mother Turkey And Her Chicks


Mother Turkey believed in the old adage taught to her by her grandmother, "The early bird catches the worm," and every night when the sun set she took her little chicks to the highest branch they could reach in an old apple-tree and sang them to sleep with this lullaby:

"Close your eyes, my little turkey chicks; Hide your heads, don't peep. Mother knows the bogy fox's tricks, And she'll watch while you sleep."


Mother Turkey had told them about the bogy fox that lived in a hole on the other side of the hill, and it did not need more than the mention of that name to make them obey.

"I do wish we could get just a look at him," said one chick, as his mother came to the end of the verse. "I should not know him if I met him."

"Oh yes, you would," replied his mother.  "He has a very long tail, and a sharp nose, and his teeth! Oh, dear me!" she exclaimed, as she flapped her wings at the thought of them.

"Will you wake us if he comes to-night?" asked another chick.

"I shall not need to do that," replied Mother Turkey; "you will hear us talking.  He is a very sly fellow, and always very polite and says nice things. But you cover your heads; it is getting late," and she began to sing:

"Close your eyes, my little turkey chicks; Hide your heads, don't peep. Mother knows the bogy fox's tricks, And she'll watch while you sleep."


By the time Mother Turkey reached the end of the verse this time all the chicks were fast asleep.

Mother Turkey stretched out her wings once or twice and turned her head in all directions, and then she settled herself for a nap.

The moon was shining brightly when she awoke, and she saw not far off what looked like a large black dog walking cautiously toward the tree. Mother Turkey took another look and saw the bushy tail, and she perched herself more firmly on the limb and looked to see if her children were safe on there, too, for she knew that the bogy fox had come to take one of her chicks back to his hole if he could.

"Good evening, Mr. Fox," she said, as the fox came near enough to hear her.  "I was sure that I knew your splendid figure; you certainly make a most remarkable picture in the moonlight."

Mr. Fox was somewhat taken aback at this compliment paid him in such a pleasant manner, for usually he was the one to make remarks and the turkeys listened, not daring to move or speak.

He recovered from his surprise by the time he was under the tree, and said: "You are most flattering, Mistress Turkey, and I can only return the compliment by telling you that you are a picture yourself in the moonlight, sitting so stately on that limb, but if you would enjoy to the full extent this beautiful evening you must come from the tree and take a walk over the hill."

"No doubt you are right," replied Mrs. Turkey, "but I could not think of leaving my children alone."

"I should be very glad to take care of the little dears while you are gone," said Mr. Fox, "and if you will have them come down beside me I will tell them a story which I am sure will keep them interested until you return."

By this time the turkey chicks were awake and listening to what the fox was saying.  He seemed so nice and polite that they quite forgot to be afraid, and when he spoke of telling them a story one of them said: "Oh, please do go, mother, and let him tell us a story.  We'll be very good if you will."

"You see, my dear madam," said the fox, "the little dears are quite willing to stay with me.  Do go and enjoy the moonlight."

Mother Turkey looked at her children in a way that plainly said to them, "Be quiet," and then she said to Mr. Fox: "I appreciate your kind offer, and were my children well should be very glad to leave them with you, but they have been sick, and are so lean that I have to be very careful that they sleep and eat well, or they will not be fat by next Thanksgiving, and that would be a disgrace, you know."

When the fox heard this he was not so anxious to have the chicks come down, so he said, "I know just how anxious you must feel, Mistress Turkey, and if you will come down where I can talk with you without being heard I will tell you the very thing to give them to make them fat."

"If he cannot get the chicks he will take me," thought Mrs. Turkey, "but I am too old a bird to be caught even by this sly fellow."

Mrs. Turkey did not reply to this last remark. She was thinking of a trap she saw her master set the day before.  "I wish you would walk around a little so my children can see what a beautiful bushy tail you have," she said.  "They have never seen so handsome a fellow as you are."

Mr. Fox was very proud of his tail, so he walked out from the shade of the tree and strutted about.

"Tell him how handsome he is," whispered Mother Turkey to her chicks.

"Oh, isn't he handsome!" said one, and another said, "I wish we had such bushy tails, instead of these straight feathers," while Mrs. Turkey said, "You are quite the handsomest creature I have ever seen, and I have seen many in my time."

By this time the fox was so pleased with their admiration that he was ready to do anything to display his charms, so when Mrs. Turkey said, "I wish you would run and show them how you can run and jump," he asked what he could jump on to show his nimbleness.

"The top of that hogshead would be a good place," said Mrs. Turkey, knowing well that the cask had no head and that it was nearly full of water.

Away ran Mr. Fox, and splash he went into the hogshead.  He tried to get out, but it was no use; the cask was too high, and then the farmer, hearing the noise, came out and soon put an end to Mr. Fox.

The little turkeys sat wide-awake and trembling beside their mother, but when the farmer went into the house she began to sing:

"Close your eyes, my little turkey chicks; Hide your heads, don't peep. Mother knows the bogy fox's tricks, And she'll watch while you sleep."


And in a few minutes all was quiet again in the yard.





The Fairies And The Dandelion


The Fairies say that a long time ago the dandelion did not have a yellow blossom or the fluffy white cap it wears after the yellow has been taken off.

They tell the story that one night, a long time ago, while they were holding one of their revels in a field, sounds of weeping and moaning were heard.

The Fairy Queen stopped the dance and listened. "It comes from the ground," she said, "down among the grasses.  Hurry, all of you; find out who is in trouble and come back and tell me."

Away went the Fairies into the fields and gardens and lanes.  Darting in and out among the blades of grass, they found queer-looking weeds with leaves resembling a lion's tooth.  They were crying and chanting a sing-song tune:

"Here we grow so bright and green, The color of grass, and can't be seen. O bitter woe, but we'll not stop Till the Fairies give us a yellow top."


Back flew the Fairies to their Queen and told her what they had heard.

"If only they had asked for some other color!" she said.  "There are so many yellow blossoms now. The buttercup, the goldenglow, and the goldenrod will all be jealous if another yellow flower enters their bright circle.  Go back and ask them if they will be quiet if we give them a white top."

The Fairies danced away to the crying dandelions with the Queen's message.

"The Queen will give you a white top," they said.

"No, no!" they cried.  "Yellow is the color we should wear with our green leaves.  It is the color of the sun and we wish to be as near like him as we can," and they all began to cry:

"O bitter woe, we will not stop Till the Fairies give us a yellow top."


They made such a noise that the Fairies put their fingers in their ears as they flew back to the Queen.

The grass-blades stood up higher and looked about. "Do quiet those noisy weeds," they said to the Queen; "give them the yellow top for which they are crying, and let us go to sleep.  We have been kept awake since sunset and it will soon be sunrise."

"What shall we do?" said the Queen.  "I do not know where to get the yellow they want."

"If we could get some sunbeams," said one Fairy, "we could have just the color they are crying for. Of course, we cannot venture into such a strong light, but the Elves might gather them for us."

So they went to the Elves and asked them to gather the sunbeams for the next day, and bring them to the valley the next night.

The Elves were very willing to help them, but the sun shone very little the next day, and they were able to gather only a few basketfuls of the bright golden color.

When the Queen saw the quantity she was in despair. "This will never go around," she said, "and those that are left without a yellow top will cry louder than ever."

"Why not divide it among them?" said one Fairy. "It will last for a little while and we can give them our fluffy white caps when that is gone.  We shall take them off soon and the dandelions can wear them the rest of the season."

The face of the Queen brightened.  "The very thing," she said, "if only the noisy little weeds will agree.  Go to them and say they can wear yellow of the very shade they most desire half the season if they are willing to accept our fluffy white caps for the other half."

The Fairies hurried to the dandelions and told them what the Queen had said.  The dandelions stopped crying and said they would be satisfied, and the Queen rode through the meadows, fields, gardens, and lanes, dropping gold upon each weed as she passed along.

In the morning when the sun beheld his own bright color looking up at him he was so surprised that he almost stood still.

The Fairies kept their promise, and when it was time to take off their fluffy white caps they went among the dandelions and hung a cap on each stem.

The dandelions did not cry again, and the grass sleeps on from sunset to sunrise, undisturbed.





Mr. 'Possum


Mr. 'Possum lived in a tree in the woods where Mr. Bear lived, and one morning just before spring Mr. 'Possum awoke very hungry.

He ran around to Mr. Squirrel's house and tried to get an invitation to breakfast, but Mr. Squirrel had only enough for himself.  He knew that Mr. 'Possum always lived on his neighbors when he could, so he said: "Of course you have been to breakfast long ago, Mr. 'Possum, you are such a smart fellow, so I will not offer you any."

Mr. 'Possum of course said he had, and that he only dropped in to make a call; he was on his way to Mr. Rabbit's house.

But he met with no better success at Mr. Rabbit's, for he only put his nose out of the door, and when he saw who was there, said: "I am as busy as I can be getting ready for my spring planting.  Will you come in and help sort seeds?"

Mr. Rabbit knew the easiest way to be rid of Mr. 'Possum was to ask him to work.

"I would gladly help you," replied Mr. 'Possum, "but I am in a great hurry this morning.  I have some important business with Mr. Bear and I only stopped to say how-do-you-do."

"Mr. Bear, I am afraid, will not be receiving to-day," said Mr. Rabbit. "It is rather early for him to be up, isn't it?"

"I thought as the sun was nice and warm he might venture out, and I thought it would please him to have me there to welcome him," said Mr. 'Possum. "Besides that, I wish to see him on business."

Now, Mr. 'Possum knew well enough that Mr. Bear would not be up, and he wanted to find him sleeping, and soundly, too.

He went to the door and knocked softly, then he waited, and as he did not hear any moving inside he went to a window and looked in.  There was Mr. Bear's chair and pipe just as he left them when he went to bed.  He looked in the bedroom window and he could see in the bed a big heap of bedclothes, and just the tiniest tip of Mr. Bear's nose.

Mr. 'Possum listened, and he trembled a little, for he could hear Mr. Bear breathing very loud, and it sounded anything but pleasant.

"Oh, he is sound asleep for another week!" said Mr. 'Possum.  "What is the use of being afraid?"  He walked around the house until he came to the pantry window; then he stopped and raised the sash.

He put in one foot and sat on the sill and listened. All was still, so he slid off to the floor.  Mr. 'Possum looked around Mr. Bear's well-filled pantry.  He did not know where to begin, he was so hungry.

He became so interested and was so greedy that he forgot all about that he was in Mr. Bear's pantry, and he stayed on and on and ate and ate.

Then he fell asleep, and the first thing he knew a pair of shining eyes were looking in the window and a big head with a red mouth full of long white teeth was poked into the pantry.

Mr. 'Possum thought his time had come, so he just closed his eyes and pretended he was dead, but he peeked a little so as to see what happened.

The big head was followed by a body, and when it was on the sill Mr. 'Possum saw it was Mr. Fox, and the next thing he knew Mr. Fox came off the sill with a bang and hit a pan of beans and then knocked over a jar of preserves.

The noise was enough to awaken all the bears for miles around, and Mr. 'Possum was frightened nearly to death, for he heard Mr. Bear growling in the next room.

While Mr. Fox was on the floor and trying to get up on his feet Mr. 'Possum jumped up and was out of the window like a flash.  Mr. Fox saw something, but he did not know what, and before he could make his escape the door of the pantry opened and there stood Mr. Bear with a candle in his hand, looking in.

"Oh, oh!" he growled, "so you are trying to rob me while I'm taking my sleep," and he sprang at Mr. Fox.

"Wait, wait," said Mr. Fox.  "Let me explain, my dear Mr. Bear.  You are mistaken; I was trying to protect your home.  I saw your window open and knew you were asleep, and when I got in the window the thief attacked me and nearly killed me and now you are blaming me for it.  You are most ungrateful. I shall know another time what to do."

Mr. Bear looked at him.  His mouth did not show any signs of food, and Mr. Fox opened his mouth and told him to look.

"I wonder who it could have been?" he said, when he was satisfied that Mr. Fox was not the thief.  "It may have been that 'Possum fellow.  I'll go over to his house in the morning."

The next morning Mr. Bear called on Mr. 'Possum. He found him sleeping soundly, and when he at last opened the door he was rubbing his eyes as though he was not half awake.

"Why, how do you do?" he said, when he saw Mr. Bear.  "I did not suppose you were up yet."

"You didn't?" asked Mr. Bear, and then he stared at Mr. 'Possum's coat. "What is the matter with your coat?" he asked.  "You have white hairs sticking out all over you, and the rest of your coat is almost white, too."

Now Mr. 'Possum had a black coat before, and he ran to the mirror and looked at himself.  It was true; he was almost white.  He knew what had happened. He was so frightened when he was caught in Mr. Bear's pantry by Mr. Fox, and heard Mr. Bear growl, that he had turned nearly white with fright.

"I have been terribly ill," he told Mr. Bear, going back to the door. "And I have been here all alone this winter.  It was a terrible sickness; I guess that is what has caused it."

Mr. Bear went away, shaking his head.  "That fellow is crafty," he said. "I feel sure he was the thief, and yet he certainly does look sick."

After that all the opossums were of dull white color, with long, white hairs scattered here and there over their fur.  They were never able to outgrow the mark the thieving Mr. 'Possum left upon his race.





The Rooster That Crowed Too Soon


Red Rooster felt it was time he showed the new drake that had come to live in the barnyard that he was a very brave rooster, as well as the ruler of the barnyard.

So the next time he saw the drake he said: "I suppose you have been in many battles, and no doubt the home you have just come from will miss your protection as well as your company.'

"No," replied the drake; "I never was in a battle. I do not quarrel with any one.  I believe in living in peace with all around me."

"Oh, well, that is all very well for you, perhaps," said the rooster; "but for me, it is a different matter. I have to protect all the hens and chickens and I also protect myself.  I can whip any rooster around here, and no one dares come into my yard."

The drake did not reply, for just then a strange rooster came into the yard, and Red Rooster ran at him with sweeping wings.

He pecked at the intruder and spurred him until he was glad to run away.

"There, what did I tell you?" said Red Rooster, coming back to the drake.  "I am the greatest fighter around this part of the country.  I am not afraid of anything."

"Oh, don't talk so much about it," said the dog from his house near-by. "I think there are a few things even you are afraid of, Mr. Rooster.  I guess you would run from a fox."

"I am not afraid of a fox," said Red Rooster.  "I can scare him by crowing loudly.  Master knows when I make a great noise it is time for him to find the cause. Oh, I am very brave and can take care of myself."

Red Rooster felt so brave that he thought the highest place he could get on the wall would be a good place to talk about his bravery, so he flew up on the wall by the gate, and then to the top of the hen-house.

Madam Pig was in her pen on the other side. "Madam Pig," he said, "did you see me whip that impudent rooster that came through our yard?"

Madam Pig grunted that she did not, as she could not see over the wall.

"You surely missed a great sight," said the rooster, stretching his neck and strutting along the roof. "I am a brave fellow.  I never allow any one to come around here that does not belong here.  I have just been telling the new drake about my prowess and bravery.

"Mr. Drake," he called, as the new drake and his family waddled past the hen-house, "if you need protection at any time do not hesitate to call upon me."

A robin perched upon the roof not far from him, and Red Rooster flew at him.  "Go away," he said. "I am very fierce and brave, and if you were as large as a cow I should attack you just the same.  I am not afraid of anything."

Red Rooster strutted up and down, crowing and thinking how brave he was, and so intent was he upon his greatness that he did not heed the warning cries that came from the fowls in the yard below him.

In a moment more a big hawk swooped down and held Red Rooster in his claws.  He started to fly just as the shot from a gun sounded, and Red Rooster fell to the ground.

He jumped up and shook himself, and looked in time to see his master pick up the dead hawk.

"I guess that hawk won't show himself around here again," he said. "That was a very hard fight, but I won, even if I did get a tumble."

"Well, if you are not a conceited fellow!" laughed the dog; "but I was not the only one that saw the hawk start off with you, and we all know that if master had not shot it you would not be here to crow to-morrow morning."

"No," piped the robin from a tree; "you were telling me how brave you were, and the hawk was not half as large as a cow.  You were not very brave when he came upon you.  You did not do a thing.  Oh, dear! it was so funny to hear you crowing about your bravery and then to see you caught up so soon by a hawk that is only a little larger than you."

The drake and all his family were listening, and Madam Pig had put her head over the wall to listen. Poor Red Rooster felt that it was no time to crow about his bravery, so he walked away with all the dignity he could muster.

"He crowed too soon," said the drake.

"He crowed too much," said the dog.

"He crowed too loud," said the robin, "or he would have heard the warning cries from the hens and chickens."





Tearful


Once upon a time there was a little girl named Tearful, because she cried so often.

If she could not have her own way, she cried; if she could not have everything for which she wished, she cried.

Her mother told her one day that she would melt away in tears if she cried so often.  "You are like the boy who cried for the moon," she told her, "and if it had been given to him it would not have made him happy, for what possible use could the moon be to any one out of its proper place?  And that is the way with you; half the things for which you cry would be of no use to you if you got them."

Tearful did not take warning or heed her mother's words of wisdom, and kept on crying just the same.

One morning she was crying as she walked along to school, because she wanted to stay at home, when she noticed a frog hopping along beside her.

"Why are you following me?" she asked, looking at him through her tears.

"Because you will soon form a pond around you with your tears," replied the frog, "and I have always wanted a pond all to myself."

"I shall not make any pond for you," said Tearful, "and I do not want you following me, either."

The frog continued to hop along beside her, and Tearful stopped crying and began to run, but the frog hopped faster, and she could not get away from him, so she began to cry again.

"Go away, you horrid green frog!" she said.

At last she was so tired she sat on a stone by the roadside, crying all the time.

"Now," replied the frog, "I shall soon have my pond."

Tearful cried harder than ever, then; she could not see, her tears fell so fast, and by and by she heard a splashing sound.  She opened her eyes and saw water all around her.

She was on a small island in the middle of the pond; the frog hopped out of the pond, making a terrible grimace as he sat down beside her.

"I hope you are satisfied," said Tearful.  "You have your pond; why don't you stay in it?"

"Alas!" replied the frog, "I have wished for something which I cannot use now that I have it.  Your tears are salt and my pond which I have all by myself is so salt that I cannot enjoy it.  If only your tears had been fresh I should have been a most fortunate fellow."

"You needn't stay if you do not like it," said Tearful, "and you needn't find fault with my tears, either," she said, beginning to cry again.

"Stop! stop!" cried the frog, hopping about excitedly; "you will have a flood if you keep on crying."

Tearful saw the water rising around her, so she stopped a minute.  "What shall I do?" she asked. "I cannot swim, and I will die if I have to stay here," and then she began to cry again.

The frog hopped up and down in front of her, waving his front legs and telling her to hush.  "If you would only stop crying," he said, "I might be able to help you, but I cannot do a thing if you cover me with your salt tears."

Tearful listened, and promised she would not cry if he would get her away from the island.

"There is only one way that I know of," said the frog; "you must smile; that will dry the pond and we can escape."

"But I do not feel like smiling," said Tearful, and her eyes filled with tears again.

"Look out!" said the frog; "you will surely be drowned in your own tears if you cry again."

Tearful began to laugh.  "That would be queer, wouldn't it, to be drowned in my own tears?" she said.

"That is right, keep on smiling," said the frog; "the pond is smaller already."  And he stood up on his hind legs and began to dance for joy.

Tearful laughed again.  "Oh, you are so funny!" she said.  "I wish I had your picture.  I never saw a frog dance before."

"You have a slate under your arm," said the frog. "Why don't you draw a picture of me?"  The frog picked up a stick and stuck it in the ground, and then he leaned on it with one arm, or front leg, and, crossing his feet, he stood very still.

Tearful drew him in that position, and then he kicked up his legs as if he were dancing, and she tried to draw him that way, but it was not a very good likeness.

"Do you like that?" she asked the frog when she held the slate for him to see.  He looked so surprised that Tearful laughed again.  "You did not think you were handsome, did you?" she asked.

"I had never thought I looked as bad as those pictures," replied the frog.  "Let me try drawing your picture," he said.

"Now look pleasant," he said, as he seated himself in front of Tearful, "and do smile."

Tearful did as he requested, and in a few minutes he handed her the slate.  "Where is my nose?" asked Tearful, laughing.

"Oh, I forgot the nose!" said the frog.  "But don't you think your eyes are nice and large, and your mouth, too?"

"They are certainly big in this picture," said Tearful.  "I hope I do not look just like that."

"I do not think either of us are artists," replied the frog.

Tearful looked around her.  "Why, where is the pond?" she asked.  "It is gone."

"I thought it would dry up if you would only smile," said the frog; "and I think both of us have learned a lesson.  I shall never again wish for a pond of my own.  I should be lonely without my companions, and then, it might be salt, just as this one was.  And you surely will never cry over little things again, for you see what might happen to you, and then you look so much prettier smiling."

"Perhaps I do," said Tearful, "but your pictures of me make me doubt it. However, I feel much happier smiling, and I do not want to be on an island again, even with such a pleasant companion as you were."

"Look out for the tears, then," said the frog as he hopped away.





Hilda's Mermaid


Little Hilda's father was a sailor and went away on long voyages.  Hilda lived in a little cottage on the shore and used to spin and knit while her father was away, for her mother was dead and she had to be the housekeeper.  Some days she would go out in her boat and fish, for Hilda was fond of the water.  She was born and had always lived on the shore. When the water was very calm Hilda would look down into the blue depths and try to see a mermaid.  She was very anxious to see one, she had heard her father tell such wonderful stories about them -- how they sang, and combed their beautiful long hair.

One night when the wind was blowing and the rain was beating hard upon her window Hilda could hear the horn warning the sailors off the rocks. Hilda lighted her father's big lantern and ran down to the shore and hung it on the mast of a wreck which lay there, so the sailors would not run their ships upon it.  Little Hilda was not afraid, for she had seen many such storms.  When she returned to her cottage she found the door was unlatched, but thought the wind had blown it open.  When she entered she found a little girl with beautiful hair sitting on the floor. She was a little frightened at first, for the girl wore a green dress and it was wound around her body in the strangest manner.

"I saw your light," said the child, "and came in. The wind blew me far up on shore.  I should not have come up on a night like this, but a big wave looked so tempting I thought I would jump on it and have a nice ride, but it was nearer the shore than I thought it, and it landed me right near your door."

"Oh, my!"  How Hilda's heart beat, for she knew this child must be a mermaid.  Then she saw what she had thought a green dress was really her body and tail curled up on the floor, and it was beautiful as the lamp fell upon it and made it glisten.

"Will you have some of my supper?" asked Hilda, for she wanted to be hospitable, although she had not the least idea what mermaids ate.

"Thank you," answered the mermaid.  "I am not very hungry, but if you could give me a seaweed sandwich I should like it."

Poor Hilda did not know what to do, but she went to the closet and brought out some bread, which she spread with nice fresh butter, and filled a glass with milk.  She told her she was sorry, but she did not have any seaweed sandwiches, but she hoped she would like what she had prepared.  The little mermaid ate it and Hilda was pleased.

"Do you live here all the time?" she asked Hilda. "I should think you would be very warm and want to be in the water part of the time."

Hilda told her she could not live in the water as she did, because her body was not like hers.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" replied the mermaid.  "I hoped you would visit me some time; we have such good times, my sisters and I, under the sea."

"Tell me about your home," said Hilda.

"Come and sit beside me and I will," she replied.

Hilda sat upon the floor by her side.  The mermaid felt of Hilda's clothes and thought it must be a bother to have so many clothes.

"How can you swim?" she asked.

Hilda told her she put on a bathing-suit, but the mermaid thought that a nuisance.

"I will tell you about our house first," she began. "Our father, Neptune, lives in a beautiful castle at the bottom of the sea.  It is built of mother-of-pearl. All around the castle grow beautiful green things, and it has fine white sand around it also.  All my sisters live there, and we are always glad to get home after we have been at the top of the ocean, it is so nice and cool in our home.  The wind never blows there and the rain does not reach us."

"You do not mind being wet by the rain, do you?" asked Hilda.

"Oh no!" said the mermaid, "but the rain hurts us.  It falls in little sharp points and feels like pebbles."

"How do you know how pebbles feel?" Hilda asked.

"Oh, sometimes the nereids come and bother us; they throw pebbles and stir up the water so we cannot see."

"Who are the nereids?" asked Hilda.

"They are the sea-nymphs; but we make the dogfish drive them away.  We are sirens, and they are very jealous of us because we are more beautiful than they," said the mermaid.

Hilda thought she was rather conceited, but the little mermaid seemed to be quite unconscious she had conveyed that impression.

"How do you find your way home after you have been at the top of the ocean?" asked Hilda.

"Oh, when Father Neptune counts us and finds any missing he sends a whale to spout; sometimes he sends more than one, and we know where to dive when we see that."

"What do you eat besides seaweed sandwiches?" asked Hilda.

"Fish eggs, and very little fish," answered the mermaid.  "When we have a party we have cake."

Hilda opened her eyes.  "Where do you get cake?" she asked.

"We make it.  We grind coral into flour and mix it with fish eggs; then we put it in a shell and send a mermaid to the top of the ocean with it and she holds it in the sun until it bakes.  We go to the Gulf Stream and gather grapes and we have sea-foam and lemonade to drink."

"Lemonade?" said Hilda.  "Where do you get your lemons?"

"Why, the sea-lemon!" replied the mermaid; "that is a small mussel-fish the color of a lemon."

"What do you do at your parties -- you cannot dance?" said Hilda.

"We swim to the music, circle around and dive and glide."

"But the music -- where do you get musicians?" Hilda continued.

"We have plenty of music," replied the mermaid. "The sea-elephant trumpets for us; then there is the pipefish, the swordfish runs the scales of the sea-adder with his sword, the sea-shells blob, and altogether we have splendid music.  But it is late, and we must not talk any more."

So the little mermaid curled herself up and soon they were asleep.

The sun shining in the window awakened Hilda next morning and she looked about her.  The mermaid was not there, but Hilda was sure it had not been a dream, for she found pieces of seaweed on the floor, and every time she goes out in her boat she looks for her friend, and when the whales spout she knows they are telling the mermaids to come home.





The Mirror's Dream


"The very idea of putting me in the attic!" said the little old-fashioned table, as it spread out both leaves in a gesture of despair.  "I have stood in the parlor down-stairs for fifty years, and now I am consigned to the rubbish-room," and it dropped its leaves at its side with a sigh.

"I was there longer than that," said the sofa. "Many a courtship I have helped along."

"What do you think of me?" asked an old mirror that stood on the floor, leaning against the wall.  "To be brought to the attic after reflecting generation after generation.  All the famous beauties have looked into my face; it is a degradation from which I can never recover.  This young mistress who has come here to live does not seem to understand the dignity of our position.  Why, I was in the family when her husband's grandmother was a girl and she has doomed me to a dusty attic to dream out the rest of my days."

The shadows deepened in the room and gradually the discarded mirror ceased to complain.  It had fallen asleep, but later the moonlight streamed in through the window and showed that its dreams were pleasant ones, for it dreamed of the old and happy days.

The door opened softly and a young girl entered. Her hair was dark and hung in curls over her white shoulders.  Her dark eyes wandered over the room until she saw the old mirror.

She ran across the room and stood in front of it. She wore a hoop-skirt over which hung her dress of pale gray, with tiny pink ruffles that began at her slender waist and ended at the bottom of her wide skirt.

Tiny pink rosebuds were dotted over the waist and skirt, and she also wore them in her dark curls, where one stray blossom bolder than the others rested against her soft cheek.

She stood before the mirror and gazed at her reflection a minute; then she curtsied, and said, with a laugh, "I think you will do; he must speak to-night."

She seemed to fade away in the moonlight, and the door opened again and a lady entered, and with her came five handsome children.

They went to the mirror, and one little girl with dark curls and pink cheeks went close and touched it with her finger.  "Look," she said to the others, "I look just like the picture of mother when she was a girl."  And as they stood there a gentleman appeared beside them and put his arm around the lady and the children gathered around them.  They seemed to walk along the moonlight path and disappear through the window.

Softly the door opened again and an old lady entered, leaning on the arm of an old gentleman. They walked to the mirror and he put his arms around her and kissed her withered cheek.

"You are always young and fair to me," he said, and her face smiled into the depths of the old mirror.

The moonlight made a halo around their heads as they faded away.

The morning light streamed in through the window and the mirror's dream was ended.

By and by the door opened and a young girl came in the room.  Her dark hair was piled high on her head, and her dark eyes looked over the room until they fell upon a chest in the corner.  She went to it and opened it and took out a pale-gray dress with pink ruffles.  She put it on; then she let down her hair, which fell in curls over her shoulders.

She ran to the old mirror and looked at herself. "I do look like grandmother," she said.  "I will wear this to the old folks' party to-night.  Grandfather proposed to grandmother the night she wore this dress."  Her cheeks turned very pink as she said this, and she ran out of the room.

Then one day the door opened again and a bride entered, leaning on the arm of her young husband. There were tears in her eyes, although she was smiling. She led him in front of the old mirror.  "This old mirror," she said, "has seen all the brides in our family for generations, and I am going far away and may never look into it again.  My brother's wife does not want it down-stairs, and I may be the last bride it will ever see," and she passed her hand over its frame caressingly.

And then she went away and the old mirror was left to its dreams for many years.  Then one day the door opened again and a lady entered; with her was a young girl.

The lady looked around the attic room until she saw the mirror.  "There it is," she said.  "Come and look in it, dear."  The young girl followed her. "The last time I looked into this dear old mirror," the lady said, "was the day your father and I were married.  I never expected to have it for my own then.  But your uncle's wife wants to remodel the house, and these things are in the way; she does not want old-fashioned things, and they are willing I should have them."

"Oh, mother, they are beautiful!" said the girl, looking around the room.  "We will never part with them; we will take them to our home and make them forget they were ever discarded."

And so the mirror and the sofa and the table and many other pieces of bygone days went to live where they were loved, and the old mirror still reflects dark-haired girls and ladies, who smile into its depths and see its beauty as well as their own.





The Contest


The old white rooster was dead.

The hens stood in groups of threes and fours all around the yard, the turkeys were gathered around the big gobbler and seemed to be talking very earnestly.

The ducks stood around the old drake, who was shaking his head emphatically as he talked.

The geese were listening very attentively to the gander, and he was stretching his neck and seemed to be trying to impress them with its length.

"I see no reason now why I should not be king of the yard," he was saying.  "White Rooster is dead and there is no other rooster to take his place.  I am going to see the hens and ask them what they think.

"White Rooster is dead," he said to them, "and I think I should be king of the yard.  My neck is very long and I can see over the heads of all the fowls; I see no reason why I should not take the place of White Rooster."

The turkeys and the geese, seeing the gander approach the hens, ran as fast as they could to hear what he was saying.

The turkey gobbler, hearing the last part of the gander's remark, said: "How can you say that you can see over all heads?  Have you forgotten me and my height?  And as for being king," he said, "the rooster never should have been cock of the walk.  I am a much more majestic-looking bird than any rooster. No, indeed, you should never think of ruling, Sir Gander.  I should be king of the yard."

The gobbler walked away, spreading out his wings and letting them drag on the ground and gobbling very loudly.

The ducks and the drake stood listening to all this talk, and as the gobbler walked away the drake said: "I cannot understand why any one should think of being king when I know so much of the world.  I am the one to rule, for I have been all around the pond, and it is very large; because of my knowledge I think I should be king."

"He must not be king," whispered one old hen to another; "he would make us go in the water, and we will all be drowned."

They had talked a long time without reaching any decision, when the dog happened along.  "What is the matter?" he asked.

"The old white rooster is dead," said the gobbler, who had returned with his family to hear the discussion, "and I think I should be king, and the drake and the gander think they should, but, of course, you can see that I am best suited to rule the yard."

"You can settle that very easily," said the dog. "You can all take a turn at being king, and in that way you will know who is best suited to rule."  And so it was decided, and the gobbler was the first one to go on trial.  The poor hens tagged along after the turkeys, for the gobbler insisted upon parading all around the yard.  The gander and the drake would not follow behind, so the gander and his family walked on one side of the gobbler, and the drake and his family on the other.

The poor hens wept as they followed behind.  "I never was so humiliated in my life," said one old hen, "and it is not right."

The next day there was so much dissatisfaction because of the gobbler's overbearing way that the dog decided that the drake must take his turn.

"Everybody must learn to swim," said the drake as soon as he was appointed ruler.  "Come down to the pond," and off he started, his family waddling after him.

"What did I tell you?" said the old hen.  "This will be the end of us."

The geese did not mind being in the water part of the time, but the turkeys set up such a gobble and the hens cackled so loudly that the dog had to decide right there that the drake was not a suitable king.

The gander, knowing that his time had come, stretched his neck and looked very important.

"You need not go near the pond," he said to the hens, "but you must learn to fly," and he spread out his wings as he spoke and flew over the fence, the geese following him.

The turkeys flew to the top of the fence and roosted there, but the hens and ducks stood on the ground, looking up at them in the most discouraged way, and at the gobbler, who gobbled at them, saying, "You are to be pitied, for you do not see all the sights we do and you never can fly to the top of this fence.

"There is the master," he said.  "He is coming down the road and he has something under his arm. I'll tell you what it is when he gets nearer."

The hens were trying to look under the fence and through the holes.

The gobbler looked for a minute, and then he said: "I do believe -- " then he stopped.  "Yes, it is," he continued, looking again; "it's a rooster."

The gobbler flew down and the turkeys followed and the master drove the gander and his family back to the yard.  "You will get your wings clipped to-morrow," he said, and then from under his arm he released a big yellow-and-black rooster, which flew to the ground, looked about, spread his wings and crowed in a way that plainly said: "I am cock of this walk and king of this yard.  Let none dispute my rights."

The drake collected his family and started for the pond, and the gander and geese followed along behind.

The turkey spread his wings and held his head high as he strutted away with his family.  But he did not impress the new rooster; he was ruler and he knew it.

"Now the sun will know when to rise," said one hen, "and we shall know when to awake."

"Yes," said another, "and we have had a narrow escape; it looked for a while as if our family were to lose its social standing, but now that we have a new king we can hold up our heads again and look down on the others, if we have to go to the top of the wood-pile to do it."

The dog laughed to himself as he walked away. "I knew all the time," he said, "that the new rooster was coming, but I thought it would do them good to know they were only fitted to care for their own flock."





The Pink And Blue Eggs


"I tell you I saw them with my own eyes," said old White Hen, standing on one foot with her neck outstretched and her bill wide open.  "One was pink and the other was blue.  They were just like any other egg as far as size, but the color -- think of it -- pink and blue eggs.  Whoever could have laid them?"  Old White Hen looked from one to the other of the group of hens and chickens as they stood around her.

"Well, I know that I didn't," said Speckled Hen.

"You needn't look at me," said Brown Hen.  "I lay large white eggs, and you know it, every one of you.  They are the best eggs in the yard, if I do say it."

"Oh, I would not say that," said White Hen. "You seem to forget that the largest egg ever seen in this yard was laid by me, and it was a little on the brown color; white eggs are all well enough, but give me a brown tone for quality."

"You never laid such a large egg as that but once," replied Brown Hen, "and everybody thought it was a freak egg, so the least said about it the better, it seems to me."

"It is plain to understand how you feel about that egg," said White Hen, "but it does not help us to find out who laid the blue and pink eggs."

"Where did you see them?" asked Speckled Hen.

"On the table, by the window of the farm-house," said old White Hen.  "I flew up on a barrel that stood under the window, and then I stretched my neck and looked in the window, and there on the table, in a little basket, I saw those strange-looking eggs."

"Perhaps the master had bought them for some one of us to sit on and hatch out," said Brown Hen.

"Well, I, for one, refuse to do it," said White Hen. "I think it would be an insult to put those gaudy things into our nests."

"I am sure I will not hatch them," said Speckled Hen.  "I would look funny hiking around here with a blue chick and a pink chick beside me, and I a speckled hen.  No!  I will not mother fancy-colored chicks; the master can find another hen to do that."

"You do not think for a minute that I would do such a thing, I hope," said Brown Hen.  "I only mentioned the fact that the master might have such an idea, but as for mixing up colors, I guess not.  My little yellow darlings shall not be disgraced by a blue and a pink chick running with them."

"Perhaps White Hen is color-blind," said Speckled Hen.  "The eggs she saw may be white, after all."

"If you doubt my word or my sight go and look for yourselves," said White Hen, holding her head high.  "You will find a blue and a pink egg, just as I told you."

Off ran Speckled Hen and Brown Hen, followed by many others, and all the chicks in the yard.

One after another they flew to the top of the barrel and looked in the window at the eggs White Hen had told them of.  It was all too true; the eggs were blue and pink.

"Peep, peep, peep, peep, we want to see the blue and pink eggs, too," cried the chickens.  "We never saw any and we want to look at them."

"Oh dear! why did I talk before them?" said Brown Hen.  "They will not be quiet unless they see, and how in the world shall I get them up to that window?"

"Did it ever occur to you not to give them everything they cry for?" said White Hen.  "Say 'No' once in a while; it will save you a lot of trouble."

"I cannot bear to deny the little darlings anything," said Brown Hen, clucking her little brood and trying to quiet them.

"Well, you better begin now, for this is one of the things you will not be able to do."  said White Hen, strutting over to the dog-house to tell the story of the blue and pink eggs to Towser.

"Wouldn't it be just too awful if the master puts those eggs in one of our nests?" asked White Hen, when she had finished her story.

"Oh -- oh!" laughed Towser, "that is a good joke on you; don't know your own eggs when you see them."

"Don't tell me I laid those fancy-colored eggs," said White Hen, looking around to see if any of her companions were within hearing distance.  "I know I never did."

"But you did," said Towser, laughing again.  "I heard the master say to my little mistress, 'If you want eggs to color for Easter take the ones that White Hen laid; they are not so large as the others, and I cannot sell them so well.'"

"Towser, if you will never mention what you have just told me I will tell you where I saw a great big bone this morning," said White Hen.  "I was saving it for myself.  I like to pick at one once in a while, but you shall have it if you promise to keep secret what you just told me."

Towser promised, and White Hen showed where it was hidden.

A few days after Brown Hen said: "I wonder when master is going to bring out those fancy eggs.  If he leaves them in the house much longer no one will be able to hatch them."

"Oh!  I forgot to tell you that those eggs were not real eggs, after all," said White Hen, "but only Easter eggs for the master's little girl to play with, so we had all our worry for nothing.  Towser told me, but don't say a word to him, for I did not let on that we were worried and didn't know they were only make-believe eggs; he thinks he is so wise, you know, it would never do to let him know how we were fooled."





Why The Morning-Glory Sleeps


One day the flowers got into a very angry discussion over the sun, of whom they were very fond.

"Surely you all must know that he loves me best," said the rose.  "He shines upon me and makes me sweeter than any of you, and he gives me the colors that are most admired by man."

"I do not see how you can say that," said the dahlia.  "You may give forth more fragrance than I can, but you cannot think for a second that you are more beautiful.  Why, my colors are richer than yours and last much longer!  The sun certainly loves me the best."

The modest lily looked at the dahlia and said in a low, sweet voice, "I do not wish to be bold, but I feel that the sun loves me and that I should let you know that he gives to me more fragrance than to any of you."

"Oh, oh!  Hear lily!" said the others in chorus. "She thinks the king of day loves her best."

The lily hung her head and said no more, for the other flowers quite frightened her with their taunts.

"How can any of you think you are the best beloved of the sun?" said goldenglow.  "When you behold my glowing color which the sun bestows on me, do any of you look so much like him as I do? No, indeed; he loves me best."

The hollyhock looked down on the others with pitying glances.  "It is plain to be seen that you have never noticed that the sun shines on me with more warmth than on you, and now I must tell you he loves me best and gives me the tenderest of his smiles.  See how tall I am and how gorgeous are my colors.  He loves me best."

"When it comes to sweetness, I am sure you have forgotten me," said the honeysuckle.  "Why, the king of day loves me best, you may be sure!  He makes me give forth more sweetness than any of you."

"You may be very sweet," said the pansy, "but surely you know that my pet name is heart's-ease and that the sun loves me best.  To none of you does he give such velvet beauty as to me.  I am nearest his heart and his best beloved."

The morning-glory listened to all this with envy in her heart.  She did not give forth sweetness, as many of the others, neither did she possess the beauty of the rose or the pansy.

"If only I could get him to notice me," she thought. "I am dainty and frail, and I am sure he would admire me if only he could behold me; but the others are always here and in such glowing colors that poor little me is overshadowed by their beauty."

All day morning-glory thought of the sun and wondered how she could attract his attention to herself, and at night she smiled, for she had thought of a plan. She would get up early in the morning and greet him before the other flowers were awake.

She went to bed early that night so that she might not oversleep in the morning, and when the first streak of dawn showed in the sky morning-glory opened her eyes and shook out her delicate folds.  The dew was on her and she turned her face toward the sun.

As soon as she peeped into the garden the sun beheld her.  "How dainty and lovely you are!" he said.  "I have never noticed before the beauty of your colors, morning-glory," and he let his warm glances fall and linger upon her.

The sunflower all this time was watching with jealous eyes, for she was the one who had always welcomed the sun, and this morning he seemed to have entirely forgotten her.

Still sunflower kept her gaze upon them and wondered what she could do to win back her king from the delicate little morning-glory.

But as she looked she saw the morning-glory sway and nod her head.  "She is going to sleep," said the sunflower; "his warm breath makes her drowsy, or else she was up so early that she cannot keep awake."

While the sunflower watched, sure enough the morning-glory nodded and closed her eyes.  She was fast asleep, and the fickle sun, seeing that she no longer looked upon him, looked away and beheld the sunflower looking toward him with longing eyes.

"Good morning, King," she said, as she caught his eye, and she was wise enough not to let him know she had seen him before.  So the sun smiled and turned his face upon them all, and the sunflower kept to herself what she had seen, knowing full well that she was the one who knew best how to keep his first and last glances.

A little later one of the flowers called out: "Look at morning-glory; she is still sleeping.  Let us tell her it is time to awaken."

"Morning-glory! morning-glory!" they called, but she did not answer. She was sound asleep.

"That is strange," said the rose.  "I wonder if she has gone to sleep never to awake.  I have heard of such things happening."

After two or three mornings the other flowers ceased to notice morning-glory, for they thought she had ceased to be one of them, but the wise sunflower kept her own counsel.  She knew that morning-glory had to sleep all day in order that she might not miss the sun; but, as I told you, she was wise enough not to complain, and she kept his love for her by so doing.





Dorothy And The Portrait


Dorothy was very fond of her grandmother and grandfather, and liked to visit them, but there were no little girls to play with, and sometimes she was lonely for some one her own age.  She would wander about the house looking for the queer things that grandmothers always have in their homes.  The hall clock interested Dorothy very much.  It stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, and she used to sit and listen to its queer tick-tock and watch the hands, which moved with little nervous jumps.  Then there were on its face the stars and the moon and the sun, and they all were very wonderful to Dorothy. One day she went into the big parlor, where there were pictures of her grandfather and grandmother, and her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, also.

Dorothy thought the "greats" looked very sedate, and she felt sure they must have been very old to have been the parents of her grandfather. But the picture that interested her the most was a large painting of three children, one a little girl about her own age, and one other older, and a boy, who wore queer-looking trousers, cut off below the knee.  His suit was of black velvet, and he wore white stockings and black shoes.  The little girls were dressed in white, and their dresses had short sleeves and low necks.  The older girl had black hair, but the one that Dorothy thought was her age had long, golden curls like hers, only the girl in the picture wore her hair parted, and the curls hung all about her face.

Dorothy climbed into a big chair and sat looking at them.  "I wish they could play with me," she thought, and she smiled at the little golden-haired girl.  And then, wonderful to tell, the girl in the picture smiled at Dorothy.

"Oh! are you alive?" asked Dorothy.

"Of course I am," the little girl replied.  "I will come down, if you would like to have me, and visit with you."

"Oh, I should be so glad to have you!" Dorothy answered.

Then the boy stepped to the edge of the frame, and from there to the top of a big chair which stood under the picture, and stood in the chair seat.  He held out his hand to the little girls and helped them to the floor in the most courtly manner.  Dorothy got out of her chair and asked them to be seated, and the boy placed chairs for them beside her.

"What is your name?" asked the golden-haired girl, for she was the only one who spoke.

"That was my name," she said, when Dorothy told her.  "I lived in this house," she continued, "and we used to have such good times.  This is my sister and my brother."  The little girl and boy smiled, but they let their sister do all the talking. "We used to roast chestnuts in the fireplace," she said, "and once we had a party in this room, and played all sorts of games."

Dorothy could not imagine that quiet room filled with children.

"Do you remember how we frightened poor old Uncle Zack in this room?" she said to her brother and sister, and then they all laughed.

"Do tell me about it," said Dorothy.

"These glass doors by the fireplace did not have curtains in our day," said the little girl, "and there were shells and other things from the ocean in one cupboard, and in the other there were a sword and a helmet and a pair of gauntlets.  My brother wrapped a sheet around him and put on the helmet and the gauntlets, and, taking the sword in his hand, he climbed into the cupboard and sat down.  We girls closed the doors and hid behind the sofa.  Uncle Zack came in to fix the fire, and my brother beckoned to him.  Poor Zack dropped the wood he was carrying and fell on his knees, trembling with fright. The door was not fastened and my brother pushed it open and pointed the sword at poor Uncle Zack.

"'Don' hurt a po' ol' nigger,' said Zack, very faintly.  'I 'ain' don' noffin', 'deed I 'ain'.'

"'You told about the jam the children ate,' said my brother, in a deep voice, 'and you know you drank the last drop of rum Mammy Sue had for her rheumatism, and for this you must be punished,' and he brought the sword down on the floor of the cupboard with a bang.

"Poor Uncle Zack fell on his face with fright.  This was too much for my sister and me, and we laughed out.

"You never saw any one change so quickly as Uncle Zack.  He jumped up and we ran, but my brother had to get out of his disguise, and Uncle Zack caught him.  He agreed not to tell our father if we did not tell about his fright, and so we escaped being punished."

"Tell me more about your life in this old house," said Dorothy, when the little girl finished her story. But just then the picture of Dorothy's great-grandmother moved and out she stepped from her frame. She walked with a very stately air toward the children and put her hand on the shoulder of the little girl who had been telling the story, and said: "You better go back to your frame now."

"Oh dear!" said the little girl.  "I did so dislike being grown up, and I had forgotten all about it, when my grown-up self reminds me.  That is the trouble when you are in the room with your grown-up picture," she told Dorothy.  "You see, I had to be so sedate after I married that I never even dared to think of my girlhood, but you come in here again some day and I will tell you more about the good times we had."

The boy mounted the chair first and helped his sisters back into the frame.  Dorothy looked for her great-grandmother, but she, too, was back in her frame, looking as sedate as ever.  The next day Dorothy asked her grandmother who the children were in the big picture.

"This one," she said, pointing to the little golden-haired girl, "was your great-grandmother; you were named for her; and the other little girl and boy were your grandfather's aunt and uncle.  They were your great-great-aunt and uncle."

Dorothy did not quite understand the "great-great" part of it, but she was glad to know that her stately-looking great-grandmother had once been a little girl like her, and some day, when the great-grandmother's picture is not looking, she expects to hear more about the fun the children had in the days long ago.





Mistress Pussy's Mistake


A very kind gentleman, who lived in a big house which was in the midst of a beautiful park, had a handsome cat of which he was very fond. While he felt sure Pussy was fond of him, he knew very well she would hurt the birds, so he put a pretty ribbon around Pussy's neck, and on it a little silver bell which tinkled whenever she moved and this warned the birds that she was near.

Pussy resented this, but pretended she did not care.  One day a thrush was singing very sweetly on the bough of a tree which overhung a small lake. Pussy walked along under the tree, and, looking up at the thrush, said: "Madam Thrush, you have a most beautiful voice, and you are a very handsome bird.  I do wish I were nearer to you, for I am not so young as I was once, and I cannot hear so well."

The thrush trilled a laugh at Pussy, and said: "Yes, Miss Puss, I can well believe you wish me nearer, but not to see or hear me better, but that you might grasp me."

Pussy pretended not to hear the last remark, but said: "My beautiful Thrush, will you not come down where I can hear you better?  I cannot get about as nimbly as I used to when I was young, or I would go to you."

"I cannot sing so well on the ground," replied the thrush.  "You can come up here, even if you are not so spry as you were.  But tell me, do you not find the bell you wear very trying to your nerves?"

"Oh no," answered sly Pussy.  "It is so pretty that I'm glad to wear it, and my master thinks I am so handsome that he likes to see me dressed well. And then he can always find me when he hears the bell.  That is why I wear it."

"I understand," answered the thrush, "and we birds are always glad to hear it, too."  And she trilled another laugh at Pussy and added, "You are certainly a very handsome creature, Miss Puss."

Pussy all this time had very slowly climbed the tree, for she wanted the thrush to think she was old and slow, but the bird had her bright eyes upon her. When Pussy reached the branch the thrush was on she stopped and seated herself.

"Now, my pretty little friend, do sing to me your loudest song."

She hoped it would be loud enough to drown the tinkle of the bell.  The thrush began and was soon singing very sweetly.  Pussy took a very cautious step and then remained quiet.  The thrush stopped singing and spread her wings.

"Oh, do not stop!" said Puss.  "Your song was so soothing I was in a doze; do sing again."  And she moved a little closer.

The thrush took a step nearer to the end of the bough and said: "I am glad you like my voice.  I will sing again if it pleases you so much."

She began her song, but she kept her eyes on Puss, and as Puss drew nearer she moved closer to the end of the swinging bough.

She had reached a very high note when Puss gave a spring, but the thrush was too quick; she flew out of Pussy's reach, and splash went Pussy into the lake, for she had not noticed that the thrush was moving to the end of the bough, so intent was she on the thought of catching her.

Poor Pussy was very wet when she scrambled to the bank of the lake, and the birds were chirping and making a great noise.

"How did you like your bath, Miss Puss?" the thrush called to her.  "You should never lay traps for others, for often you fall into them yourself."





Kid


Kid was one of those little boys who seemed to have grown up on the streets of the big city where he lived.

He never remembered a mother or a father, and no one ever took care of him.  His first remembrance was of an old woman who gave him a crust of bread, and he slept in the corner of her room.  One day they carried her away, and since then Kid had slept in a doorway or an alley.

By selling papers he managed to get enough to eat, and if he did not have the money he stole to satisfy his hunger.

He was often cold and hungry, but he saw many other children that were in the same condition, and he did not suppose that any one ever had enough to eat or a warm place to sleep every night.

Kid went in to the Salvation Army meetings, when they held them in his neighborhood, because it was a place where the wind did not blow, and while there he heard them sing and talk about Some One who loved everybody and would help you if only you would ask Him.  Kid was never able to find out just where this Person lived, and, therefore, he could not ask for help.

One day Kid saw a lady who was too well dressed to belong in his part of the city, and he followed her, thinking that she might have a pocket-book he could take.  The opportunity did not offer itself, however, and before Kid realized it he was in a part of the city he had never seen before.

The buildings were tall and the streets much cleaner than where he lived.  Kid walked along, looking in windows of the stores, when he noticed a lady standing beside him with a jeweled watch hanging from her belt.

He had never seen anything so beautiful or so easy to take, and he waited for a few more people to gather around the window, and then he carefully reached for the watch, and with one pull off came the trinket, and away ran Kid, like a deer, with the watch clasped firmly in his begrimed little hand.

On and on he ran, not knowing where he was going -- nor caring, for that matter -- and it seemed to Kid that the whole world was crying, "Stop, thief!" and was chasing him.

After a while the noise grew fainter and fainter and he stopped and looked back.  There was not a person in sight.

Kid looked around him.  All the houses were large with clean stone steps in front of them.  Kid sat down on the bottom step of one of these houses and looked at his treasure.

He held it to his ear and heard its soft tick, then he looked at the sparkling stones on the case.  He opened it and watched the little hands move, then he opened the back part, and there was the picture of a baby, a little boy, Kid thought.  Around its chubby face were curls, and its eyes were large and earnest-looking.  Kid sat gazing at it for some minutes, wondering who it was.  When he looked up he saw a large building across the street with a steeple on it, and on the top of that a cross.

The door of the building was open, and after a while Kid walked across the street and up the long, wide steps.  He went in and looked cautiously about. It was still and no one was to be seen.

There were two doors, and Kid went to one of them and pushed it open. He thought for a minute he was dreaming, for he did not suppose that anything so grand could be real.

There were rows and rows of seats, and at the very end of the big room Kid saw a light.  He walked down one of the aisles to where the little flame was burning, and stood in front of the altar.

Kid looked at everything with a feeling of awe, but he had not the slightest idea of what it all meant, and he wondered who lived in this beautiful house, and thought it strange that no one appeared and told him to go out.

There were pictures on the wall and Kid came to one of a sweet-faced lady who was holding a little child.  Kid started and stepped back as he looked at it.  "It is the baby in the watch," he said.  "This must be where he lives and that is his mother."  Some one was coming.  He was caught at last, he felt sure.  He slid into a pew and crawled under the seat and kept very still -- so still, in fact, that he fell asleep. When he awoke a light was burning in the church and its rays fell across the picture of the mother and child in such a way that the eyes of the mother seemed to be looking straight at Kid under the seat.

For the first time in his life he felt like crying. "I wish I had a mother," he thought, "and I should like to have her hold me in her arms just as that little boy's mother is holding him.  I would tell her about this watch and perhaps she would tell me how to get it back to the lady."

Kid crept from under the seat and stood up, and coming toward him down the aisle was a man.  Kid thought he wore a queer-looking costume, and he dodged back of the seat; but the man had seen him and there was no use in trying to run away; besides that, Kid was not at all sure that he wished to get away.

"Is this your house?" asked Kid, when the man came up to him.

"No, my son," he replied; "this is the house of God."

Kid's heart leaped for joy; that was the name of the One the Salvation Army people told him about, who loved everybody and helped you.

"If you please," said Kid, "I should like to see Him."

The good man looked at Kid very earnestly, and then he said, "If you will tell me what you wish to see Him about, I am sure I can help you."

Kid told him about the watch and that he felt sure the lady lived there, as the baby in the big picture was very much like the picture in the watch.  "And if this is God's house," said Kid, "I thought He might be the father and forgive me.  I am very sorry that I took it."

The good man took Kid by the hand.  "Come with me," he said; "you are forgiven, I am sure."

Kid was given a good supper, and for the first time in his life he slept in a real bed.

The next day the good man found the owner of the watch, and when she heard Kid's story she forgave him.

Kid was placed in a school, where he learned to be a good boy, as well as to be studious, and he soon forgot the old life.  He grew to be a man of whom any mother could have been proud.  But the only mother Kid ever knew was the mother of the little boy in the picture, which he cherishes as a thing sacred in his life.





The Shoemaker Rat


One day a rat gnawed his way into a pantry, and after he had eaten all he wanted he grew bold and went into the kitchen.

There the cook saw him and chased him with a broom, but, not being able to hit him as he ran out of the door, she picked up a pair of shoes that were standing near and threw them after him.

The rat picked them up and put them on.  On his way home he met a cat. "What have you on your feet?" he asked the rat.

"Can you not see, my dear Tom?" said the rat. "They are shoes.  I am a shoemaker, and, of course, must wear my own product."

"Make me a pair," said the cat, "and I will spare your life."

"Very well," replied the rat, "but first you must bring me some leather."

So the cat ran away and brought back two hides.

When the rat saw the amount of leather he was struck with an idea.  "My dear Tom," he said, "I can make you a suit of clothes and a pair of gloves as well as the shoes, and you will be the envy of all the other cats."

Tom was delighted and told the rat to hurry and make the outfit.

The wise rat first made the gloves and covered Tom's sharp claws.  Then he made the shoes for the hind feet, and when he had that done he felt safe.

"Now you must wait," he said; "until I get something with which I can fasten the coat."  He ran away and returned with some long, sharp thorns.

Next the rat put the leather around Tom's body and drew it tight, fastening it with a thorn which he pushed so that the sharp point pricked Tom.

"What are you doing?" asked Tom, angry at being hurt; but he could not move, the leather costume was so stiff and tight, but he grabbed at the rat with his mouth, and caught him by the tail.

The rat ran, leaving his tail in Tom's mouth.

"I'll know you," Tom called after him.  "When I am out of this suit I will catch you and eat you."

The rat had not thought of that and he wondered what he should do, but he was a wise old fellow, and when he reached home he called all his brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts about him.

"I met a cat to-day," he said, "who had been to the city where all the styles are new, and he told me that all the city rats are having their tails cut off, so I had mine done.  If you want to be in style," he told them, "you must have your tails like mine."

"Does it hurt?" asked one.

"Not a bit," answered the sly fellow, "and you have no idea how comfortable it is running about without a tail to look after.  It is very expensive to have it cut," he explained; "that is the only difficult part.  I had to pay twenty pieces of cheese.  But I watched while another fellow was having his cut, and I am sure I can do it as well as the rat that did mine. And if you wish to be in style at a very low rate I will take off your tails for five pieces of cheese each."

The rats all agreed, and ran away to get the cheese, and while they were gone the wise rat ran for a chopping-knife.

Soon he had the tails cut and a goodly store of cheese.  "Now," he said to himself, "Tom will never know me from the other rats."

He kept his eyes open for Tom, who had called his friends to help him out of his suit and told them to watch for a rat without a tail.  But when they saw all the tailless rats they gave up looking for one who had put Tom into the suit of leather, and Tom, not liking to hunt any too well, gave it up also.  "But the next time I meet a rat," said Tom, "I will catch him, no matter whether he has a tail or not."





The Poppies


A long distance from here, in a far Eastern country, there once lived a very rich king. All kings are not rich, you know, but this one was, and his jewels were the most beautiful ever seen.

But this king dearly loved all the good things of this world and gave feasts and dances that lasted for days without any one sleeping.  Of course he could not lead such a life as that and have good health, and at last there came a time when the king could not sleep.

At last he offered a reward to any one who could put him to sleep, no matter how it was accomplished. He said to the one who could do this he would give half his kingdom.

The poor king was the subject for many experiments, and when he had almost given up hope of ever sleeping again there came a strange-looking man to the gate of the castle.  He wore a turban and a long, flowing robe of white, and wore around his neck many chains and strings of queer-looking beads.

"I can make the king sleep," he said, "but I must be allowed to have the grounds of the castle to myself and the king must obey me in every way."

The king was ready to do anything, and so the strange-looking man began his work, but before he would do anything for the king he insisted upon having half the kingdom given into his hands, and when this was done he set to work.  No one was allowed to be near him, and the king was left alone in the castle with him.

One morning, not long after, the king saw what looked to be a sea of green all around the castle, but it really was a bed of green leaves, and soon there appeared white flowers among the leaves, and then the strange man told the king to walk among them.

Soon the king felt a drowsy feeling stealing over him, and he sat down in the midst of the sea of green and in a few minutes he was sound asleep.

Then the strange man began to repeat something in a sing-song tone and wave his hands over the sleeping king.  He walked among the leaves and flowers, repeating his queer rhyme, and the leaves and flowers grew taller and taller until the king could not be seen, and the man moved away, still chanting:

"Poppy, poppy, flower of sleep, Your drowsy spell around him keep, For I can all his kingdom take If you do not let him wake."


The poppies grew until they reached the top of the castle, and every one who went near to look for the king fell under the spell of their strange power until the people around gave it up and the strange man became king; he built a new castle and the old one was forgotten.

All went well with the new king until a young man called at his castle and asked him about the old king, and the servants told him how the strange flowers had grown around the castle and no one could go near, and that every one thought that the old king was dead.

The new king, when he heard that the stranger was asking for the old king, had him driven from the castle.

"Tell your master," said the stranger to the servants, "that he will hear from me again."

The stranger went into the woods, where there lived an old witch, and at midnight they came out and went to the castle among the strange flowers.

The witch held her hands high over her head and waved them up and down, saying all the time:

"Poppy, poppy, sleepy flower, Now I have you in my power. I would have you shorter grow Until the sleeping one you show."


Down came the tall flowers and bushes until the young man cried out, "Here he is," and then the flowers ceased to grow small.  The witch knelt beside the sleeping king and whispered in his ear:

"Awake, good king, 'tis break of day, And drive the false king far away."


The king opened his eyes and looked at the witch and the young man beside her.  "What has happened?" he asked.

"I will leave you to tell him," said the witch. "The sun is up and I must go."

"When you offered to give half your kingdom to the one who could make you sleep," said the young man, "I set out for your castle with a box which contained a strange flower that had the power to make people sleep, but it had to be used with the greatest care, and I alone knew the secret of using it, for it was given to my grandmother by an old witch doctor.

"Before I could reach you I was overtaken by a band of robbers and the box stolen.  They made me tell what I intended doing with the flower, on pain of death, but I did not tell the whole secret.  Then they put me in a cave and rolled a stone in front of it too heavy for me to move, and left.  I was almost dead from starvation when I was found by some peasants, who nursed me until I was well enough to travel, when I hurried here, only to find that one of the band of robbers had taken your whole kingdom after putting you to sleep with the charmed flower.

"He drove me from the castle when he heard that I was asking for you, and if it had not been for the witch who lives in the wood I should not have been able to awaken you.  She knew the secret, as she is the daughter of the witch who gave the flower to my grandmother."

When the king heard the strange story he hurried with the young man to the castle where the robber king lived.  He was asleep when they arrived, and the servants, who did not like their new master, ran out to meet the old king, and when they heard what had happened they went back to the castle and bound the robber while he slept, and when he awoke he was so frightened that he promised to tell where the rest of his band could be found if they would spare his life.

This they promised to do, and the country was rid of these bad men, for they were put on a ship and made to work the rest of their lives.

The king was so grateful to the young man who rescued him that he made him his heir, and when the king died he left him his kingdom.





Little China Doll


In a shop window sat a little China Doll.  She had been in the store so long she could not remember ever living in any other place.

Long, long ago there were other china dolls, but one by one some little girl had carried them away and she was left alone.  China Doll had black painted hair and big, staring eyes, and her lips and cheeks were very red.  Her body was filled with sawdust and her hands and arms to the elbow were china, as were her feet and legs to her knees.

By and by wax dolls came to the store; they had real hair, all curls, and eyes that would open and close, and poor China Doll was set back in the window, and after a while she was put in a box on the shelf and taken out only once a year -- at Christmas-time -- when she was dusted and put in the window again.  She felt very lonely with so many stylish wax dolls, and as she had given up hope of ever being chosen by any little girl, she was glad when the little old lady who kept the store put her back in the box on the shelf.

At last there came a time when the children no longer came to the store, but went to the big city for their toys, and China Doll and the little old store-keeper grew old together.

China Doll sat in the window all the time now, with tape and thread and other useful things, but was the only thing little folk could want.

One day in summer a tally-ho stopped in front of the store, and a party of young people came in. They bought a number of things and filled the old store with their laughter.  Suddenly the prettiest girl reached into the window and took out China Doll.  "Oh, you dear, quaint little doll!" she said.  "My grandmother has one just like this, girls, and I have asked her many times to give it to me to make a French pincushion, but she will not let me have it."

Oh, how China Doll's heart beat!  Could it be true that she was going at last?  Yes, the pretty girl bought her and took her away on the tally-ho.

The next day she dressed China Doll in the prettiest silk dress, such a one as she had dreamed of years ago, with an overskirt and purled sleeves.  Then she made her the dearest poke-bonnet trimmed with little roses.  She also made her a pair of kid boots.

When China Doll was all dressed the pretty girl put a ribbon over her arm, and on each end was a little bandbox.  Then she stood China Doll on her dressing-table and used the little boxes for pincushions. And there China Doll lived a very happy life, which teaches that all things come to those who wait.





The Disorderly Girl


Louise was just going out of the door with her sled when her mother called to her.  Louise hesitated, for she knew that her mother was calling her to make her play-room tidy and she wanted to go coasting with the other children.

She went back slowly and asked, "What is it, mother?"

"Your play-room must be put in order before you can go out to play," her mother replied.  "You have had plenty of time this week to do it, but you have neglected it, and now you cannot put it off another day."

"Why can't Jane do it?" asked Louise.

"Jane will clean the room," her mother replied, "but it is your duty to pick up the books and toys that are strewn around."

Louise pouted, but she knew that she must do as her mother said, and she took off her hat and coat and went up to her play-room.  She went in and closed the door.  It certainly was a very disorderly-looking room. Books were on the floor and games were on the table, doll clothes were strewn in all parts of the room.

Louise had picked up most of the things when she saw from the window her little friend Clara passing the house.  "Clara!" she called, "wait for me, I have to put my play-room in order before I can go coasting."  But Clara would not wait.

Louise closed the window, threw herself on the couch, and began to cry, saying she thought it was mean everybody was going coasting but her.

All at once she saw two little girls walking toward her.  They looked just like her dolls -- Bella and Emily -- only they were as large as herself.

Louise tried to get up, but she was unable to move.

"Let us undress her," said Bella Doll, coming over to Louise and lifting her by one arm.

"Yes," said Emily Doll, "and comb her hair."

Then Louise knew what had happened -- she had turned into a doll and the dolls had become little girls.

The doll girls undressed Louise and put on her nightdress, pulling it over her head in the most careless manner, Louise thought.  Then they combed her hair, pulling it terribly.

"I wonder how she likes to have her hair pulled," said Bella Doll.

"She knows how it feels, now," said Emily.

"I think she better go out," said Bella Doll, "instead of going to bed," and they dressed her in a thin white dress.  "Now we will take her out in the cold; that is the way she does with us."

They fastened her clothes with pins and pushed them right through her body, and after she was dressed they changed their minds about taking her out and threw her on the floor and began playing games.

"I wonder if they are going to leave me here," thought Louise.  "Some one will be sure to step on me."  Just then she saw a Teddy Bear lying on his side under the couch.  "Why are you under there?" Louise asked.

"The little girl who was playing with me dropped me back of the couch a week ago," he said, "and I have been here ever since, and you will probably remain on the floor where you are now, for she never picks up her toys.  She is a very careless girl."

Louise did not reply, for just then Emily Doll came over to the couch for a book and pushed Louise out of the way with her foot.  Bella Doll set out a croquet set and one of the balls hit Louise on the head.  Then Emily dropped her book and said: "Come along, Bella, let us go outdoors."

Louise watched them as they went out.  "Oh, this is the way she always leaves her room," said Teddy Bear, for he could not see from under the couch there were two little girls, and thought it was Louise who went out of the door.  "She never thinks of us," the Teddy Bear continued, "or how uncomfortable we may be, for she is a very careless and untidy girl."

The door opened and Bella Doll came in.  She went over to the couch for her hat and Louise saw her foot over her head.  "She will break me if she steps on me," cried poor Louise, and she jumped up as she cried aloud.  There she was on the couch.  She had been asleep.  She got up and finished her work, when suddenly she thought of the Teddy Bear, and looked under the couch.  There he was on his side just as she had seen him in her dream.  Louise picked him up and set him in a chair; then she looked at Bella's clothes to make sure there were no pins pricking her, and after looking at Emily also she put both of them in a comfortable place.  Her books were put on a shelf, and she resolved never again to let her room get so untidy or to let her dolls or Teddy Bear suffer from neglect.  "Perhaps they do feel things," she said.  "Anyway, I'll be sure not to hurt them or let them be in uncomfortable positions, for I was very miserable lying on the floor thinking I might be stepped upon."





The Wise Old Gander


Once there lived a farmer who was not a good caretaker.  He did not have a house for the hens and chickens and geese and ducks, and Old Fox, who lived in a hole over the hill, never had any trouble in getting a nice goose or a fat hen for his supper or breakfast.

"Something must be done at once," said Madam Goose.  "There will be no one left in the whole yard if this keeps on.  Why, only last night Madam Gray Hen was carried off and she has left all those little chicks; it is really too awful to think of."

"But what can we do?" asked Gray Goose.  "The rooster does not know, for I heard one of his family ask him, and he only said the master should take better care of us."

"So he should," replied Madam Goose, "but he doesn't, so we must care for ourselves unless we wish to be carried off, too.  Let us go to the gander; he may be able to help us."

"Come with us," they called to the rooster and black hen who were talking together; "we are going to see the gander and ask him to help us to be rid of Old Fox over the hill."

The gander stretched out his neck and blinked his eyes as he listened to their tale of woe.

"You are right, something must be done," he said; "and you are quite right in coming to me also.  I will think over the matter and give you my advice later."

"Later!" screamed Madam Goose.  "Later there will be no need for advice; there will be no one to give it or to advise.  What we need is advice at once, and something that will rid us of Old Fox under the hill.  He is eating the whole yard, one by one."

"Well, well," answered the gander, standing on one foot and then on the other.  "I will think over the matter for a short time and then tell you my decision.  You know, my dear madam, that great minds must have quiet to think out important matters.  Leave me, I beg of you all, for a little while."

As soon as the gander was alone he waddled over to the pig-pen.  "Mr. Pig," he said, "I am going to ask your advice.  Old Fox over the hill is carrying off all the fowls and something must be done."

"Ugh, ugh," grunted the pig.  "I can tell you what will frighten him away.  I will stay awake to-night and grunt at him; he will know better than to linger where I am."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Pig," said the gander, backing away from the pig-pen.  "I will tell my friends, and I am sure they will feel safe to-night."

"Conceited fellow," said the gander.  "I guess it will take more than his grunts to scare that foxy fellow."

Then he went to the donkey.  "He isn't very wise," thought the gander, "but sometimes those who have the least wisdom speak wisdom without knowing it.

"Mr. Donkey, I have come to ask your advice. Old Fox is carrying off our hens and geese.  Something must be done to stop him, or soon there will be none left."

"Quite so; quite so.  I see; I see, Mr. Gander," said the donkey.  "You have come to the right place for advice.  Now go back to your friends and tell them to have no fear; I will take the matter in hand."

"But what are you going to do?" asked the gander.

"Why, my dear sir, I am going to bray at Old Fox when he comes.  I am going to bray at him, and you will see he will not stay long when he hears my commanding voice."

"Oh, how can I ever thank you?" said the gander, walking away.  "I will tell my friends at once that you will take care of them to-night."

"Foolish old donkey," said the gander to himself. "I guess Old Fox has heard a donkey bray before this.  I'll try the cow next.

"Madam Cow, Old Fox is carrying off all the fowls, one by one, and if something is not done at once to stop him, there will be none of us left.  What would you advise?"

"Oh, don't ask me, Mr. Gander," said the cow. "All I can do is to moo, and Old Fox would no more mind that than the wind blowing.  I wish I were wise enough to advise you, but I am not.  But if I can help you in any way let me know."

"Thank you, Madam Cow," said the gander, waddling away.  "You may hear from me.  We never can tell when we shall need the help of our friends."

The next one the gander visited was the cat.

"Can you help me, Madam Puss?" began the gander.  "We fowls are all in trouble; Old Fox carries off one or more of our number every night, and something must be done to stop it at once."

The cat opened her mouth very wide and yawned, and the gander wondered if he had been wise, after all, in asking her for advice in this matter.

But Puss closed her mouth with a snap and sat up.

"Of course I can help you," she said.  "Did you ever see my claws?"

The gander backed away as Puss held them up to his view.

The gander confessed that he had not and Puss went on: "Well, leave it to me to protect the barnyard; that dog Rover never seems to think about anything but eating and sleeping.  I will yowl and spit at Old Fox when he comes to-night, and I can tell you and your friends he will not come again."

"Thank you, thank you, Madam Puss," said the gander, running away.

"My, but that was a narrow escape for me!" said the gander.  "She positively looks awful when she opens her mouth.  I seem to be getting advice, but not the kind that will save my friends; they all feel sure they can scare Old Fox, but not one of them will be able to; I don't know that all of them together would -- "

The gander stopped still and held up his head.  "I have it," he said, "I have the very plan; I will get them all together and each shall do his part.  I believe we can scare Old Fox away for good and all time."

The gander went to the dog and he promised to bark.  "Of course, there is no need of having the others around if I do that," said the dog. "But bring them along if you like; every little helps."

That night the donkey, the dog, the cat, the cow, and the pig were gathered in the barnyard; each one protested that the others were not needed, all but the cow; she was modest, and said she would help.  Then the rooster came and offered to crow and the geese were to quack.

"Now you all must hide," said the gander, "and don't move until Old Fox gets right in the middle of the yard; then jump up and do your worst."

Old Fox waited until it was very late, and then crept over the hill and up to the farm.  He listened, and, hearing no sound, he crept into the barnyard. He was just about to reach a fat goose when all the animals began.  The dog barked, the pig squealed, the donkey brayed, the cow mooed, the geese quacked, the rooster crowed, and Puss, true to her word, yowled and sprang at Old Fox, who was so frightened at the terrible noise he forgot to run until Puss struck at him with her sharp claws; then he took to his swiftest speed, and away he went over the hill and far away, and was never again seen near that farm.

He told some of his friends that a most horrible animal lived there and must have eaten all the hens and geese and was big enough to eat them, for he saw at least twenty feet and claws and heads of all sizes.





Dinah Cat And The Witch


Once upon a time there was a little girl named Betty.  She was an orphan, and a bad landlord turned her out of her home.  The only friend she had was a black cat named Dinah.  Betty was crying as she walked along the road, and Dinah Cat ran beside her, rubbing against her feet. All at once she ran in front of Betty and stood on her hind legs.  "Do not cry, mistress," she said. "I'll take care of you."

Betty was so surprised to hear Dinah Cat speak that she stopped crying at once.  "You poor Dinah Cat," she said, "what can you do?  We must go to the city, and if I can find work we shall be able to live; if not, you must take care of yourself, for you can catch mice and keep from starving."

"You come with me, mistress," answered Dinah Cat, "and you will not need to work and you will not starve."  And she put out her paw for Betty to take and walked alongside her.  When they came to a path leading into the wood Dinah Cat led Betty along this path until they were in front of two very large trees which had grown together, but there was a big opening in the trunk.  "We'll go in here," said Dinah Cat, and as they stepped through they were in a hall.  She led Betty up the stairs to a room where there was a snowy-white bed and pretty furnishings. "Dinner will be served as soon as you are dressed, mistress," said Dinah Cat.

After she had gone Betty looked around, and in the closets she found pretty dresses which just fitted her.  She put on one of them, and in a few minutes she was ready for dinner.  Just then she heard a soft, scratching noise at the door, and when she opened it Dinah Cat walked in.

"How do you like your new home, mistress?" she asked.

"Very much," Betty answered.  "But we cannot live in such a nice house. We have no money, and, besides that, this house must belong to some one. And this dress I have on must belong to some little girl.  I should not wear it."

"The dress did belong to a little girl," said Dinah Cat, "but she cannot wear it now, and she wants you to have it.  And do not fret about the house.  It belongs to me.  I cannot tell you any more just now, but you need not worry any more about anything, for you are to live here, if you wish, after you have dinner, for then you will meet a boy, and you may not like him."

Dinah Cat led Betty into a room where the table was set for three persons, and when they were seated a boy about Betty's age came in and sat with them. He wore his hat, and a thick veil hung from it.

"I am sorry I cannot remove my hat," he said, in a very sweet voice, "and I will go away if you'd rather I would."

"Oh no," said Betty, feeling very much like an intruder.  "I am very grateful to you for letting me stay, and I will help to do the work."

"You do not need to work," said the boy.  "If you will stay we will be very glad."

Betty did not once get a glimpse of his face, he lifted the veil so carefully.  And there sat Dinah Cat, using her knife and fork like any lady.  Betty smiled to herself when she thought of her eating from a saucer.

Suddenly Dinah Cat slid out of her chair and crawled under it, and the little boy trembled so that his chair shook.  Betty looked around to find the cause of their strange behavior, and saw standing in the doorway an old woman with a staff in her hand. She hobbled over to where Dinah Cat sat and raised the staff.  Betty thought she was going to strike her.

"Don't you hurt Dinah Cat!" she cried, running toward the old witch, who was so startled that she dropped the staff, and Betty picked it up.

"Don't let her have it again," said the boy; "that is the cause of all our trouble."

Betty threw the staff in a closet and locked the door. All this time the witch was stepping backward toward the door by which she entered, and she grew smaller with each step.  By the time she was out of the house she looked like a black speck, and a breeze blowing just then carried her out of sight.  "But how shall we ever be ourselves again?" said the boy.  "She has gone, and here we are, in this state."

"Perhaps the stick will do it," said Dinah Cat.

Betty wondered what they meant, and the boy told her that Dinah Cat was his sister before the witch changed her into a cat, and made his face so hideous that he had to wear a veil, and they had lived very happily together.  "But one day the old witch came and wanted to live with us, and we let her for a while, but she was so cross and made us so unhappy we told her she must go away.  Then she brought all this change upon us, and every once in a while she returns and frightens us, for we do not know what she will change us into next."

"Let me get the stick," said Betty.  "Perhaps we can change Dinah Cat to your sister again."

Betty opened the door of the closet, and instead of the stick there was a bright streak of light, and walking on it was a little Fairy who held a wand in her hand.

"You will soon be happy again," she told them. "I have destroyed the stick and the old witch will never return."

Then she walked over to Dinah Cat and touched her with her wand and there stood a little girl about Betty's age in place of the black cat.

"Now close your eyes," said the Fairy, "for I want the boy to remove his veil, and his face is not pleasant to look upon."

Betty did as the Fairy told her, but I am sorry to tell you that she peeked a very little.  Betty closed her eyes tight after the first glimpse and waited for the Fairy to tell her to open them again, and when she did there stood the boy with a very smiling face. His sister ran to him and put her arms around him. "Now we shall be happy," she said, "and Betty will live with us.  How can we thank you?" she asked the Fairy.

"Oh, I shall be repaid by seeing you all happy," the Fairy replied. "And now I must go."

"Will we see you again?" asked Betty.

"No," answered the Fairy.  "I only appear when people are in trouble, and you will never need me again."





The Star And The Lily


Once there bloomed in a garden a beautiful white lily, on a long stalk so tall that she towered over all the flowers that bloomed near her.

Of course, the sunflowers at the back of the garden were much taller and the hollyhocks that grew in front of the sunflowers were taller, too, and also the sweet peas.  But they were not near the beautiful lily. Beside her bloomed pansies and poppies, and many other beautiful flowers, but they were not so tall as the lily.

A rose-bush growing near the lily noticed that she drooped and did not look as happy as usual one morning, and she asked what had happened.

"Oh, I am thinking of some one I love," answered the lily, with a sigh.

"That should not bring a sigh or make you look sad, my fair friend," said the rose.  "Love should make you happier than anything else in the world."

"Yes, I suppose it should," answered the lily, "but my love is so far away I am not sure that I am loved in return."

"Oh, immodest lily!" said the rose.  "I thought you the most modest of all of us, and here you are in love with some one you do not know.  Tell me about it, do?" said the rose, alert with interest.

"I will tell you, dear rose," said the lily, "and perhaps you can tell me how to win the love of my beloved, or how I can overcome my great love for him."

"I will do anything I can for you, my dear," said the rose, "but do tell me quick all about your love-story."

"One night," began the lily, "when everything was quiet in the garden and all the other flowers were fast asleep, I happened to raise my head and open my petals.  The moonlight was streaming over the garden, and I looked around at all the sleeping flowers and wondered how I happened to awake at that hour, when, looking up to see the moon in all her splendor, I beheld a beautiful star looking down at me.

"At first I thought it was looking at the whole garden, but then I knew all the others were asleep and I must be the one it was smiling at, for it twinkled and brightened as I gazed at it.

"I lowered my head and slyly looked again, and still the star was looking, and every time it saw me raise my head it would twinkle a smile at me.  The next night I wanted to make sure it was I that the star really smiled at, and when it was bedtime I only bowed my head and did not sleep.

"Then when the garden was still and I was sure you all slept I again raised my head and saw my star smiling straight down at me.

"This time I was sure I was the only one that the star could be smiling at, and I raised my head and opened my petals and let all the perfume of my heart go up to him, and I did not feel that I was bold, for we were all alone and he smiled down upon me, his love for two nights.

"But now I am sorrowful, for it is day and I cannot see my beloved.  He seems only to show his love for me at night.  What shall I do, dear rose?  I am not strong enough to stay awake all day and all night too. Soon I will die if I do, and yet I cannot live if I do not see my star each night.  That is why I sigh and look so sad, for I might sleep all night some time and my star will think I do not love him."

The rose shook her head.  "I cannot advise you, my friend," she said; "you are in love with some one far above you, and are not even sure you are loved in return.  Be wise and sleep through the night as the rest of us do, and give up this uncertain lover."

But the lily only drooped her head and sighed, and that night looked for her lover again, but the sky was dark and no bright smile greeted the poor lily.  All night she gazed into the dark sky, and when the first light of day came she was still looking for her lover.

The rose looked at her when the sun came upon them that morning, but the lily did not raise her head; she was too full of sorrow to lift her face to the sun, and by and by the rose saw that she was drooping lower and lower, so she spoke to her.

"Lily," she said, leaning closer to her, "raise your head and let the sun cheer you.  You will die if you do not open your petals and get the light and air."

But the poor lily was past caring for sun or air; her petals were limp and her stalk withered.

The rose leaned closer to her as she faintly answered, and this is what she heard:

"Good-by, my friend; I shall bloom no more.  My bright star hid his face from me last night and I have no desire to live longer.  Perhaps I may see him after I am gone from here, and if that is true I shall be happy, but I cannot live here and not see his face.'"

The wind blew through the garden just then and took the lily from her stem, scattering her petals far out of the garden.

"Poor lily!" murmured the rose, "she went the way we all will go, but her heart was broken and she died before her time.  If she had only looked for love here in the garden instead of looking so far above her she might be blooming now, poor lily."





Lazy Gray


All the other squirrels called him Lazy Gray, which was really not a very nice name for a squirrel to have, but it fitted this squirrel, and I am going to tell you how he came to be called by such an unpleasant name.

When Lazy Gray was born there were three little squirrels in his family, but he was the youngest and his mother thought he was the prettiest, and all the rest of the family used to wait on him a great deal, and his mother did not ask him to do errands or to climb trees or any other of the hard tasks that most squirrels have to do.  And Lazy Gray took advantage of the kindness of his mother and his brothers and sister, and used to ask them to wait on him.  When he was thirsty and wanted a drink of water he would call to his mother and say, "I am thirsty"; and she would take a nutshell and go down to the brook and fill it with nice cool water and bring it to him for him to drink.  And sometimes he wouldn't even say "Thank you" when he had finished.

And he used to make his brothers go on long journeys through the woods to get a particular kind of nut of which he was very fond; and if they happened to bring him one that was not good he would find fault with them and tell them that they did not know good nuts from bad ones.

All through the summer he fooled away his time sleeping and lying in the sun and never a single nut did he gather for himself.  But when fall came and his two brothers were taken ill, his mother said that he would have to help her gather nuts because she could not gather enough to last the whole family through all the long winter.  Lazy thought it was very hard that he should be called upon to work for his brothers even if they were sick, and he complained very bitterly about how hard it was for him to climb trees all day and store nuts.  Whenever he could he stole away and lay down behind a rock and kept hidden until his mother came and found him.  And then she would tell how, when it got cold and there was snow all over the ground and he was hungry, he would wish that he had been a good squirrel and had gathered the nuts while he could.

But he did not believe her and said, "Oh, I have gathered all the nuts I shall want and am not going to work any more," and then he would go to sleep again.

Weeks passed by, and it grew colder and colder and the snow came, and all the squirrels began to draw on their stores of nuts.  Lazy found that he got pretty hungry sometimes and that the habit of eating and drinking all he wanted in the summer made him want to eat and drink all he wanted in the winter.  And as he had never taught himself self-denial, he ate all he wanted, and very early in the winter he began to see that the nuts he had gathered would not last him half-way through the winter, and almost before he knew it his whole store was exhausted and he had nothing to eat.

Then he asked his mother to let him have some of the nuts that she had gathered, and being a kind mother, she let him have just as many as she could, but she still had to keep some for his sick brothers. When she would not give him all he thought he ought to have he decided that he would go over to a neighboring tree and ask a squirrel over there for some of his nuts, and for weeks he went from one tree to another begging nuts, until every squirrel in the woods hated to see him coming, for they knew he was going to beg food that he should have gathered for himself.

At last he became so much of a nuisance that all the squirrels in the wood held a meeting and decided that each one of them would give two nuts to "Lazy," as they now all called him, and that he would have to live for the rest of the winter on the store they contributed or else starve.

When Lazy saw what a small store of nuts he would have to live upon until spring he was frightened, for he had eaten almost as many nuts as there were there in a week.

But he knew he had to make them last, so he ate very sparingly, and his sides began to be less plump and his cheeks less full, and by springtime he was a pretty sorry-looking squirrel, with his ribs showing plainly through his sides and his bushy tail looking bigger than the whole of the rest of him.

But it taught him a good lesson, and early in the next summer, just as soon as there were any nuts to be had, he began to store them away, and when winter came again he had a big hole in the tree filled full and his mother was much pleased.

"You see," she told him, "how wicked it is not to provide for the future and store up things that are necessary against the time when you will need them."

And Lazy agreed with her and told her that never again so long as he lived would he merit the name of "Lazy."





The Old Gray Hen


"Oh, dear!" said the Old Gray Hen, "what a life this is!  Up in the morning at the break of day in answer to the summons of that crowing rooster; scratch all the forenoon for worms; sit on a nest and leave a beautiful egg there, and in half an hour along comes somebody and takes the egg and I never see it again.  Then every spring I am put on a lot of eggs that I never saw before and am supposed to sit there until a brood of chickens are hatched out, and then for weeks I have to scratch for them as well as for myself.  I don't see anything in this sort of life, and I propose to change it until it is more to my liking and more as the life of such a fine hen as I am ought to be."

Old Daddy Gander happened along just as the Gray Hen finished talking to herself.  "What's the trouble this morning?" he asked.  "Why all this sputtering and spluttering?  One would think that the whole barnyard had turned upside down and the corn had all fallen off into the sky."

"There's matter enough," said Gray Hen.  "What have we fowls to live for?  I scratch and you waddle and you waddle and I scratch, and what does it all amount to?  Something has got to be done, and, if no one else will do it, why, I shall.  Things are going to be different with me."

"I guess I'll keep on as I am," said old Daddy Gander as he waddled away.  "I might make them worse than they are, and they are not so bad, anyway."

"Good morning, Gray Hen," said Madam Duck. "What a fine day we are going to have!  The water will be nice and warm for my ducklings, and I can give them a good swim in the pond."

"It is neither a good morning nor is it going to be a fine day, and as for swimming in the pond, if I had to mother a lot of children with as homely feet as your brood has I would want to keep them in the water all the time so that no one would see them."

"What a mean disposition Gray Hen has!" said Madam Duck to the turkey gobbler as she went on her way to the pond.  "I tried to be agreeable to her and she insulted me and spoke so unkindly of my children that I felt quite like crying."

"I almost wish that she had been a little more unkind," said the gobbler, "for I have never seen a duck crying and I imagine it might be an almost sight.  Perhaps Gray Hen needs some of my good advice, and I will walk over shortly and see her."

But the old gobbler was saved his trouble, for in a few minutes he saw Gray Hen coming down the path toward him.  As she came up to him he said: "What a miserable feeling morning this, Mrs. Hen; my feathers will none of them lie straight, and every worm that I have tasted for breakfast has been bitter."

"You are quite right," said Gray Hen.  "It is just like all the mornings recently, uncomfortable and disagreeable, and there does not seem to be any promise of anything better."

"You are quite right," said the gobbler.  "What the gander and the duck see in the present to be so satisfied with I don't understand, and as to the future, I don't know why we should expect any more of that than the past."

"I have always felt," said Gray Hen, "that you, Mr. Gobbler, never got half your deserts in this barnyard.  Everybody seems to think that the rooster, because he crows every morning at sunup, is the wisest bird in the yard, but as for me, I have always held you in greater esteem and have often spoken of the nobility of your looks and the regal way in which you walk about the place.  If I had any voice in the matter I should suggest that you be recognized as superior to the rooster.  But, you see, the hens have nothing to say, although some day I feel sure that it will be different."

"You are very kind," said the gobbler, "and I feel as you do, while I have no wish to be ruler of the yard, that the hens should have more to say.  You should at least have independence and do as you like."

"Oh, I have determined on that already," said Gray Hen, and she told him how she had decided to lay no more eggs and to scratch as little as she had to.

"Well," said the gobbler, "I must be off and see that none of those turkey hens get so far into the wood that they cannot find their way back again. I certainly gave the kind of advice she wanted," he said, when he had got out of her hearing, "and that was easier than getting into an argument.  And, besides that, discontented people and animals are always so much more comfortable if they think others are just as unhappy as they are."

Old Gray Hen, however, was as good as her word. She stopped laying eggs and the amount of gravel that she scratched was scarcely worth mentioning. She stole worms from the younger chickens, who were too polite to punish a hen so old as she was, and, altogether, she became a general nuisance to all the rest of the barnyard flock.

They could not protect themselves, but Farmer Johnson, walking through the yard one day, noticed that the Old Gray Hen's toes had grown to a most unusual length.  "I guess she doesn't do much scratching," he said as he passed along, "and I suspect she doesn't lay many eggs.  I must ask mother about it when I get back to the house."

"No," said Mother Johnson, when he asked her, "I haven't found an egg in Gray Hen's nest for a month or more."

"She won't pay to winter, then," said Farmer Johnson.  "We had better eat her."  And the following Sunday, when Farmer Johnson sat down for dinner, they brought a big platter of steaming fricassee to the table and that was the end of Old Gray Hen.

A day or two after, when the gobbler happened to meet Madam Duck, she said: "I hear that Gray Hen has left us."

"Yes," said the gobbler, "and I hope she is happier than she was here, but her contentment was greatest when others were distressed."





The Worsted Doll


Good Mother Munster and her husband Jacob had five daughters.  Of course they loved them dearly, but they often wished for a son.

"Then he could help me in the shop," said Jacob, who was a maker of dolls.  "Not that I would exchange one of our girls for a boy," he added, "but I wish we had a son as well as the five girls."

Whether the stork heard this talk between Jacob and his wife and took offense because they questioned his judgment, or whether he thought Jacob and his wife had their number of children, I do not know; but he never called again at their door and their daughters grew up to womanhood without a brother.

One day Jacob hurried in from his shop, which was back of his house.  He was very much excited, and talked so fast that good Mother Munster could not understand half he said.

"They want worsted dolls," he explained at last, "two dozen worsted dolls to be sent across the water in time for Christmas."

Jacob raised his hands with a gesture of despair, for at his shop they did not make worsted dolls, and he could not understand why any one should want them.

"There is plenty of time to make them," Mother Munster said.  "The girls and I can knit them, and we will make half of them girls and half of them boy dolls."  And so the knitted dolls were begun by good Mother Munster and her daughters.

One day when Mother Munster was knitting on the last doll, which was a boy, she began to think how much she would miss them when they were finished and sent across the sea.

"I will make you extra large," she said as she added a few stitches to the length and breadth of the doll, "and if I could I would knit you a tongue so you could talk and legs that you could run on, and have you like a live boy."

Mother Munster knitted as she thought, and though she did not know it, she knitted all her wishes into the boy doll's body, so that when he was finished he could do all the things she had wished.

But he was a wise little fellow, and did not betray himself for fear he would not be shipped across the water with the other dolls, and he wanted to see the world.

It was a long journey to the other side of the ocean, and the boy doll thought it never would end.  But by and by he was taken from the big packing-case and with other dolls placed in a window of a big shop.

"I wish some one would speak to me," thought the boy doll, but not a word did the other dolls utter, and as he did not wish to appear forward he kept silent also.

One day a lady came into the store and carried Boy Doll away with her, and then one night he was put on a tree trimmed with glittering ropes of tinsel.

A little girl came into the room after a while, and when she saw Boy Doll she exclaimed, "Oh, I hope the boy doll is for me!"

"So do I," thought Boy Doll, "for I am sure you will talk to me."

And sure enough he was given to the little girl. "I am so glad you were for me," she told him, "for I do need a father for my doll family."

"Dear me," thought Boy Doll, "what a responsibility to be forced upon me so suddenly!"  And not a word could he speak in reply to the little girl, because he was so surprised.

The little girl took him into a large room, which was the home of her doll family.

"This is your husband, Rosamond," she said to a large French doll, "and his name is Theodore.  And this is your father," she told a group of small dolls; "he has come to live with you.

"I hope you will be a good father to them," she said to Theodore.  But Boy Doll was so overcome that his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth and he was silent.

Theodore, as we may call him now, was placed in a large arm-chair, and the little girl left him with his family.

His grand-looking wife held her head very high and cast a look of disdain at poor Theodore, for she was not pleased to have a worsted doll for a husband, and the children, following the example of their mother, looked at their new father and giggled.

"Oh, why did I leave good Mother Munster?" thought Theodore.  "She wanted a son and she would have loved me."

He sat very still for a while.  He was thinking what he should do; he knew that as the father of a family he should be respected, and here were his children laughing at him.

If it were not for the haughty French wife he might exert his authority, but Theodore was a little afraid of her.

"I'll begin with the children," he said at last, "and that may impress Rosamond."

So while the children were giggling and whispering Theodore suddenly jumped up from his chair.

Of course he was very stiff in his movements, as he did not have any joints, and the children laughed out and said, "Our father hasn't any joints in his legs."

The stern look on Theodore's face soon quieted them, however, and by the time he reached them they were quite afraid.  Theodore cleared his throat and put his hands behind him.

"It is very evident," he said, "that you need a father, for your manners are shockingly bad.  What is your name?" he asked, taking one of them by the shoulder.

"Etta," she answered.

"And yours?" he said, pointing to another.

"May," was the reply.

"And yours, and yours, and yours, and yours, and yours, and yours?" he asked, receiving in turn the names of Sally, Freda, Maude, Cora, Dora, and Ida.

"I shall divide you into two groups of four each," he said, after hearing the names.  "One will be the Etta-May-Sally-Freda group, and the other will be the Maude-Cora-Dora-Ida group.  That will simplify matters for me, and I can talk to four at one time. Ettamaysallyfreda," he called.

"Yes, father," answered all four at once.

"If I ever hear you giggle again as you did when I appeared I shall punish you severely."

"Yes, sir," answered the trembling dolls.

"Maudecoradoraida," said Theodore, in a stern voice.

"Yes, father," answered the second group.

"If you behave again in the manner you did when I first came to this house you will be punished in a way you will remember."

"Yes, sir," answered the four dolls.

Theodore turned away and with all the dignity he could muster walked toward his wife.

Rosamond's head was not held so high now, for her husband's manner with the children had shown her that he intended to be master in his home.

"When do we dine?" he asked.

"We have no regular hour," she answered.

"We will dine at seven," said Theodore; "breakfast at eight; the hour for lunch you may please yourself about, as I shall not be here.  The children will not dine with us," he added.  "And now I should like to see my room."

Rosamond, who was as completely subdued as the children, very meekly did as she was told, and Theodore found himself master without any further trouble.

But he could not forget good Mother Munster, and while he knew he should be content in the bosom of his family, he found his thoughts often with Mother Munster, across the water.

It was not an easy matter being the father of a family.  If he felt like jumping or lying on the floor, there were the children, and he must not lose his dignity for a moment.  "I would rather be a son," he said, "than be the father of a family.  If I could get back to Germany and good Mother Munster I should be quite happy."

Of course this was not the proper feeling for a husband and father to have, but you must remember that Theodore had all this thrust upon him before he had any of the joys of boyhood.

One day he heard the family where he lived talking about going abroad, and saw the big trunks being packed.

"Oh dear," thought Theodore, "I wonder if they will take me with them. Perhaps they will go to Germany where the good Mother Munster lives."

And then Theodore thought a very wicked thought. "I will get into one of the trunks and hide," he said, "and if I can find the German village where Mother Munster lives I will not come back to be the father of a family, but I will stay with good Mother Munster and be her little boy."

Of course that was deserting his family, but Theodore did not know anything about how wrong that was, and so one day when he was left alone in the room with the trunks he climbed over the side of one of them and hid himself between the folds of a dress, without saying good-by to his wife or children.

Theodore did not feel safe until the men came for the trunks, and then his heart leaped for joy.  After a long time the trunks were opened in a hotel, and Theodore wondered what they would say when they found him.

"Here is Theodore," said the mother to her little girl, when she found him inside her dresses.  "I wonder how he got in my trunk."

The little girl had not brought any of her dolls and she was so pleased to see Theodore that she hugged him.

Theodore felt guilty when he thought of what he intended to do, but his love for Mother Munster was deeper than that for his family.

After many weeks of visiting different places, Theodore had almost given up hope of seeing Mother Munster again, when one day he heard them say, "We will go to Berlin to-morrow."

"Berlin, Berlin," repeated Theodore.  "Where have I heard that name before?"  Then all at once it came to him that it was in Germany and that not far from there was the village where Mother Munster lived.

He could hardly keep from jumping for joy.

One morning after they had been in Berlin for a week the father of the little girl said, "We are to visit a little village to-day where they make dolls."

"I will take Theodore," said the little girl, "for I want to get a girl doll just like him."

They rode quite a distance on the train, and then in a carriage, and stopped at a house that made Theodore's heart thump so loudly that he feared they would hear it, for the house was the home of good Mother Munster, and there standing in the doorway was the dear old lady herself.

They went into the kitchen and the little girl put Theodore on a chest which stood in the room.

In the excitement of seeing the doll-shop she forgot to take him with her, and as soon as Theodore found himself alone he slipped off the chest and hid behind it.

When the little girl came back from the shop she had a large doll in her arms and she quite forgot Theodore.

A few days after, when Mother Munster was cleaning her kitchen, she moved the chest, and there was Theodore with his arms stretched up toward her.

Mother Munster picked him up.  "Why, it is my boy!" she said.  "How ever did you get here?" she asked.  Then she thought of the little girl.  "I hope she does not send for you," she said, and she held Theodore tightly in her arms.

"So do I," said Theodore, and although he did not speak out loud Mother Munster seemed to understand.

"You'd rather live here, hadn't you?" she asked. "I will put you on this seat in the corner and you shall be my little boy.  All the girls have gone to homes of their own, and Jacob and I are very lonely.

"Look, Jacob," she said as he came in the door, "here is the worsted doll I made to send across the water.  He has come back to live with us, and so at last we have a son."

Jacob smiled.  He didn't think much of worsted dolls, but he took Theodore by one hand.  "You have traveled a long distance, son," he said, "since you left here, and can tell Mother Munster and me all about what you have seen as we three sit by the fire in the long winter evenings."  And so Theodore found a mother and father and lived a happy and peaceful life undisturbed by the cares of a family.

But sometimes he dreams and awakens himself by calling, "Ettamaysallyfreda," or "Maudecoradoraida."  And when he makes sure it is only a dream he turns over and goes to sleep again with a smile of contentment on his face which plainly says, "Theodore, you are a lucky man."

<eob>

Uncle Titus And His Visit To The Country: A Story For Children And For Those Who Love Children

By

Johanna Spyri, Louise Brooks



Chapter I.

Under The Lindens.


The daily promenaders who moved slowly back and forth every afternoon under the shade of the lindens on the eastern side of the pretty town of Karlsruhe were very much interested in the appearance of two persons who had lately joined their ranks. It was beyond doubt that the man was very ill. He could only move slowly and it was touching to see the care with which his little companion tried to make herself useful to him. He supported himself with his right hand on a stout stick, and rested his left upon the shoulder of the child at his side, and one could see that he needed the assistance of both. From time to time he would lift his left hand and say gently,

"Tell me, my child, if I press too heavily upon you."

Instantly, however, the child would catch his hand and press it down again, assuring him,

"No, no, certainly not, Papa, lean upon me still more: I do not even notice it at all."

After they had walked back and forth for a while, they seated themselves upon one of the benches that were placed at convenient distances under the trees, and rested a little.

The sick man was Major Falk, who had been in Karlsruhe only a short time. He lived before that in Hamburg with his daughter Dora, whose mother died soon after the little girl came into the world, so that Dora had never known any parent but her father. Naturally, therefore, the child's whole affection was centred upon Major Falk, who had always devoted himself to his little motherless girl with such tenderness that she had scarcely felt the want of a mother, until the war with France broke out, and he was obliged to go with the Army. He was away for a long time, and when at last he returned, it was with a dangerous wound in his breast. The Major had no near relatives in Hamburg, and he therefore lived a very retired life with his little daughter as his only companion, but in Karlsruhe he had an elder half-sister, married to a literary man, Mr. Titus Ehrenreich.

When Major Falk was fully convinced that his wound was incurable, he decided to remove to Karlsruhe, in order not to be quite without help when his increasing illness should make it necessary for him to have some aid in the care of his eleven-year-old daughter. It did not take long to make the move. He rented a few rooms in the neighborhood of his sister, and spent the warm spring afternoons enjoying his regular walk under the shade of the lindens with his little daughter as his supporter and loving companion.

When he grew weary of walking and they sat down on a bench to rest, the Major had always some interesting story to tell, to beguile the time, and Dora was certain that no one in the whole world could tell such delightful stories as her father, who was indeed in her opinion the most agreeable and lovable of men. Her favorite tales, and those which the Major himself took most pleasure in relating, were little incidents in the life of Dora's mother, who was now is heaven. He loved to tell the child how affectionate and happy her mother had always been, and how many friends she had won for herself, and how she always brought sunshine with her wherever she went, and how nobody ever saw her who did not feel at once attracted to her, and how she was even now remembered by those who had known and loved her during life.

When Major Falk once began to talk about his dearly-beloved wife, he was apt to forget the flight of time, and often the cool evening wind first aroused him with its chilly breath to the fact that he was lingering too long in the outer air. Then he and his little Dora would rise from the bench in the shade of the lindens, and slowly wander back into town, until they stopped before a many-storied house in a narrow street, and the Major would generally say,

"We must go up to see Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette this afternoon, Dora." And as they slowly climbed the steep staircase, he would add, "Softly now, little Dora, you know your Uncle is always writing very learned books, and we must not disturb him by any unnecessary noise, and indeed, Dora, I do not think your Aunt is any more fond of noise than he is."

So Dora went up upon the tips of her toes as quietly as a mouse, and the Major's ring could scarcely be heard, he pulled the bell so gently! Generally Aunt Ninette opened the door herself, saying,

"Come in, come in, dear brother! Very softly, if you please, for you know your brother-in-law is busy at work."

So the three moved noiselessly along the corridor and crept into the sitting room. Uncle Titus' study was the very next room, so that the conversation was carried on almost in whispers, but it must be said Major Falk was less liable to forget the necessary caution against disturbing the learned writer than Aunt Ninette herself, for that lady being oppressed with many cares and troubles had always to break into frequent lamentation.

When June came, it was safe and pleasant to linger late under the shade of the lindens, but the pair in whom we are interested often turned their steps homeward earlier than they wished, in order not to arouse Aunt Ninette's ever-ready reproaches. But one warm evening when the sky was covered with rosy and golden sunset clouds, the Major and Dora lingered watching the lovely sight longer than was their wont. They sat silent hand in hand on the bench by the side of the promenade, and Dora could not take her eyes from her father's face as he sat with upturned look gazing into the sky. At last she exclaimed:

"I wish you could see yourself, papa, you look all golden and beautiful. I am sure the angels in heaven look just as you do now."

Her father smiled. "It will soon pass away from me, Dora, but I can imagine your mother standing behind those lovely clouds and smiling down upon us with this golden glory always upon her face."

As the Major said, it did pass away very soon; his face grew pale, and shone no longer; the golden light faded from the sky and the shades of night stole on. The Major rose, and Dora followed him rather sadly. The beautiful illumination had passed too quickly.

"We shall stand again in this glory, my child, nay, in a far more beautiful one," said her father consolingly, "when we are all together again, your mother and you and I, where there will be no more parting and the glory will be everlasting."

As they climbed up the high staircase to say good night to Uncle and Aunt, the latter awaited them on the landing, making all sorts of silent signs of alarm and distress, but she did not utter a sound until she had them safely within the sitting room. Then, having softly closed the door, she broke forth complainingly,

"How can you make me so uneasy, dear brother? I have been dreadfully anxious about you. I imagined all kinds of shocking accidents that might have happened, and made you so late in returning home! How can you be so heedless as to forget that it is not safe for you to stay out after sunset. Now I am sure that you have taken cold. And what will happen, who can tell? Something dreadful, I am certain."

"Calm yourself, I beg you, dear Ninette," said the Major soothingly, as soon as he could get in a word. "The air is so mild, so very warm, that it could not possibly harm anybody, and the evening was glorious, perfectly wonderful. Let me enjoy these lovely summer evenings on earth as long as I can; it will not be very long at the farthest. What is sure to come, can be neither delayed nor hastened much by anything I may do."

These words, however, although they were spoken in the quietest possible tone, called forth another torrent of reproach and lamentation.

"How can you allow yourself to speak in that way? How can you say such dreadful things?" cried the excited woman over and over again. "It will not happen. What will become of us all; what will become of -- you know what I mean," and she cast a meaning glance at Dora. "No, Karl, it would be more than I could bear, and we never have more trouble sent to us than we can bear; I do not know how I should live; I could not possibly endure it."

"My dear Ninette" said her brother quietly, "Do not forget one thing,

"'Thou art not in command, Thou canst not shape the end; God holds us in his hand: God knows the best to send.'"

"Oh, of course, I know all that well enough. I know that is all true," assented Aunt Ninette, "but when one cannot see the end nor the help, it is enough to kill one with anxiety. And then you have such a way of speaking of terrible things as if they were certain to come, and I cannot bear it, I tell you; I cannot."

"Now we will say good-night and not stand and dispute any longer, my dear sister," said the Major, holding out his hand, "we will both try to remember the words of the verse -- 'God knows the best to send.'"

"Yes, yes, I'll remember. Only don't take cold going across the street, and step very softly as you go down the stairs, and Dora, do you hear! Close the door very gently, and Karl, be careful of the draught, as you cross the street!"

While the good irritating Aunt was calling after them all these unnecessary cautions, Dora and her father had gone down the stairs and had softly closed the house-door. They had only a narrow alley to cross to reach their own rooms opposite.

The next afternoon, as Dora and her father seated themselves on their favorite bench under the lindens, the child asked,

"Papa, is it possible that Aunt Ninette never knew the verse you repeated to her last night?"

"Oh yes, my child, she has always known the lines," replied the Major. "It is only for the moment that your good aunt allows herself to be so overwhelmed with care and worry as to forget who governs all wisely. She is a good woman, and in her heart she places her trust in God's goodness. She soon comes to herself again."

Dora was silent for a while, and then she said thoughtfully,

"Papa, how can we help being 'overwhelmed with care and worry?' and 'killed with anxiety,' as Aunt Ninette said."

"By always remembering that everything comes to us from the good God, my dear child. When we are happy, we must think of Him and thank Him; when sorrow comes we must not be frightened and distressed, for we know that the good God sends it, and that it will be for our good. So we shall never be 'overwhelmed with care and worry,' for even when some bitter trouble comes, in which we can see no help nor escape, we know that God can bring good out of what seems to us wholly evil. Will you try to think of this, my child? for sorrow comes to all, and you will not escape it more than another. But God will help you if you put your trust in Him."

"Yes, I understand you, papa, and I will try to do as you say. It is far better to trust in God, than to let one's self be overwhelmed with care and worry.'"

"But we must not forget," continued her father, after a pause, "that we must not only think of God, when something special happens, but in everything that we do, we must strive to act according to His holy will. If we never think of Him, except when we are unhappy, we shall not then be able easily to find the way to him, and that is the greatest grief of all."

Dora repeated that she would ask God to keep her in the right way, and as she spoke, her father softly stroked her hand, as it lay in his. He did not speak again for a long time, but his eyes rested so lovingly and protectingly on his little girl, that she felt as if folded in a tender and strengthening embrace.

The sun sank in golden radiance behind the green lindens, and slowly the father and child wended their way towards the high house in the narrow street.



Chapter II.

Long, Long Days.


It was not many days after the events mentioned in the last chapter. Dora sat by her father's bedside, her head buried in the pillows, vainly striving to choke down her tears and sobs. It seemed as if her heart must break. The Major lay back on his pillow, white and still, with a peaceful smile on his calm face. Dora could not understand it, could not take it in, but she knew it. Her father was gone to join her mother in heaven.

In the morning her father had not come as usual to her bedside to awaken her, so when at last she opened her eyes, she went to seek him, and she found him still in bed, and lying so quiet that she seated herself quite softly by his side, that she might not disturb him.

Presently the servant came up with the breakfast, and looking through the open door into the bed-room where Dora sat by her father's bed-side, she called out in terror,

"Oh God, he is dead! I will call your aunt, child," and hurried away.

Dora's heart seemed cut in two by these words. She put her head upon the pillow and sobbed and wept. Presently she heard her aunt come into the room, and she raised her head and tried to control herself, for she dreaded the scene that she knew was coming. And it came -- cries and sobs, loud groans and lamentations. Aunt Ninette declared that she could never bear this terrible blow; she did not know which way to turn, nor what to do first.

In the open drawer of the table by the side of the bed, lay several papers, and as she laid them together, meaning to lock them up, she saw a letter addressed to herself. She opened it and read as follows:

"Dear Sister Ninette,

"I feel that I shall shall soon leave you, but I will not talk to you about it, for the sad time will come only too quickly. One only wish that I have greatly at heart I now lay before you, and that is, that you will take my child under your protection for as long as she may need your care. I shall leave very little money behind me, but I beg you to employ this little in teaching Dora something that will enable her, with God's help, to support herself when she is old enough.

"Do not, my dear sister, give way to your grief; try to believe as I believe, that God will always take our children under his care, when we are obliged to leave them and can no longer provide for them ourselves. Receive my heartfelt thanks for all the kindness you have shown to me and my child. God will reward you for it all."

Aunt Ninette read and re-read these touching lines, and could not help growing calmer as she read. She turned to the silently weeping Dora with these words,

"Come, my child, your home henceforth will be with us. You and I will try to remember that all is well with your father; otherwise we shall break down under our sorrow."

Dora arose at once and prepared to follow her aunt, but her heart was heavy within her; she felt as if all was over and she could not live much longer.

As she came up the stairs behind her aunt, Aunt Ninette omitted for the first time to caution her to step lightly, and indeed there was no need now of the usual warning when they approached Uncle Titus' room, for the little girl was so sad, so weighed down with her sorrow as she entered her new home, that it seemed as if she could never again utter a sound of childish merriment.

A little room under the roof, hitherto used as a store-room, was changed into a bed-room for Dora, though not without some complainings from Aunt Ninette. However, the furniture was brought over from the Major's rooms, and after a slight delay, all was comfortably arranged for the child.

When supper-time came, Dora followed her aunt, without a word, into the dining-room, where they were joined by Uncle Titus, who however seldom spoke, so deeply was he absorbed in his own thoughts. After supper, Dora went up to her little room under the roof, and with her face buried in her pillow, cried herself softly to sleep.

On the following morning she begged to be allowed to go over to look once again at her father, and after some objection, her aunt agreed to go with her, and they crossed the narrow street.

Dora took a silent farewell of her dear father, weeping all the time but making no disturbance. Only when she again reached her little bed-room, did she at last give way to her sobs without restraint, for she knew that soon her good father would be carried away, and that she could never, never see him again on earth.

And now began a new order of life for Dora. She had not been to school, during the short time that she and her father had lived together in Karlsruhe. Her father went over with her the lessons she had learned in Hamburg, but he did not seem to care to begin any new study, preferring to leave everything for her aunt to arrange.

It happened that one of Aunt Ninette's friends was the teacher of a private school for girls, so that it was soon settled that Dora was to go to her every morning to learn what she could. Also a seamstress was engaged to teach her the art of shirt-making in the afternoon, for it was a theory of Aunt Ninette's that the construction of shirts of all kinds was a most useful branch of knowledge, and she proposed that Dora should learn this art, with a view of being able to support herself with her needle. She argued that since the shirt is the first garment to be put on in dressing, it should be the first that one should learn to make, and with this as a foundation, Dora could go on through the whole art of sewing, till in time she might even arrive at the mighty feat of making dresses! With which achievement Aunt Ninette would feel more than satisfied, but this great end would never be reached, unless the first steps were taken in the right direction.

So every morning Dora sat on the school-bench studying diligently, and every afternoon on a little chair close to the seamstress' knee, sewing on a big shirt that made her very warm and uncomfortable.

The mornings were not unpleasant; for she was in the company of other children who were all studying, and Dora was ambitious and willing to learn. So the hours flew quickly, for she was too busy to dwell much on the loss of her dear father, and to think that he was gone forever. But the afternoons were truly dreadful. She must sit through the long hot hours, close by the seamstress, almost smothered by the big piece of cotton cloth, which her little fingers could hardly manage, and she grew restless and irritable, for her hands were moist, and the needle refused to be driven through the thick cloth. How often she glanced up at the clock on the wall during those long hours, when the minute hand was surely stuck at half-past three, and the regular tic-tac seemed to fill the quiet room with its sleepy droning. So hot, so still, so long were the hours of those summer afternoons!

The silence was broken now and then by the sounds of a distant piano. "What a happy child that must be!" thought little Dora, "who can sit at the piano and practise exercises, and all sorts of pretty tunes!" She could think of nothing more delightful; she listened with hungry ears, and drank in every note that reached her. In the narrow street where the seamstress lived she could hear the music distinctly, for no wagons passed, and the voices of foot-passengers did not reach up so high as to her room. So Dora listened to the sweet melodies which were her only refreshment during those hot long hours, and even the running scales were a pleasure to her ear. But then the thought of her father came back to her, and she felt bitterly the terrible contrast between these hot lonely afternoons and those which she used to spend with him under the cool shade of the lindens. Then she thought of that glorious sunset, and of her father, as he stood transfigured in the golden light. She remembered his comforting words, his assurance that some day they two and the mother would stand thus together, shining in the eternal light of Heaven. But Dora sighed at the thought of the long weary time before she should join them, unless indeed some accident should happen to her, or she should fall ill and die, from this too heavy task of shirt-making. After all, her best consolation was her father's verse; and then too, he had been so sure of its truth:

"God holds us in his hand, God knows the best to send."

She believed it too; and as she repeated the lines to herself, her heart grew lighter, and even her needle moved more easily, as if inspired by the cheering thoughts. Yet the days were long and wearisome, and their stillness followed her when she went home to her uncle and aunt.

She reached home just in time for supper. Uncle Titus always held the newspaper before his face, and read and ate behind its ample shelter. Aunt Ninette spoke in whispers all the while, and asked only the most necessary questions, in order not to disturb her husband. Dora said little; and less every day, as she grew accustomed to this silent life. Even when she came home from school at noon for the short interval before the time for her sewing lessons, there was no need to caution her against noise; for the child moved ever less and less like a living being, and grew more like a shadow day by day.

Yet by nature she was a lively little maiden, and took so keen an interest in all about her, that her father often used joyfully to observe it, saying,

"That child is exactly like her dear mother; just the same movements, the same indomitable spirit and enjoyment of life!"

But now all this vivacity seemed extinguished. Dora was very careful never to provoke her aunt to complaints, which she dreaded exceedingly. Yet for all her pains it would happen sometimes, most unexpectedly and when she was least looking for a storm, that one would break over her head, and frighten all her thoughts and words back into her childish heart; nay, almost check the flow of youth in her veins.

One evening, she came home from her work filled with enthusiasm, by a song she had been listening to, played by her unseen musician. Dora knew the words well:

"Live your life merrily While the lamp glows, Ere it can fade and die, Gather the rose."

Dora had often sung this song, but she had never dreamed that it could be played on the piano, and it sounded so beautiful, so wonderful to her, that she said to her aunt, as she entered the dining-room,

"Oh, Aunt Ninette, how delightful it must be to know how to play on the piano! Do you think that I can ever learn it in my life?"

"Oh, in heaven's name, how can you ask me such a thing? How can you worry me so? How could you do anything of the kind in our house? Think of the terrible din that a piano makes! And where would the money come from if you could find the time? Oh, Dora, where did you get hold of that unfortunate idea? I should think I had enough to worry me already, without your asking me such a thing as this into the bargain."

Dora hastened to assure her aunt that she had no intention of asking for any thing, and the storm blew over. But never again did she dare even to speak of music, no matter how eagerly she had listened to the piano, during her long sewing lessons.

Every evening after Dora had learned all her lessons for school, while her aunt in utter silence knitted or nodded, the child climbed up to her little attic room; and before she closed her tiny window, she leaned out into the night to see whether the stars were shining, and looking down upon her from the high heavens. Five there were always up there just above her head; they stood close together and Dora looked at them so often and so steadily, that she began to consider them as her own special property -- or rather as friends who came every night and twinkled down into her heart, to tell her that she was not utterly alone. One night the idea came to her that these bright stars were loving messengers, who brought her kisses and caresses from her dear parents. And from these heavenly messengers the lonely child gained nightly comfort when she climbed to her little chamber in the roof, with her feeble candle for her only companion. She sent her prayers up to heaven through the tiny window, and received full assurance in return, that her Father in heaven saw her, and would not forsake her. Her father had told her that God would always help those who trusted him and prayed to him, and she had no fear.

And so the long hot summer passed, and Autumn came. Then followed a long, long winter with its cold and darkness; such cold that Dora often thought that even the hot summer days were better, for she no longer dared to open the window to look for her friends the stars, and often she could hardly get to sleep, it was so cold in the little room, under the roof. At last the Spring rolled round again, and the days passed one like another, in the quiet dwelling of Uncle Titus. Dora worked harder than ever on the big shirts, for she had learned to sew so well, that she had to help the seamstress in earnest now. When the hot days came again, something happened; and now Aunt Ninette had reason enough to lament. Uncle Titus had an attack of dizziness, and the doctor was sent for.

"I suppose it is thirty years since you went beyond the limits of the town of Karlsruhe, and in all that time you have never left your desk except to eat and sleep. Am I right?" asked the physician, after he had looked steadily at Uncle Titus and tapped him a little here and there.

There was no denying that the doctor had stated the case truly.

"Very well," he said, "now off with you! go away at once; to-day rather than to-morrow. Go to Switzerland. Go to the fresh mountain air; that is all the medicine you need. Don't go too high up, but stay there six weeks at least. Have you any preference as to the place? No? Well, set yourself to thinking and I will do the same, and to-morrow I shall call again to find you ready for the journey."

With this off started the doctor, but Aunt Ninette would not let him escape so easily. She followed close at his heels with a whole torrent of questions, which she asked over and over again, and she would have an answer. The doctor had fairly deserved this attack, by his astounding prescription. His little game of snapping it suddenly upon them, and then quickly making his escape, had not succeeded; he lost three times as much time outside the door as if he had staid quietly in the room. When at last Aunt Ninette returned to her husband, there he sat at his desk again, writing as usual!

"My dear Titus," cried the good woman really in great astonishment, "is it possible that you did not hear what we are ordered to do? To drop everything and go away at once, and stay away for six weeks! And where? We have not an idea where! And there's no way of knowing who our neighbors will be! It is terrible, and there you sit and write as if there were nothing else to be done in the world!"

"My love, it is exactly because I must go away so soon, that I wish to make the most of the little time I have left," said Uncle Titus, and he went on with his writing.

"My dear Titus, your way of accepting the unexpected is most admirable, but this must be talked over, I assure you. The consequences may be very serious, and the matter must not be lightly treated. Do think at once where we are to go! Aunt Ninette spoke very impressively.

"Oh, it makes no difference where we go, if it is only quiet, and out in the country some where," said the good man, as he calmly continued his writing.

"Of course, that is the very thing" said his wife, "to find a quiet house, not full of people nor in a noisy neighborhood. We might happen on a school close by, or a mill, or a waterfall. There are so many of those dreadful things in Switzerland. Or some noisy factory, or a market place, always full of country folk, all the people of the whole canton pouring in there together and making a terrible uproar. But I have an idea, my dearest Titus, I have thought of a way to settle it. I shall write to an old uncle of my brother's wife. You remember the family used to live in Switzerland; I am sure I can find out from him just what it is best for us to do."

"That seems to me rather a round-about way," said her husband, "and if I remember right the family had some unpleasant experiences in Switzerland, and are not likely to have kept up any connection with it."

"Oh, let me see to that; I will take care that all is as it should be, my dear Titus," said aunt Ninette decidedly, and off she went, and without more delay wrote and dispatched a letter to her brother's wife's uncle. This done, she hurried away to Dora's sewing teacher, who was a most respectable woman, and arranged that while they were in Switzerland, Dora should spend the days with her, going to school as usual in the morning and sewing all the afternoon, and that the woman should go home with Dora to pass the nights.

Dora was informed of this plan when she came home that evening. She received the news in silence, and after supper in silence went to her little attic room. There as she sat upon her little bed, she realized fully what her life would be when her uncle and aunt had gone away, and as she compared it sadly with the happy companionship of her dear father, her sorrow and solitude seemed too terrible to bear, and she hid her face in her hands and gave way to bitter tears. Her uncle and aunt might die too, she thought, and she should be left alone with no one to care for her, no one in the world to whom she belonged, and nothing to do but to sit forever sewing on endless shirts. For ever and ever! for she knew she must earn her living by sewing. Well, she was quite willing to do that; but oh! not to be left all alone.

The poor child was so wholly absorbed in these painful thoughts, as they passed again and again through her mind, that she lost all sense of time, till at last she was aroused, by the clock on the neighboring tower striking so many times that she was frightened. She raised her head. It was perfectly dark. Her little candle had burned out, and not a glimmer of light came from the street. But the stars; yes, there were the five stars above still shining so joyfully, that it seemed to Dora as if her father were looking down upon her with loving eyes, and saying cheeringly,

"God holds us in his hand God knows the best to send."

The sparkling starlight sank deep into her heart, and made it lighter. She grew calmer. Her father knew, she said to herself, she would trust his knowledge, and not fear what the future might hold in store. And after she laid her head on her pillow, she kept her eyes fixed upon the beautiful stars until they closed in sleep.

On the following evening the doctor came as he had promised. He began to suggest various places to Uncle Titus, but Aunt Ninette assured him rather curtly, that she was already on the track of something that promised to be satisfactory. There were a great many things to be taken into consideration, she said, since Uncle Titus was to make so vast a change in his habits. The utmost prudence must be exercised in the selection of the situation, and of the house also. This was her present business, and when everything was settled she would inform the doctor of her arrangements.

"Very well, only don't be long about it; be off as soon as you can, the quicker the better," said the physician warningly, and he was making a hasty retreat, when he almost fell over little Dora who had stolen so quietly into the room that he had not seen her.

"There, there, I hope I did not hurt you," he said, tapping the frightened child upon the shoulder. "It will do this thin little creature a world of good too, this trip to Switzerland," he continued. "She must drink plenty of milk, -- lots of milk."

"We have decided to leave Dora behind," remarked Aunt Ninette drily.

"As you please; it is your affair, Mrs. Ehrenreich; but you must let me observe that if you do not look out, you will have another case on your hands, as bad as your husband's, if not worse. Good-morning madam," and he vanished.

"Doctor, doctor! what do you mean? What did you say?" cried Aunt Ninette in her most plaintive tone, running down the stairs to overtake him.

"I mean that the little person up there has quite too little good blood in her veins, and that she cannot last long, unless she gets more and better nourishment."

"For heaven's sake! What unfortunate people we are!" cried Mrs. Ehrenreich, wringing her hands in distress, as she came back into her husband's room. "My dearest Titus, just lay down your pen for one moment. You did not hear the dreadful things the doctor said would happen to Dora, if she did not have more and better blood?"

"Oh, take her with us to Switzerland. She never makes any noise," and Uncle Titus went on with his writing.

"My dearest Titus, how can you decide such a thing in one second? To be sure she never makes any noise, and that is the most important thing. But there are so many other things to consider, and arrange for, and think over! Oh dear! Oh dear me!"

But Uncle Titus was again absorbed in his work, and paid not the slightest heed to his wife's lamentations. So, seeing that she could expect no help from him, she went into her own room, thought everything over carefully again and again, and at last decided that it was best to follow the doctor's advice, and take Dora with them.

In a day or two the expected letter came from Hamburg. It was very short. The old uncle knew nothing about his brother's residence in Switzerland, now thirty years back. Tannenburg was certainly quiet enough, for his brother had always complained of the want of society there, and that was all he knew about it. But this was satisfactory so far, and Aunt Ninette decided at once to write to the clergyman at Tannenburg for farther particulars. Solitude and quiet! this was just what Uncle Titus needed.

This second letter brought an immediate answer which confirmed her hopes. "Tannenburg is a small place, with scattered houses," wrote the clergyman. "There is just such a dwelling as you describe, now ready for lodgers. It is occupied by the widow of the school-teacher, an elderly and very worthy woman, who has two good-sized rooms and a little bed-room which she will be glad to let." And the widow's address was added, in case Mrs. Ehrenreich should wish farther information.

Mrs. Ehrenreich wrote immediately, setting forth her wishes at full length and in great detail. She expressed her satisfaction that the houses in Tannenburg were so far apart, and she hoped that the one in question was not situated in such a way as to be undesirable for the residence of an invalid. She wished to make sure that there was in the vicinity no smithy, no locksmith, no stables, no stone-breaker's yard, no slaughter-house nor mill, no school, and particularly no waterfall.

The answer from the widow, very prettily expressed, contained the agreeable assurance, that not one of these dreaded nuisances was to be found in her neighborhood. The school and the mill were so far away that not a sound could reach her dwelling from either, and there was no waterfall in that part of the country. Also there was not a house to be seen far or near, except the large residence of Mr. Birkenfeld, standing surrounded by beautiful gardens, fields and meadows. The Birkenfelds were the most respected family in the neighborhood. He was a member of every committee, and was a most benevolent man, and his wife was full of good works. The widow added that she herself owed a great deal to the kindness of this family, particularly with regard to her little house which was their property, and which Mr. Birkenfeld had allowed her to occupy ever since her husband's death. He had proved to be the kindest of landlords.

After a letter like this there was no need for farther delay; everything had been provided for. Dora now heard for the first time that she was to go with them, and with a light heart and a willing hand, she packed the heavy materials for six large shirts, which she was to make while they were in Switzerland. The prospect of sewing on the shirts in a new place, and with different surroundings, excited her so much that she looked on it all as a holiday. At last all was ready. The trunks and chests were carried down to the street door, and the servant-girl was sent out for a cabman with a hand-cart, to take them away.

Dora had been ready for a long time, and stood at the head of the stairs with beating heart filled with expectations of all the new things that she was to see for the next six weeks. The idea of this coming freedom almost overcame her with its bewildering delight, after all those long, long days in the seamstress' little, stifling room.

At last her uncle and aunt came from their room laden with innumerable umbrellas and parasols, baskets and bundles, got down stairs with some difficulty, and mounted the carriage that was waiting below. And they were fairly off for the country, -- and quiet.



Chapter III.

On The Other Side Of The Hedge.


Mr. Birkenfeld's large house was situated on the summit of a green hill with a lovely view across a lake to a richly-wooded valley beyond. From early spring to the end of autumn, flowers of every hue glistened and glowed in the bright sunshine that seemed always to lie on those lovely meadows. Near the house was the stable, in which stamped four spirited horses, and there, also, many shining cows stood at their cribs, peacefully chewing the fragrant grass with which they were well-supplied by the careful Battiste, an old servant who had served the family for many years. When Hans, the stable-boy, and all the other servants were away, busy on the estate, it was Battiste's habit to walk round from time to time through the stalls, to make sure that all was as it should be. For he knew all about the right management of horses and cattle, having been in the service of Mr. Birkenfeld's father when he was a mere lad. Now that he was well on in years, he had been advanced to the position of house-servant, but he still had an eye upon the stable and over the whole farm. The mows were neatly filled with sweet-smelling hay, and the bins were piled full of wheat and oats and barley, all the product of the farm, which extended over the hill-side far away into the valley below. On the side of the house opposite the barnyards stood the wash-house with its spacious drying-ground, and not far away, but quite concealed by a high hedge from the house and garden, was the tiny cottage which the owner had kindly allowed the school-master's widow to occupy for several years past.

On the evening of which we write, the warm sunlight lay softly on the hillside, revealing the red and white daisies which nestled everywhere in the rich green grass. A shaggy dog was basking in the open space before the house door, lazily glancing about now and then to see what was stirring. All was quiet, however, and he peacefully dozed again after each survey. Occasionally a young, gray cat peeped slily forth from beneath the door-step, stared at the motionless sleeper and cautiously withdrew again. Everything denoted peace and quiet except certain sounds of voices and of great activity which proceeded from the back of the house, where the door leading into the garden, stood open.

Presently wheels were heard, and a wagon drove up and stopped before the door of the widow's cottage. The dog opened his eyes and pointed his ears, but it was evidently not worth while to growl at something in the next place, so he dozed off again at once. The newly-arrived guests descended from the carriage, and entered the cottage in silence. There they were cordially welcomed by Mrs. Kurd, and shown to the rooms reserved for them, and soon Aunt Ninette was busy in the large chamber unpacking her big trunk, while Dora in her little bedroom soon emptied her little box and put her clothes in the other room, which was to be his study, Uncle Titus also sat at a square table, busy placing his writing materials in readiness for work. Dora ran again and again to the window, whence she saw very different sights from any she had ever looked upon before. Green fields sprinkled with many-colored flowers, the blue lake, the snow-capped mountains in the distance, and over all, the enchantment of the golden-green light from the setting sun. The child could scarcely tear herself away from the window. She did not know that the world could be so beautiful. But her aunt soon recalled her from her wonderment, for there were still things to be put away which belonged to her, but had been brought in her aunt's trunk.

"Oh, Aunt Ninette," cried the child, "Isn't it perfectly beautiful?"

She spoke louder than she had ever thought of speaking in Uncle Titus' house, for the new scenes had aroused her natural sprightliness, and she was herself once more.

"Hush, hush Dora! Why, I don't know what to make of you, child! Don't you know that your uncle is in the next room, and is already at work?"

Dora took her things from her aunt's hands, but while passing the window, she asked softly,

"May I just look out of these windows a minute now, Aunt? I want to see what there is on every side of the house."

"Yes, yes, you may look out for a moment. There is nobody about. A quiet garden lies beyond the hedge. From the other window you see the big open space in front of the great house. Nothing else but the sleeping watch-dog before the door. I hope he is always as quiet. You may look out there too, if you like."

Dora first opened the window towards the garden; a delicious odor of jasmine and mignonette was wafted into the room from the flower-beds below. The high green hedge stretched away for a long distance, and beyond it she could see green sward and flower-beds and shady bowers. How lovely it must be over there! There was no one in sight, but some one certainly must have been there, for by the door of the house rose a wonderful triumphal arch, made of two tall bean-poles tied together at the top, and thickly covered with fir-branches. A large piece of card-board hung down from the arch, and swung back and forth in the wind, and something was written on it in big letters.

Suddenly a noise resounded from the open space in front of the great house. Dora ran to the other window and peeped out. A carriage stood there and two brown horses there stamping impatiently in their traces. A crowd of children came bursting out of the door of the house, all together; one, two, three, four, five, six, both boys and girls. "I, I, I must get upon the box," cried each one, and all together, louder and louder at every word; while in the midst of the crowd, the great dog began to jump upon first one child and then another, barking joyfully in his excitement. Such a noise had probably not greeted Aunt Ninette's ears within the memory of man.

"What is the matter, in heaven's name," cried she, almost beside herself. "What sort of a place have we come to?"

"Oh Aunty, look! see; they are all getting into the carriage," cried Dora, who was enchanted at the sight. Such a merry party she had never seen before.

One lad jumped upon the wheel, and clambered nimbly to a seat on the box beside the driver, from which he reached down his hand towards the dog, who was jumping and barking with delight.

"Come Schnurri, you can come too," cried the boy at the top of his lungs, at the same time catching at the dog, now by his tail, now by his paw, and again by his thick hair, until the driver leaned down and pulled the creature up beside them, with a strong swing. Meantime the eldest boy lifted a little girl from the ground, and jumped her into the carriage, and two younger boys, one slender, the other round as a ball, began to clamor, "Me too, Jule, me too, a big high one! me higher still!" and they shouted with glee, as they too were lifted up and deposited on the seat. Then Jule helped the older girl into the carriage, jumped in himself, and gave the door a good smart bang, for "big Jule" had strong muscles. The horses started; but now another cry arose.

"If Schnurri is going, I can take Philomele with me. Trine! Trine! bring me Philomele, I want to take Philomele!" shouted the little girl as loud as she could call.

The young, strong-fisted servant-maid who now appeared in the door-way, grasped the situation at once. She seized the gray cat that stood on the stone step casting angry looks at Schnurri, and flung her into the carriage. The whip cracked, and off they rolled.

Aunt Ninette hastened into her husband's room in great alarm, not knowing what effect all this disturbance would have upon him. He was sitting calmly at his table, with all the windows in the room closed and fastened.

"My dear Titus! who could have foreseen this? What shall we do?" she called out in tones of despair.

"It strikes me that the next house has a great wealth of children. We cannot help that, but we can keep the windows shut," replied her husband resignedly.

"But, my dearest Titus, only remember that you have come here expressly to breathe the healthy mountain air! As you never go out, you must let the air come in to you. But what will be the end if this is the beginning? What will become of us if this goes on?"

"We must go home again," said Uncle Titus, continuing to write.

Somewhat calmed by this proposition, Aunt Ninette returned to her room.

Dora had been very busy, putting her little room in perfect order, for she had formed a plan, which she meant to carry out as soon as this was done. The happy noise of the six children had so excited the lonely little girl that she was filled with the strongest desire to see them come back again, to see them get out of the carriage, and to see what would happen next; whether they wouldn't perhaps come into the garden where the triumphal arch stood, and then she could have a nearer view. She had made a little plan for watching them if they came into the garden. She thought that she might perhaps find a hole in the hedge that divided Mrs. Kurd's little garden from the large grounds next door, through which she could get a good view of what the children were doing, and how they looked. The child did not know what Aunt Ninette would say to this, but she determined to ask directly. At the door of her aunt's room she met Mrs. Kurd, who had come to call them to supper. Dora made her request then and there, to be allowed to go into the little garden, but her aunt said that it was now supper time, and after supper it would be quite too late. Mrs. Kurd put in a word in Dora's favor, saying that no one would be out there, and it would be safe for Dora to run about there as much as she chose, and at last Aunt Ninette consented to allow her to go out for a while after supper. The child could scarcely eat, so great was her excitement. She listened all the while for the sound of the returning wheels and the children's voices, but nothing was to be heard. When supper was over, her aunt said,

"You may go out now for a little while, but don't go far from the house."

Dora promised not to leave the garden, and ran off to search the hedge for the opening she wanted. It was a white-thorn hedge, and so high and thick that the child could see neither through it nor over it, but down near the ground were here and there thin places, where one could look into the next garden; but only by lying close on the ground. Little did Dora mind that; her one idea was to see the children. She had never seen so large a family, boys and girls, big and little, and all so happy and merry. And to have seen them all climbing into the carriage and driving off together! What a jolly party! She lay down on the ground in a little heap, and peered through the hedge. There was nothing to be heard; the garden beyond was still; the odor of the flowers was wafted to her on the cool, evening air, and she felt as if she could not get enough of it into her lungs. How beautiful it must be in there, she thought; to be able to walk about among the flower-beds! to sit under the tree where the red apples were hanging! And there under the thick branches stood a table, covered with all sorts of things which she could not see plainly, but which shimmered white as snow in the evening light. She was quite absorbed in wonder and curiosity, when -- there -- that was the carriage, and all the merry voices talking together. The children had returned. Dora could hear very plainly. Now all was still again; they had gone into the house. Now they were coming out again; now they were in the garden.

Mr. Birkenfeld had just returned from a long journey. The children had all gone down to the lake, to meet him at the landing when the steamboat came in. Their mother had remained at home to complete the preparations for the grand reception and the feast in the garden under the big apple-tree. The father's home-coming after so long an absence was a very joyful occasion for the family, and must be celebrated as such.

As soon as the carriage stopped at the door, the mother came running out to meet her husband. All the children jumped down, one after another, and the cat and the dog too, and they all crowded into the large hall, where the welcomings and greetings grew so loud and so violent that the father hardly knew where he was, nor which way to turn as they all pressed about him.

"Now one at a time, my children, and then I can give you each a good kiss," he said at last, when he succeeded in making himself heard through the tumult, "first the youngest, and then the others according to age. Now, my little Hunne, what have you to tell me?"

So saying, Mr. Birkenfeld drew his chubby five-year old boy to his knees. The child's name was Hulreich, but as he had always called himself Hunne, the other children and the parents had adopted the nick-name. Moreover, Julius, the eldest brother, declared that the baby's little stumpy nose made him look like a Hun, and so the name was very appropriate. But his mother would not admit the resemblance.

The little one had so much to tell his father, that there was not time to wait for the end of his story, and it had to be cut short.

"Bye and bye, little Hunne, you shall tell me all about it. Now it is time for Wili and Lili." And giving the twins each a kiss he asked them, "Well now, have you been very good and happy? and obedient, too, all this long time?"

"Almost always," replied Wili rather timidly, while Lili, recalling certain deviations from perfect obedience during her father's absence, thought it best not to make any answer. The twins were eight years old, and perfectly inseparable, never more so than in planning and carrying out various delightful plans, of whose mischievousness they were really only half conscious.

"And you, Rolf, how is it with you?" said the father, turning to a twelve-year old lad with a high forehead, and a strong, firm neck. "Plenty of Latin learned? More new puzzles ready?"

"I have been doing both, father," said the boy. "But the children will not guess my riddles, and my mother has not time to try."

"That is too bad," said his father, kindly and turning to the eldest daughter, a girl of nearly thirteen, he drew her to his side and said tenderly,

"And you Paula, are you still alone in your garden walks? have you no dear friend with you yet?"

"No, of course not, father, but it is beautiful to have you at home again," she answered as she embraced him.

"And I hope my 'big Jule,' is using his vacation in some sensible way?"

"I combine the agreeable with the useful," said Julius gaily, returning his father's embrace. "You must know, father, that the hazel-nuts are almost ripe and I am watching them carefully, and meantime I am riding Castor a good deal, so that he may not grow too lazy."

Julius was at home now only for the summer holidays, his school being in a distant town. He was seventeen, and tall, even too tall for his years so that in the family he was generally called "Big Jule."

Mr. Birkenfeld now turned to shake hands with the children's governess and the dear friend of the family, Miss Hanenwinkel, when Jule interrupted him.

"Come papa, I beg that you will do the rest of your greetings in the garden, where a most astonishing reception awaits you."

But his words cost him dear, for Wili and Lili sprang upon him as he spoke, pinching, pounding and thumping him to give him to understand that the "surprise" was not a thing to be talked about beforehand. He defended himself to the best of his ability.

"Lili, you little gad-fly, you, stop, stop, I tell you. I will make it all right," and he shouted to his father,

"I mean you are to go into the garden where my mother has prepared all sorts of delicious things for your supper, to celebrate your return."

"That is delightful. We shall find a big table spread under my favorite apple-tree. That is a surprise worth having. Come then let us all go into the garden."

He drew his wife's arm in his, and they walked out to the garden, the whole swarm following, Wili and Lili capering about in most noisy delight that their father should suppose that he knew what the "surprise" was already.

As they passed out into the garden they passed under the great triumphal arch, with red lanterns hung on each side, lighting up the large tablet, on which was an inscription in big letters.

"Oh, oh, how splendid!" cried the father, now really surprised, "a beautiful arch and a poem of welcome. I must read them aloud:"

"Here we stand in welcome Beside the garden door, How glad we are that you're at home! We feared you'd come no more, So long you've stayed -- but now to-day Forgot is all our pain. The whole world now is glad and gay, Papa is here again!"

"That is fine -- Rolf must have been the author of that, was he not?" and Wili and Lili jumped about more than ever, crying out,

"Yes, yes, Rolf wrote it, but we planned it all out and he made the verses, and Jule put up the poles and then we fetched the fir twigs."

"That was a delightful surprise, my children," said their father, much gratified. "How pretty the garden looks, all lighted up with red and blue and yellow lanterns. It looks like an enchanted spot, and now for my favorite apple-tree."

The garden did look very pretty. The little paper lanterns had been made up a long time before, and this very morning Jule had fastened them about on all the trees and high bushes, and while the hand-shaking and kissing had been going on in the house, Battiste and Trine had lighted the candles. The big apple-tree was dotted all over with them, so that it looked like a huge out-of-doors Christmas tree, and the red apples shone so prettily in the flickering light, that altogether it would have been difficult to imagine a more charming scene.

The table, spread with a white cloth and loaded with all sorts of nice dishes, looked irresistibly attractive.

"What a beautiful banquet-hall," cried the delighted father, "and how good the feast will taste! But what is this? Another poem?" and to be sure, a large white placard hung by two cords from the high bushes behind the apple-tree, and on it were the following lines:

"My first is good for man to be --  Better than wealth. My second we have longed to see Our father do in health. My whole with merry hearts we cry Today, and shout it to the sky."

"A riddle! Rolf made this too, I am sure," said he, clapping the boy kindly on the shoulder. "I will begin to guess it as soon as I can. Now we must sit down and enjoy these good things before us, and the pleasure of being all together again."

So they all took their places at the table, and each had his or her own story to tell of what had happened, and what had been done during the separation. There was so much to say that there seemed no chance for a pause.

At last however, came a silence, when lo! Mr. Birkenfeld drew a huge bundle from beneath his chair, and began to open the wrapper, while the children looked on with the greatest interest, knowing very well that that bundle held some gift for each one of them. First came a pair of shining spurs for "big Jule," then a lovely book with blue covers for Paula. Next a long bow with a quiver and two feather arrows. "This is for Rolf," said the father, adding as he showed the boy the sharp points of the arrows, "and for Rolf only, for he knows how to use it properly. It is not a plaything, and Wili and Lili must never dream of playing with it, for they might easily hurt themselves and others with it."

There was a beautiful Noah's Ark for the twins, with fine large animals all in pairs, and Noah's family, all the men with walking-sticks and all the women with parasols, all ready for use whenever they should leave the ark.

Last of all, little Hunne had a wonderfully constructed nutcracker, that made a strange grimace as if he were lamenting all the sins of the world. He opened his big jaws as if he were howling, and when they were snapped together, he gnashed his teeth as if in despair, and cracked a nut in two without the slightest trouble so that the kernel fell right out from the shell.

The children were full of admiration over both their own and each others' presents, and their joy and gratitude broke out afresh at every new inspection of each.

At last the mother stood up and said that they must all go into the house, for it was long after the children's usual bed-time. At this their father arose, and called out,

"Who has guessed the charade?"

Not one had even thought of it, except to be sure, the author.

"Well, I have guessed it myself," said their father, as no one spoke. "It must be 'welcome,' is it not, Rolf? I will touch glasses with you, my boy, and thank you very much for your charade."

Just as Rolf was raising his glass towards his father's to drink his health, a terrible shriek arose, "It is burning, it is burning!" Everybody ran from under the apple-tree; Battiste and Trine came from the house with tubs and buckets, Hans from the stable with a pail in each hand; all screaming and shouting together.

"The bush is on fire! the hedge is on fire!" There was terrible noise and confusion.

"Dora! Dora!" cried a voice of distress from the cottage behind the hedge, and Dora rose from her hiding place and hurried into the house. She had been so completely absorbed by what had been taking place under the apple-tree, though indeed she saw and heard but imperfectly, that she had entirely forgotten everything else, and it was full two hours that she had been lying all doubled up in the gap under the hedge.

Her aunt was flying back and forth, complaining and scolding. She had collected all her things from the drawers and the presses, and heaped them together, ready for flight.

"Aunt Ninette," said the little girl timidly, for she knew she had staid out too long, "you need not be frightened; it is all dark again in the garden; the fire is all out."

Her aunt cast a rapid glance from the window, and saw that this was true; everything was dark, even the last lantern extinguished. Some one was moving about among the trees, evidently to make sure that all was safe.

"This is too terrible! Who would have believed that such things could happen?" said Aunt Ninette, half scolding, half-whimpering. "Go to bed now Dora. To-morrow we will move away, and find another house, or leave the place altogether."

The child obeyed quickly, and went up to her little bedroom, but it was long, very long, before she could sleep. She still saw the illuminated garden, the sparkling apple tree, and the father and mother with their happy children gathered about them. She thought of the time when she too could tell her father everything, and the thought doubled her sense of her own loneliness, and of the happiness of those other children.

And the child had become so much interested in the life beyond the hedge, and so almost fond of that good father and mother, whom she had been watching, that the thought of going away again as her aunt threatened, was a very sad one. She could not go to sleep. Presently she seemed to see the children with their kind father again, and her own father was standing with them, and she heard these words,

"God holds us in his hand, God knows the best to send."

And so she fell asleep, and in her dreams she again saw the shining apple-tree, and the merry group under its branches.

On investigating the cause of the fire, it was discovered that Wili and Lili had conceived the happy thought of turning the riddle into a transparency, so that suddenly the company might see it shining with red light behind it, like the motto behind the Christmas tree, "Glory to God in the highest."

So they withdrew silently from the company, fetched two candles, climbed upon some high steps, which had been brought when the placard was put in place, and held the candles as near as possible to the card. As they did not perceive any expression of surprise on the faces of the company at the table, they raised their candles higher and higher, nearer and nearer, until the paste-board suddenly took fire, and the flame quickly spread to the bushes above.

The twins readily confessed themselves the cause of the mischief, and were sent to bed with but a gentle reproof, so as not to spoil the general effect of the festivity, but they were seriously warned never to play with fire again as long as they lived.

Soon all was quiet in the great house, and the moon looked peacefully down on the trees and the sleeping flowers in the silent garden.



Chapter IV.

All Six.


"We shall not be able to remain here; Mrs. Kurd," were the first words spoken by Mrs. Ehrenreich when she came to breakfast the next morning. "We have come into such an objectionable neighborhood that we must move away today."

Mrs. Kurd stood still in the middle of the room, quite speechless, and stared at the lady as if unable to grasp her meaning.

"I am fully convinced of the absolute necessity of our immediate departure," said Aunt Ninette, with emphasis.

"But indeed no more respectable, no quieter spot can be found in all Tannenburg than this. You cannot hope to be more comfortable anywhere else; either you or the gentleman," asserted the good widow as soon as she had recovered from her surprise.

"How can you say so, Mrs. Kurd, after hearing that intolerable uproar last evening? noises far surpassing anything that I described to you in my letters as 'absolutely to be avoided.'"

"Oh, my dear lady, that was only the children! You know they were having a family festival, and they were of course unusually lively."

"Indeed! if this is your method of celebrating family festivals in these parts, first a tempest of shouts and cries and then a fire with all its accompanying noise and hubbub, I can only say that such a neighborhood seems to me not only undesirable for an invalid, but positively dangerous."

"I do not think you can call the fire a part of the celebration," said Mrs. Kurd gently. "It was an accident, and it was very quickly extinguished, you must admit. A more orderly and well regulated family is nowhere to be found, and I cannot understand how the lady and gentleman can seriously think of leaving. I can assure you that no other such spot is to be found in all Tannenburg! If the gentleman needs quiet he will do well to walk into the wood, where it is healthful and quiet too."

After talking awhile, Mrs. Ehrenreich became more composed, and seated herself at the breakfast table, where Mr. Titus and Dora also took their places.

At the other house, breakfast had long been finished. The father had gone about his business, and the mother was occupied with her household affairs. Rolf was off to his early recitations in Latin, with the pastor of a neighboring parish. Paula was taking her music-lesson of the governess, and Wili and Lili took this opportunity to look over their lessons once more. Little Hunne sat in the corner with his newly-acquired nut-cracker before him, gravely studying its grotesque face.

Presently 'big Jule' came in, whip in hand, all booted and spurred from his morning ride.

"Who will pull off my riding boots?" he asked, throwing himself into a chair, stretching out his legs, and gazing admiringly at his new spurs. Wili and Lili sprang quickly from their seats, delighted at the chance of doing something that was not a lesson, and each seized a foot and began to pull with such force that before Jule knew what they were about he found himself slipping from his chair. In the next second he had grasped the side of his chair with the result that that also was pulled along the floor. He called out hastily "Stop! Stop!" while little Hunne, who saw the situation from his corner, now flew to his elder brother's assistance, hung on to the chair from behind, planting his little feet firmly on the ground, and throwing his weight backward as well as he knew how. His efforts were insufficient, however, and he was dragged along the floor as if he were on a coast. Wili and Lili were determined to finish their undertaking, and kept on pulling and pulling.

"Stop! Stop! Wiling and Liling You terrible twinning"

cried Jule, while little Hunne added his voice to swell the tumult.

At this the mother made her appearance upon the scene, and the uproar was stilled at once. Jule swung himself panting back into his chair, and Hunne slowly regained his equilibrium.

"My dear Jule, why do you make the children behave so badly? You ought to know better at your age," said his mother reprovingly.

"Certainly, mother, certainly, in future I will do better, but if you will look at it from another side, I am doing something, in affording the twins an opportunity to be of use, instead of carrying on their usual mischievous pranks."

"Jule, Jule, that does not look like doing better," said his mother warningly. "Lili, go down stairs and practise your exercises until Miss Hanenwinkel has finished Paula's music lesson. Wili, go on with your studying, and the best thing you can do, Jule, to help me, is to amuse the little one until I am at leisure."

The "big Jule" was ready to help to restore order after his bit of fun, and Lili ran down stairs to the piano as she was bidden. She found herself too much excited after the exertion of playing boot-jack for her brother, and her exercises did not run smoothly, so she took up one of her "pieces" to work off her superfluous energy upon, and began to play with great emphasis,

"Live your life merrily, While the lamp glows, Ere it can fade and die, Gather the rose."

Uncle Titus and his wife were just finishing their breakfast in a neighboring house when the affair of the boots began. Uncle Titus hastened to his room, closing the windows and fastening them against the noise. His wife summoned their hostess rather peremptorily, and asked her "just to listen to that" for herself. It did not seem to make much impression upon Mrs. Kurd however, who only said smilingly,

"Oh, how merry the dear children are, to be sure," and when Aunt Ninette went on to explain that such disturbances were the very worst thing for her poor invalid, the hostess only again recommended the walk in the woods for quiet and fresh air! The noise in the next house would not last long, she said, the young gentleman would soon return to college, and it would be much more quiet then. As she spoke, the sound of Lili's merry music came across through the open window on the morning breeze.

"And that too, is that the work of the young gentleman, who will soon return to college?" asked Mrs. Ehrenreich excitedly. "It is unendurable; continually some new noise or tumult or uproar. What do you say to this last, Mrs. Kurd?"

"I never have thought of it as noise," said the good woman simply, "the dear child is making such progress with her music, it is a pleasure to hear her."

"And Dora, where can Dora be? Is she bewitched too? It is time for her to begin her sewing; where can she be? Dora! Dora! Have you gone into the garden again?"

Aunt Ninette's voice was querulous and excited. To be sure, Dora had crept down again to peer through her opening in the hedge, and she was now listening as if enchanted, to Lili's gay music. She came back at once at the sound of her aunt's voice, and took her appointed place at the window where she was to sit and sew all day.

"Well, we cannot stay here, that is certain," said Mrs. Ehrenreich as she left the room.

The tears started to Dora's eyes at these words. She did so long to remain here, where she could hear and partly see now and then, the merry healthy life of these children in the beautiful garden beyond the hedge. It was her only knowledge of true child-life. As she sewed, she was planning and puzzling her brain with plans for prolonging their stay, but could think of nothing that seemed likely to be of use.

It was now eleven o'clock. Rolf came scampering home from his recitations, and catching sight of his mother through the open door of the kitchen, he ran to her, calling out before he reached the threshold, "Mamma, mamma, now guess. My first -- "

"My dear Rolf" interrupted his mother, "I beg of you to find some one else to guess. I have not time now, truly. Go find Paula, she has just gone into the sitting-room."

Rolf obeyed.

"Paula," he called out, "My first -- "

"No, Rolf, please, not just now, I am looking for my blank-book to write my French translation in. There is Miss Hanenwinkel, she is good at guessing, ask her."

"Miss Hanenwinkel," cried poor Rolf, pouncing upon her, "My first -- "

"Not a moment, not a second, Rolf," said the governess hastily. "There is Mr. Julius over there in the corner, letting the little one crack nuts for him. He is not busy; I am. Good-bye, I'll see you again."

Miss Hanenwinkel had been in England, and had taken a great fancy to this form of expression much in vogue there, and she constantly used it as a form of farewell, whether it was apropos or not. Thus she would say to the persistent scissors-grinder, who came to the door,

"Have you come back so soon? Do go where you are wanted if there is any such place. Good-bye. I'll see you again," and shut the door with a slam.

Or to the traveling agent who brought his wares to show, if asked to dismiss him, she would say,

"We want nothing; you know very well. Don't come here again. Good-bye. I'll see you again," and shut the door in his face. This was a peculiarity of Miss Hanenwinkel.

Julius was quietly seated in a corner of the sitting-room, while Hunne stood before him watching with grave attention his nut-cracker's desperate grimaces as he gave him nut after nut to crack in his powerful jaws. Hunne carefully divided each kernel, giving one half to Jule, while he popped the other into his own little mouth.

Rolf approached them, repeating his question, "Will you guess, Jule? You are not busy."

"My first in France, applaudingly The people to the actors cry: With steady aim full in the eye, To hit my second you must try; My whole's a prince of prowess high, Who fought the fight for Germany."

"That is Bismarck, of course," said the quick-witted lad.

"O, O, how quickly you guessed it," said Rolf, quite taken aback.

"Now it is my turn; pay attention. You must try hard for this now. I have just made it up." And Jule declaimed with emphasis:

"My first transforms the night, And puts its peace to flight. My second should you now become, You scarce will move, for fife or drum. My whole hath power to soothe you all, Be your delight in church, or camp, or ball."

"That is hard," said Rolf, who was rather a slow thinker. "Wait a moment, Jule, I shall get it soon." So Rolf sat down on an ottoman to think it over at his ease.

The big Jule and the little Hunne in the mean time pursued their occupation without interruption. As an extra proof of his skill, Julius practised with the shells at hitting different objects in the room, to his little brother's delight and admiration.

"I have it," cried Rolf at last, much delighted. "It is Cat-nip!"

"O, O, what a guess! what are you thinking of? It is something very different, entirely different. It is music. Mew -- sick -- music, don't you see?"

"Oh, yes," said Rolf rather abashed. "Now wait Jule, here's another. What is this?"

"My first sings by the water side, My next is Heidelberg's great pride, My whole was a blind poet, who In England lived and suffered too."

"Shakspere," said Julius, whose pride it was to answer instantly.

"Wrong," cried Rolf, delighted. "How could a shake sing by the water side, Jule?"

"Oh, I supposed you meant a shake in somebody's voice, as he was riding or driving along," said Jule, to justify himself. "Now what are you laughing at?"

"Because you have made such a wrong guess. It is some one 'very different, entirely different,' Jule. It is Milton, the blind poet Milton. Now try another because you failed in this. My first" -- 

"No, no, I must beg for a rest. It is too much brain work for vacation. I am going now to see how Castor is after my ride this morning." And Julius dashed off to the stable.

"Oh, what a shame!" cried Rolf, "what a pity! Now there is no one to guess, and I made four splendid charades on my way home. It is too bad that you are not old enough to guess, Hunne."

"But I can guess; I am old enough," said the little fellow rather vexed.

"Well, then try this one, try hard. Stop playing with the nuts and I will crack some more for you bye and bye. Now listen:

"My first conceals from light of day The wanderer on his final way; My second sizzling in the pan, Makes hungrier still the hungry man; My whole, bedecked in trappings gay, Goes ambling on the livelong day."

"A nutcracker," said Hunne without hesitation. Julius was his beau-ideal of all that was best, and he thought that if he imitated Jule, and answered quickly the first thing that came into his head, that was guessing.

But Rolf was angry.

"How can you be so stupid, Hunne? Just think about it a little, can a nut cover some one on his last way?"

"Why, it can cover -- well -- the shell covers it."

"Nonsense! and a nutcracker can not go ambling all day, can it, you stupid child."

"Now see, mine can," said the little boy, who did not like to be called stupid, and he tied his handkerchief round the neck of the long suffering nutcracker and dragged it after him up and down the room, lifting it up now and then at regular intervals.

"Oh well, yes, you think you're right; and I can't explain it because you don't understand anything about it. Just try to think a little; can you hear a cracker sizzling as its cooks, and will it make you hungry to hear it?"

"If I throw a cracker into the fire, won't it burn?" said the child, planting himself before Rolf and holding his nutcracker saucily before his eyes.

"Oh, there is no use talking to you," said Rolf, and was just about leaving the room, but this was not so easily done, for now Hunne was bitten with the mania for riddle-making himself.

"Stop, Rolf," he cried and grasped his brother by the jacket to hold him. "My first is not good to drink but to eat -- "

"Oh dear, well, that must be 'nutcracker' again," and Rolf ran off, wrenching himself from his tormentor's hands. But the boy followed him, crying, "Wrong, wrong! you are wrong. Try again, try again!"

Moreover, Wili and Lili came scampering in from the other side, crying out,

"Rolf, Rolf, a riddle! guess! try!" and Lili held up a strip of paper and rattled it before Rolfs eyes, repeating, "Guess, guess, Rolf."

So the riddle-maker was now caught in his own meshes.

"Well, at least leave me room to guess in," cried he, striking about him with his arms to make room.

"You can't guess anything," cried little Hunne contemptuously, "I am going to Jule -- he knows."

Rolf took the little slip of yellowish paper that Lili was waving back and forth, and looked at it in surprise. In a childish hand-writing that he had never seen before, were written the following words,

"Come lay your hand Joined thus we Each the other That our union But behold the That our future We will cut our Half for you and But we still will That our halves And with us Our friendship."

"It is probably a rebus," said Rolf thoughtfully. "I shall guess it after a little while. Just let me stay alone long enough to think it out."

There was not much time left for this however, for the dinner-bell sounded and all the family assembled in the large hall for the mid-day meal.

"What nice thing has my little Hunne done to-day?" asked the father, when they were at last all busy over their plates.

"I made a splendid riddle, Papa, but Rolf never tries to guess my riddles, and I couldn't find Jule, and the rest would not listen to me at all."

"Yes, Papa," interrupted Rolf! "and I too have made three or four splendid ones, but no one has time to guess them, and those who have time enough are so stupid that there is no use in trying to get any answer from them. When Jule has guessed one he thinks he has done enough, and I can make at least six in a day."

"Yes, yes, Papa" -- it was now Wili's and Lili's turn -- "and we have found such a hard riddle, so hard that even Rolf couldn't guess it. It is really a rebus."

"If you will wait long enough I can get it, I am sure," said Rolf.

"We seem to have a riddle in every comer," said their father. "I believe we have a riddle-fever, and one catches it from another. We really need a regular guesser in the house, to do nothing but guess riddles."

"I wish I could find such a person," said Rolf, sighing, for to be forever making riddles for somebody who would listen with interest and guess with intelligence, seemed to him the most desirable thing in the world.

When dinner was over, the family went merrily into the garden under the apple-tree, and seated themselves in a circle. The mother and Miss Hanenwinkel and the girls were armed with sewing and knitting work. Little Hunne also had a queer-looking bit of stuff in his hand upon which he was trying to work with some red worsted. He said he wanted to embroider a horse-blanket for Jule. Jule had brought a book at his mother's request, to read aloud to them.

Rolf sat a little way off under the ash-tree, and studied his Latin lesson. Wili sat by his side, meaning to study his little piece, but first he looked at the birds in the branches, and then at the laborers in the field, and then at the red apples upon the tree, for Wili loved visible things, and it was only with the greatest difficulty, and generally with Lili's assistance, that he could get the invisible into his little head. Consequently, his afternoon study usually turned to a continuous observation of the surrounding landscape.

Jule also seemed inclined to pass his time in looking about him instead of reading aloud, for he did not open his book, but allowed his eyes to wander in all directions, particularly towards his sister.

"Paula," he said at last, "the expression of your countenance to-day is as if you were a wandering collection of vexations."

"Oh, do read to us, Jule; then we shall have something more agreeable than these similes which nobody can understand the meaning of."

"It would be nicer if you would read, Jule," added her mother, "but I must say too, Paula, that you have been for the last few days so short and snappish that I should really like to know what is amiss with you. You seem out of sorts with every one about you."

"But mamma, with whom can I have any real companionship? I have not a single friend in all Tannenburg. I have nobody in all the world with whom I can be intimate."

The mother suggested that Paula might be a little more friendly with her sister Lili, and also with Miss Hanenwinkel. But Paula declared, that Lili was much too young, and the governess much too old. The latter was really only twenty, but to Paula she seemed very old indeed. For girls to be intimate, she declared they must be of the same age, so that they could thoroughly understand each other's feelings, and they must be always together. Without such a friend Paula said there was no real pleasure in life, for a girl needed some one to whom she could confide her secrets, and who would tell her own in return.

"Yes, Paula is at the romantic age," said her brother. "I am sure that for a long time she has peeped into every field flower to see if it would not suddenly unfurl a hidden banner, and turn into a Joan of Arc. Every little mole that she sees in the fields, she half suspects may wear a seal-ring on his little finger, and be a Gustavus Vasa in disguise, searching amid the mole-hills for his lost kingdom."

"Do not be so teasing, Jule," said his mother reprovingly. "There is certainly something very delightful in such an intimacy as Paula describes. I had such an experience myself, and the memory of that happy time is dear to me even now!"

"Oh, do tell us again about your dear friend Lili, mamma," exclaimed Paula, who had often heard her mother speak of this intimate friendship, and had indeed formed her own ideal upon that model. Lili also joined her sister in begging for the story, and even more urgently, for she knew nothing about this friend, although she bore the same name.

"Was not I named for her, mamma?" she asked, and her mother assented. "You all know the long manufactory under the hill," continued Mrs. Birkenfeld, "with the large house surrounded by a beautiful garden. Lili, my friend, lived there, and I remember very well the first time I ever saw her.

"I was about six years old, and I was playing one day in the parsonage garden with my simple dolls, which I set up on flat stones, that I always collected for seats for my children, whenever and wherever I found them. For I had no such outfit for my dolls as you children have now, no sofas and chairs and other furniture. You all know that your grandfather was the pastor in Tannenburg, and we led a very simple life at the parsonage. My playmates, two of the neighbors' children, were standing as usual by me and staring at me while I played, without saying one word. They never seemed to take the interest in my plays that I thought they deserved. They stood and looked at me with their big eyes, no matter what I did, and it was very annoying to me.

"Well, this evening, I was sitting there, on the ground, with my dolls all placed in a circle, when a lady came into the garden and asked to see my father. Before I could reply, a child whom she was leading by the hand, came running to my side, squatted down by me, and began to examine everything. I had so arranged my stones that each flat one had another stuck into the ground edgewise behind it, so that the doll could be placed leaning back against it as if it were a chair. The child was delighted with this arrangement, and joined in my play at once with the liveliest interest, while on my side I was so charmed with the little stranger's looks and ways, with her pretty floating curls and her sweet voice that I forgot everything else, and looked on bewitched, while she made the dolls say and do all sorts of things that I had never thought of before. I was quite startled when the lady again asked where she could find my father.

"From that day forth Lili and I were inseparable friends, and a rich and happy life was opened to me in her lovely home, such as I had never known nor thought of. I shall never forget the delightful, untroubled days which I spent in that beautiful house. I was almost as much loved and petted as if I had been Lili's own sister. Her parents had come from North Germany. Her father had been induced to buy the factory by the advice of an acquaintance, and they expected to remain permanently in our neighborhood. Lili was an only child, and having been hitherto without companionship of her own age, she clung to me very closely, and I returned her affection with equal fervor.

"What good, kind people her parents were! They asked as a great favor that I might make long visits at their house, and my parents allowed me to pass weeks at a time with my newly found friends. Those visits seemed to me like prolonged festivals. Such lovely toys and playthings as Lili had! I had never even dreamed of anything like them. I shall never forget the innumerable figures cut from fashion plates which we used for paper dolls! We each had a large family of them, with all their kindred and relatives, each one fitted with a name, a character and a story of its own. We almost, nay quite, lived in their imaginary lives, and we shared their joys and sorrows as if they had been real.

"I always returned home laden with gifts, and I was scarcely settled there, when new requests came that I would repeat the visit. When we were a little older we had lessons together, both from a regular teacher and from my father, and when we began to read together, the heroes and heroines of our books were as real to us as our dolls had been, and we lived over their lives and histories again and again. What life and energy Lili had; what freshness and vivacity; my charming Lili, with her flowing brown curls and her laughing eyes!

"So the years passed, and no thought of coming sorrow and separation crossed our young lives, until one day, when we were nearly twelve years old, my father told me -- I remember the very spot in the garden where we were standing at that moment -- that Mr. Blank, Lili's father, was about to give up his factory and return to Germany. As I understood, Mr. Blank had been deceived from the very beginning; the business was not in the prosperous condition that had been represented to him, and now he was obliged to give it up, to his great loss. My father was very much disturbed, and he declared that Mr. Blank had been very badly treated, and was consequently ruined.

"I was broken-hearted. To lose Lili, and to have her lose all her property, were two things which made my life unhappy for a long, long time. The very next day she came to say good-bye. We cried bitterly, for we could not bear to think of living apart, we were so necessary to each other's happiness. We promised to be always true to each other, and to use every effort to meet again; and then we sat down together and composed a last poem, for we had often written verses together. We cut the poem in halves, and took each a half to keep as a token of our lasting union, and as a sign of recognition when we should some day meet again.

"Lili went away. We wrote to each other for several years, and our friendship continued as fervent as ever. These letters were the only drops of comfort in the monotonous loneliness of my life after I lost Lili. When I was about seventeen, I received a letter which told me that her father had decided to go to America. She promised to write again as soon as they were settled in their new life. I never heard from her again. Whether her letters were lost, or whether the family never staid long enough in one place for her to be able to give me an address, or whether Lili thought that our lives were now so irrevocably separated that we could never hope to resume our intimacy -- these are questions that I have often asked myself, but that of course I have had no means of deciding. Perhaps Lili is no longer living; she may have died soon after that very time -- I cannot tell. I have mourned her as an irreparable loss, for she was my first, my only intimate girl-friend, and nothing can efface from my mind the memory of her friendship, and of the vast goodness and affection which her family showered upon me. I have inquired for them in every direction, but have never discovered any clue to their existence far or near."

The mother was silent; a very sad expression rested upon her face. The children sympathized with her and said one after the other, sorrowfully, "What a pity, what a pity!" Little Hunne, however, who had listened very attentively to his mother's story, put his arms lovingly around her, and said,

"Don't be so sad, mamma dear! I will go to America as soon as I am big enough, and bring your Lili back with me; that I will!"

Rolf and Wili had drawn near, to hear the story, and presently Rolf said, looking thoughtfully at a strip of paper which he held in his hand,

"Did your piece of paper with the poem look like a rebus, after you had cut it in two, Mamma?"

"Perhaps so, Rolf. I should think it might look like one. Why do you ask?"

"Look here! is this it?" replied the boy, holding up his strip of paper.

"Yes, yes, it certainly is it," cried the mother in great excitement. "I thought it had been lost long ago. I kept it carefully put away for many years, and then in some way I lost sight of it. I thought it was lost forever. Lately I have not thought of it at all, but telling you the story of my early friendship, brought it again to my mind. Where did you find it, my son?"

"We found it!" cried Wili and Lili triumphantly. "It was in the old bible with the queer pictures. We thought we would look at Eve, again, to see whether her face was scratched as it used to be." The twins talked both together as usual.

"Yes, that is another thing that brings my Lili to mind," said their mother, smiling. "She scratched that picture once when we were saying how lovely it would be if we were in Paradise together, and suddenly she felt so furious with Eve because she ate the apple, that she scribbled all over her face with a pencil, 'to punish her,' she said. My old verses! I cannot recall the other half, it is so long ago, over thirty years! only think, children, thirty years ago!"

She laid the paper carefully away in her work-basket, and bade the children put their things together and come into the house, for it was almost supper-time, and their father approved of punctuality above all things.

They gathered up their work and books, and returned slowly to the house under the triumphal arch that still spanned the garden-door of the house.

Dora had been peeping at them as they sat clustered about their mother in an attentive group under the apple-tree. She had now a good chance to examine each child, as they walked slowly back to the house, and as the last one disappeared, she said, softly sighing, "Oh, if I could sit only just once with them under the apple-tree!"

At supper that evening Aunt Ninette said, "We have really had a few hours of quiet. If it goes on so, we shall be able to stay here after all. Don't you think so, dear Titus?"

Dora listened breathlessly for the answer.

"The air in my room is very close, and I suffer more from giddiness than I did at home," was the uncle's reply.

Dora gazed at her plate despondently, and lost her appetite for that supper. Mrs. Ehrenreich broke out into lamentations It was provoking to have made this journey without its being of any use to her husband after all! If they had only moved away at once! However, perhaps there would be less noise over the hedge after this, and the windows could be opened! Dora's hopes rose again, for as long as they staid, there was always a chance that she might go into that garden once, at least once.



Chapter V.

Before And After The Flood.


There were times when it seemed as if little Hunne could find no resting-place for the sole of his foot, when he wandered restlessly back and forth through the house incessantly. No one would pay any attention to him, he was sent from one person to another, and even his mother only bade him sit quietly at his own little table until she was at liberty to come to him. Of course Hunne's restless moments were just those when everybody was particularly busy, such as Saturday morning when no one had a moment to spare. And on this particular Saturday, the child had been wandering about the passages among the sofas and chairs which, having been put out there during the weekly sweeping, looked as restless and out-of-place as Hunne himself.

He spent a long time looking for his mother and he found her at last up-stairs in the attic, but she sent him down at once, for she was busy with the clothes for the wash. "There, dear, go and find Paula; perhaps she is not busy just now." Hunne found Paula at the piano.

"Go away, Hunne, I must practise," said she. "I have not time to guess your riddles; there comes Miss Hanenwinkel; ask her."

"Miss Hanenwinkel," cried the little boy, "my first you can eat but not drink."

"O spare me, Hunne" interrupted the governess, who seemed in a hurry. "If you break out into charades too, what will become of us? I have not a moment to waste. See, there is Mr. Julius just getting off his horse; ask him."

Off ran Hunne.

"Jule, nobody will guess my riddle, and even Miss Hanenwinkel is too busy, so she sent me to ask you."

"Well, what is it, my little man? out with it," said Jule good-humoredly.

So the child repeated his "you can eat but not drink," and then stopped short.

"Well, go on! What comes next?" said his brother, "what is the rest?"

"You must make the rest, Jule; the whole is nut-cracker."

"Oh yes, I see; that is all right. Now look here; since Miss Hanenwinkel sent you to me to guess for her, I will send one to her by you. Now say it over and over until you have learned it. It is rather long:"

"First cut short your laughter for me, Then spell me a nun with an e, Shut quickly with meaning, one eye, Then add me an el, and -- good-bye --  Good-bye till I meet you again."

It did not take Hunne long to learn the lines, and he started off at once to find the governess. She was sitting with Wili and Lili in the school room, patiently trying to get them to finish their examples; but they were both so absent-minded, that she was sure that they were planning something extraordinarily mischievous. In rushed the little Hunne:

"A riddle, Miss Han -- "

"No, positively no! This is not the proper time to bring me things to guess."

The voice was very firm, almost severe, but Hunne had Jule to back him, so he was full of courage, and he kept repeating;

"Jule told me to."

"Well, say it then quickly," said the governess, relenting a little.

And Hunne repeated the riddle very slowly but correctly.

Now Miss Hanenwinkel was a native of Bremen, and therefore very quick at repartee, and she never hesitated for an answer. She seated herself directly at a table, and dashed off the following in reply:

"In the long hot hours that mark my first, My whole my second did invite Together gaily to unite. When the ripe nuts their coverings burst, They did the work -- he ate his share, Then tossed the nut-shells everywhere."

"There, take this back to Mr. Julius," she said, handing the paper to Hunne, "and tell him that as he made such a fine charade on my name, I do not wish to be behind-hand with him. Now, after this, stay away, little one, for we have our examples to do, and we cannot be interrupted again."

Wili and Lili for their part, did not seem to care if the examples were interrupted. It was only too evident that they had something in their minds; and that it disturbed their little brains to such an extent, that work was almost impossible for them. While their teacher was busy with the charade and little Hunne, the twins had drawn their chairs nearer and nearer, and laid their two heads together over some very important plans -- so very important and engrossing that Miss Hanenwinkel soon closed the book, with the remark that if the arithmetic were only some foolish nonsensical trick or other, there might be some chance of their being willing to work over it and understand it. She was probably right, for the twins had certainly an unusual talent for tricks of all kinds. No sooner was the lesson-hour over, than they rushed forth, and betook themselves to the wash-house, where they stood gazing at the tubs of various sizes, and whispering mysteriously.

At dinner-time, Julius taking out a paper, asked,

"Who can guess this excellent charade, composed by Miss Hanenwinkel?" and he read it aloud.

He had scarcely finished when Rolf called out the answer, "July-us!"

Miss Hanenwinkel however said nothing about the lines which Julius had composed on her name, for she was rather shy about the little slap at her peculiarity of speech, that appeared in the last line.

As soon as dinner was over, Wili and Lili ran off to the wash-house again. Saturday afternoon they had no lessons. So they had a beautiful time all to themselves. To be sure, it was understood that the governess should look after them a little. But when she saw the children go into the wash-house, she took it for granted that they were going to have a grand wash of doll's clothes, such as they often had. She was very glad that they would be safely occupied for a few hours at least.

But the twins, be it known, had far greater aspirations this afternoon, than for a simple doll's-wash. They had been playing with the Noah's ark, which their father had brought them, and had thought a great deal about the peculiar and wonderful life those people must have led in the ark at the time of the Flood. It occurred to Lili that she should like to try what it was like, to live in an ark, and even to take a voyage in one, and of course Wili, as usual, agreed with her enthusiastically. Lili's plans were all made; she had thought out all the details, for she was an observing little maiden, and knew the uses of many things and how to turn them to her own purposes. She chose one of the middle-sized wash-tubs for an ark. There would be room enough for all the animals, if they would sit quietly in their places.

Of course the animals were Schnurri and Philomele. The twins tried to coax them to take their parts in the play. Schnurri came growling at their call, but Philomele purred and rubbed back and forth against Lili's legs, till the little girl took her up in her arms, and said,

"Ah, my dear little Philomele, you are a great deal nicer than that old Schnurri."

This was the way it always was with these two creatures. The cat was called Philomele or nightingale, because she purred in such a melodious manner. The dog was named Schnurri, which means growler, because he had a habit of constant growling; though he always had good reason of his own for it. They had both been taught to live peaceably with each other, and to do each other no mischief of any kind. Schnurri was very good about it; followed the rule most punctiliously, and treated Philomele with great consideration. When they ate their dinner from the same dish, he ate slowly, because with her smaller mouth she could not take in as much at a time as he did. But it was quite different with the cat. One moment she seemed as friendly as possible with Schnurri, and rubbed up against him and was playful and kind; especially if any one of the family was looking; then suddenly, without warning, she would raise her little paw and give him a sharp scratch behind the ear. Then he growled of course, and as this behavior of Philomele's was very frequent, it followed that he seemed to be constantly growling. So he got his name of Schnurri, though really quite unjustly, for by nature he was most friendly and peaceable.

The first thing needed for the ark-voyage was water. Lili knew how the water was brought into the wash-house when the clothes were ready for the wash. There was a spring just opposite, with a log through which the water flowed freely; and when they wanted to fill the tubs, they placed a long wooden spout under the log, and let the water run through. That was simple enough. Now Lili thought that if she could arrange the spout, so as to lead the water to the floor of the wash-house, it would soon make a pond, on which the tub-ark would float, all ready for the voyage. How to get the long spout in place; that was the question.

The children debated for a while whether to ask Battiste or Trine to help them carry out their plan. Between old Battiste and young Trine, there were very much the same relations as between Schnurri and Philomele. The man had been a servant in the Birkenfeld family for many years, and his knowledge of all departments of work, in house and stable and farm caused him to be consulted on every occasion. It must be confessed that Trine was rather jealous of Battiste's influence, because though she had not been very long in Mr. Birkenfeld's service herself, she had an aunt who had lived in the family many years; indeed until she grew too old to work. When this aunt had to give up, Trine had succeeded to her place; and so it was that she felt that she had long established rights in the house, and that Battiste took more upon himself than was quite fair. When any of the family were about, she was very civil to her fellow servant, but behind their backs she gave many a saucy word, and played tricks upon him now and then. Just the dog and cat again!

The children understood pretty well how things stood between the two, and profited by their petty quarrels and jealousy. Wili and Lili really would rather have asked Trine than Battiste, for they had more hope of getting what they wanted from her, as she took new ideas more readily than the man, who did not like to be put out of his usual ways. But unluckily, what they wanted was under Battiste's charge. So it was settled that Lili should ask him to help them, while Wili held on to the cat and dog, lest they should run away.

Battiste was out on the barn floor, arranging a collection of seeds. Here Lili found him, and she planted herself before him with her hands behind her back, just as she had seen her papa stand, when giving orders.

"Battiste," she said very firmly, "where is the spout that is used to fill the tubs in the wash-house?"

Battiste lifted his face from his seeds, and looked curiously at Lili as she stood there, as if he were waiting to hear the question again; for he always took things moderately. At last he replied with a question in his turn:

"Did your mamma send you to ask me?"

"No, I came of my own self."

"Then I don't know where the spout is."

"But, Battiste, I only want a little water from the spring; why can't I have just that?"

"I know that kind of a little bird," said Battiste, grumblingly, "now a little water, and now a little fire, and always mischief. Can't have it. Can't give it to you."

"Oh well, I don't care," said Lili, and went straight to the kitchen, where Trine was scouring pans.

"Trine, dear," said she coaxingly, "come and give me the water-spout. Battiste won't let us have it. You'll get it for us, won't you?"

"Of course I will," said the maid, "a little water you might be allowed, I'm sure. But you must wait till the old bear is out of the way; and then I'll go and get you what you want."

After a while Trine saw Battiste coming from the barn; he went past the house, down toward the meadows.

"Come along now," she said, and taking Lili's hand, she ran with her to the wash-house, lifted the long wooden spout from its hiding-place, put one end into the log, and the other into a small tub. Then she explained to Lili that when they had enough water, they could push the spout away from the log, and when they wanted it again, they could lift it up and put it into the log themselves. But now she must go back to her work.

Away went Trine, and now the preparations for the voyage could begin. The children took the lower end of the spout out of the tub, and put it down upon the floor. Lili got into the new ark, and then Wili, and then they lifted in the cat and the dog. Noah and his wife sat side by side, and rejoiced over their safety and over the delightful voyage they should make on the rising waters of the flood, as the stream from the spout flowed merrily in upon the wash-house floor. The water rose very fast. Now, yes, now the ark fairly floated, and Noah and his wife shouted for joy! The flood had begun, and they were floating backward and forth upon the surface of the water!

The wash-house floor was lower by several steps than the level of the ground outside. The water rose and rose, and the children began to be frightened.

"Look, Wili, we can't get out again, and it is getting very deep."

Wili gazed thoughtfully over the edge of the tub, and said, "If it gets much deeper we shall be drowned."

And it went on getting deeper and deeper.

Pretty soon Schnurri grew restless, and sprang up, making the tub roll so frightfully as almost to upset it. The water was now so deep that the children could not get out without danger, and they became dreadfully frightened, and began to cry out as loud as they could,

"We are drowning! Mamma! Battiste! Trine! We are drowning!" Then they no longer used any words, but simply screamed, quite beside themselves with terror. Schnurri barked and howled in sympathy, but Philomele scratched and bit at everything within reach. Now the true character of the two animals showed itself. The cat would not go out of the tub into the water, and would not stay quietly in it, either, but fought like a mad creature. But when the faithful dog found that, in spite of all the screams and howls, no one came to their aid, he jumped into the water, swam to the door, shook himself vigorously, and ran away. The children screamed louder than ever, for the dog's movements had made the tub tip back and forth, and they were well scared.

Dora had run down from her room, and was peeping through her opening in the hedge, to try to find out the cause of these terrible cries. The wash-house stood quite near the hedge, but she could not see anything except the logs that carried the water to it from the spring. She heard the cry "We are drowning!" and she ran back up-stairs, calling out, breathless with fright,

"Aunt, aunt! two children are drowning over there! don't you hear them call?"

Her aunt had closed all the windows, but the screams penetrated even to her ears.

"Oh dear, what can that be?" she exclaimed, in the greatest alarm. "I hear a terrible cry; but who says they are drowning? Mrs. Kurd! Mrs. Kurd! Mrs. Kurd!"

Meantime, Schnurri, all dripping-wet, ran to the shed where Battiste was shaping bean-poles for the kitchen garden. The dog rushed at Battiste, barking furiously, seized him by the trousers, and tried to pull him along.

"Something is amiss," said the man to himself; and taking a long bean-pole on his shoulder, in case it should be needed, he followed Schnurri to the wash-house. By this time the whole family had assembled there -- the mother, the governess, Julius, Paula, Rolf, Hunne, and last of all Trine; for the cries had reached every corner of house and garden. Battiste stretched his long pole across the water to the floating tub.

"Now, catch hold of that, and hold on tight, very tight," he said, and pulled the ark and its occupants towards dry land. Wili and Lili were as white as chalk from their long fright.

It was no time to question the children about this new mishap, for they were in no condition to talk about it; so the mother wisely took each by the hand, and led them to the seat under the apple-tree, to recover themselves. Julius followed with little Hunne, saying, "Oh Wili and Lili, you terrible twins, you will come to some dreadful end before long."

Old Battiste rolled up his trousers and stepped into the water in the wash-house, to pull out the stopper from the waste pipe so that the flood could subside from the land of Noah. Trine stood looking on. Battiste growled at her.

"You have no more sense than the seven-year-old babies! But that is the way things go!" for he had seen at once, who must have given them the water-spout. Trine did not think it best to reply at that moment, as she had been fairly caught in the wrong, but she secretly got her claws ready to scratch when her chance came -- just like Philomele. When the little party under the apple-tree were somewhat tranquillized again, the cat came purring and rubbing herself fawningly about Lili's feet. The child only gave her an angry push, and turned to caress old Schnurri, who lay, still wet, on the ground near by; while Wili patted him affectionately, saying softly,

"You shall have all my supper to-night, old fellow."

"Mine too," said Lili, and they both understood now the real characters of the two pets.

Hunne sat looking thoughtfully at the rescued party, and at last accosted Jule, who was walking back and forth on the gravel path:

"Look here, Jule, what will the 'dreadful end' be like?"

"Oh it may be anything, Hunne. You see they have tried fire and water, and next they will pull the house down about our ears, I dare say. Then we shall lie under the ruins, and it will be all over with us."

"Shan't we be able to jump up quick, and get out of the way?" asked Hunne, anxiously.

"We may; unless the twins should be seized with their great idea in the middle of the night."

"You'll wake me up then Jule, won't you?" asked the little fellow pleadingly.

Mrs. Kurd had come running at the repeated summons of Aunt Ninette, just as Battiste had gone to save the patriarchs of the flood with his bean-pole; and when she reached her, the tumult was stilled.

"Did you hear that, Mrs. Kurd? It was frightful! Everything is quiet now, and I hope they are saved!"

"Oh yes, of course," said Mrs. Kurd, quite unconcernedly, "it is only the little ones. They are always crying out about something. There isn't really anything the matter."

"No; but children's cries are so shrill; I am shivering all over. How will my husband stand it? No; this settles it, Mrs. Kurd. We shall go away. This is the last drop."

With these words Mrs. Ehrenreich hurried into her husband's room to see how he had borne the shock. He was sitting at his table, with his ears stopped with cotton wool, and he did not hear his wife come in. He had stuffed his ears when the first cry came, and had therefore escaped the rest of the hubbub.

"Oh, that is very unhealthy, it is so heating for the head;" cried Aunt Ninette, much distressed. She pulled the wool from his ears, and announced that she should go directly after the church-service on the morrow, and ask the pastor where they could move to, since this place was unendurable.

This plan suited Uncle Titus as well as any other; all he wanted was quiet. Aunt Ninette, thinking over her plans, went back to her own room.

Dora stood waiting for her aunt in the passage-way. "Are we really going away, Aunt?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes, decidedly;" replied Mrs. Ehrenreich, "we shall move on Monday."

Poor little Dora! it was a sad trial to her, to have to go away without once having a chance to make the acquaintance of the other family; to go into the beautiful garden, to smell those delicious flowers, and to join the merry child-life that she had watched so closely, and yet from which she was so entirely separated. Her future seemed swallowed up in those stifling cotton shirts that were her fate in dull Karlsruhe. As she sat on the side of her little bed, that night, sadly cast down by these melancholy thoughts, she forgot the five friendly stars in the sky above. Yet there they were, sparkling as ever, as if they were trying to speak to their child and say, "Dora, Dora! have you quite forgotten your father's verses?"



Chapter VI.

A Frightful Deed.


It was a beautiful, bright Sunday morning. In the garden all was peaceful and lovely. No sound broke the perfect stillness, save when now and then a rosy-cheeked apple fell to the ground, for the apples were ripening fast in the autumn sun.

Mr. and Mrs. Birkenfeld had gone to church, and with them Paula and Miss Hanenwinkel. In the sitting-room, Jule and Hunne were harmoniously discussing over a big dish of hazel-nuts, in how many different ways they could make the nutcracker crack a nut. The twins, since the lesson they had had in the wash-house, had returned contented to the mimic ark, with its wooden men and women, and they were now playing with it on the school-room table, which they had all to themselves to-day. Rolf had early betaken himself to the garden, and had settled down in a sequestered summer-house, where he could think over all sorts of things, without fear of being disturbed.

After the flood had subsided (a flood this time without water), and when the dove had returned with the olive-branch, and quiet was restored in the land, new schemes began to work in Lili's busy little head.

"What do you say, Wili, to coming down-stairs to look at Rolf's new bow; he left it in the passage-way last evening."

Wili was all agog at the idea, and they both scampered down-stairs. Lili knew the corner where Rolf had placed the bow, and there too was the quiver, with its two feathered arrows.

"Just see how jolly this is;" said Lili, "you pull this string back, and put the arrow here, and then let the string fly, and off goes the arrow like anything. I saw just how Rolf did it; and suppose we try to see how it works!"

"But we must not shoot with it; don't you remember that papa said so, Lili?"

"I don't mean to shoot, but only to try it. I just want to see how it is done; don't you understand?"

This explanation satisfied Wili.

"Where shall we try it? There is not room in this passage."

"No, no; I know where, in the garden. Come along;" and Lili ran off with the quiver, while Wili followed with the bow. They chose a nice open space near the hedge.

"Here now, we will both try together, and see if we can do it," said Lili.

Wili brought up his bow, and they pressed it against the ground, and then both took the cord in their hands, and tugged away till they had snapped it into place. Lili shouted with delight.

"Now, we must lift it up," she said, "so; and put the arrow in here, Wili, do you see? and now you pull back that thing underneath, and you will see how it will go off. There, just try."

Wili tried; pulled back the "thing," and the arrow whistled through the hedge. Instantly a cry of anguish sounded from the other side, and then all was silent. They looked at each other in great fright.

"Do you think that was a rabbit?" asked Wili.

"I thought it sounded like a hen;" said Lili. Their consciences were troubled, and their hearts were filled with fear, for they knew they had done wrong to take the bow, and they each had the impression that the cry of pain came from a child, though each hoped that the other thought it was really only an animal. They carried the bow back to its place in silence. Suddenly a new fear seized them. One arrow was gone from the quiver; what if Rolf should miss it! The sound of the family coming back from church, added to their embarrassment. It was not possible now to go to look for the arrow, for that would lead to immediate discovery. Rolf did not yet know that they had been shooting, but if he should begin to question them! They had got themselves into a fine box, through their disobedience; and they had no idea how they should ever get out of it, for they felt sure that they should never dare to tell the truth, if the arrow were asked for.

Silent, and covered with confusion from their consciousness of wrong-doing, the twins crept back to the school-room, and there they sat without stirring or speaking, until they were called to dinner. They did not dare lift their eyes to the table, to see what dainty Sunday-dish had been prepared, but slipped into their seats and felt almost choked even by the soup; for something seemed to lie like a lump in their throats, and prevent them from swallowing. They did not look up once during the whole of dinner-time, and although their father spoke to them several times, they could not find voice to answer.

"What have you two been about this time?" he said at last; for he knew very well that this depression was not the result of yesterday's performance; their contrition never lasted over night; that was not the way with the twins. There was no answer. They sat as if nailed to their seats, and stared into their plates. Their mother shook her head thoughtfully. Little Hunne kept a watchful eye on them, for he had observed from the first, that something was amiss. Presently a delicious pudding with wine sauce was brought in, and their mother helped each one to a good big slice. At that moment their father exclaimed,

"What is that? Is there any one very ill in the next house? There goes the doctor, hurrying along as if some one were in great danger."

"I do not know of any one's being ill there," said the mother. "Mrs. Kurd has let her rooms to some strangers. It may be one of them."

The twins were by turns as red as fire and as white as chalk. A secret voice cried out in each little palpitating heart, "Now it is coming! it is coming!" They were almost paralyzed with fright; the delicious pudding lay untouched on their plates, though it was full of raisins and looked unusually tempting. But even Hunne, the pudding-eater of the family, neglected his plate today, and suddenly jumping down from his chair, he began to shout like a crazy creature,

"Mama! Papa! come away! the house is going to fall down! everything is going to pieces!" In his excitement he almost pulled Jule off his seat, to make him come with him, as he ran out of the door. Presently they heard him outside repeating, "The house will tumble down; Jule said it would!"

"Some evil spirit has certainly taken possession of the children," said the astonished father, "The twins look as if they were sitting on pins, and little Hunne is acting like a mad-man."

At these words Julius broke out into inextinguishable laughter; for it suddenly dawned upon him what the little boy had in his mind. The unusual timidity and silence of the twins was caused, no doubt, by their having already begun in secret the work of destruction; and at any moment now the house might fall in ruins upon the assembled family. Jule explained with repeated outbursts of laughter, the meaning of Hunne's fright. In vain the mother called the little boy to come in; he was jumping up and down before the house door, stamping, and calling to his father and mother and Jule and everyone to come out. At last his father lost patience, and said decidedly that the door must be closed, and that the dinner should be ended in peace. After dinner they all went into the garden, where Hunne joined them. When he saw them all seated in safety under the apple-tree, he said with a sigh,

"I wish some one would bring me my pudding, before the house falls down."

His mother drew him to her, and explained to him that big Jule and little Hunne, were two very foolish fellows; the first to invent such silly stuff, and the second to believe it. She begged him to think a bit how impossible it would be for two children like Wili and Lili to pull down a great strong stone house like theirs. But it was a long time before the impression was effaced from the child's imagination.

Dora had been standing by the hedge, as usual, hoping that the children would come into the garden, when Wili and Lili appeared with the bow. She had watched the progress of their undertaking with the greatest interest. At last, off flew the arrow; and in a second, the sharp point pierced the little girl's bare arm. Dora groaned aloud with pain. The arrow fell to the ground; it had not penetrated deep enough to hold at all; but the blood followed, and trickled along her arm and hand, and down upon her dress. At this sight Dora forgot her pain in her fear. Her first thought was, "How Aunt Ninette will scold!" She tried to hide what had happened. She twisted her handkerchief about the wounded arm, and she ran to the spring before the house, to wash out all signs of blood. It was useless; the blood flowed out under the bandage in a stream, and soon her dress was spotted all over with the red drops.

"Dora! Dora!" called some one from above. It was her aunt; there was no help for it; she must show herself. In fear and trembling, she mounted the stairs and stood before her aunt, hiding the bandaged arm behind her. Her pretty Sunday dress was stained with blood, and her face too; for in her eagerness to wash it off she had spread it everywhere.

"Merciful Heaven!" cried her aunt, "what is the matter? Speak, child, did you fall down? How you look! You are as pale as death, and all smeared with blood! Dora, for heaven's sake, do speak!"

Dora had been trying to speak, but she could not get in a word edgewise. At last she said timidly,

"It was an arrow!"

A flood of lamentations followed. Aunt Ninette flew up and down the room wringing her hands and crying, "An arrow! an arrow! You have been shot! Shot in the arm! You will have a stiff arm all your life! You will be a cripple! You can never sew any more, nor do anything else! You will come to want! We shall all have to suffer for it! How unlucky we are! How are we to live, how can we ever get along, if your arm is lame?"

"Oh, Aunty dear, perhaps it will not be as bad as all that;" said the child sobbing, "did not papa tell us to remember:

"God holds us in his hand God knows the best to send."

"Certainly, of course that's true; but if you are lame, you will be lame;" said Mrs. Ehrenreich, whimpering, "it makes me perfectly desperate. But go -- no -- come here to the water. Where is Mrs. Kurd? Somebody must go for the doctor."

Dora went to the wash-basin, while her aunt ran for Mrs. Kurd, and begged her to send for the doctor to come immediately; it was a case of shooting, and no one could tell how dangerous it might prove.

The doctor came as quickly as possible. He examined the wound, stopped the bleeding, bound it up without a word, in spite of Aunt Ninette's pertinacious attempts to make him express an opinion. He then took his hat and made for the door.

But Aunt Ninette followed him up before he could make good his retreat. "Do tell me, doctor, will her arm be lame? Stiff all the rest of her life?"

"Oh, I trust not. I will call again to-morrow;" and the doctor was gone.

"'Oh I trust not,'" repeated Aunt Ninette in a despairing tone, "that's a doctor's way of saying 'yes, of course.' I understand perfectly. What will become of us? How shall we ever live through this misfortune?"

And she kept on fretting in this way until late into the evening.

When Wili's mother went in to hear her little boy's prayers that night, she did not find him as usual, cheerfully sitting up in bed, ready for a good chat with her, if she would stay. He was crouched down all in a heap, and did not even look up at her, nor speak to her, when she sat down by him.

"What is the matter with my little boy?" said she gently, "have you something wrong in your heart? have you been doing what you ought not?"

The child made an unintelligible sound, neither yes nor no.

"Well, say your evening hymn, Wili; perhaps that will make you feel better," said his mother.

Wili began:

"The moon climbs up the sky, The stars shine out on high, Shine sparkling, bright and clear" -- 

and so on, but his thoughts were not on what he was saying; he was listening to every sound outside the room, and he kept looking towards the door as if he expected something terrible to come in at any moment; and in his restless movements it was plain to see what a state of fear he was in. When he had reached the end of his hymn,

"Oh Father, spare thy rod; Send us sweet sleep, Oh God; Let our sick neighbor slumber, too" -- 

he suddenly burst into tears, and clinging tight to his mother he sobbed out,

"The child will not be able to sleep, and God will punish us dreadfully."

"What are you talking about, dear Wili?" asked his mother tenderly. "Come, tell me what has happened. I have seen all day that something was the matter, and feared that you had been doing something wrong. What is it? Tell me."

"We, we -- perhaps we have shot a child!"

"What do you mean?" cried his mother, now thoroughly alarmed, for she instantly recalled having seen the doctor hurry by to the cottage when they were at dinner.

"It cannot be! Do tell me all about it, clearly, so that I can understand."

And Wili gave as good an account as he could, of what he and Lili had been about that morning, and of their being so frightened at the cry of pain which followed the shooting of the arrow, that they had run away as fast as possible. And now they were so very miserable, that they did not want to live any longer, and both wanted to die, and to be done with it all.

"Now you see, my Wili, what disobedience leads to," were the mother's serious words after she had listened to the boy's sad story. "You did not mean to do anything but play a little while with the bow, but your father knew very well when he forbade your touching it, how great the danger was. We do not know what evil consequences may follow your disobedience, but we will pray the dear Father in heaven to avert the evil, and turn it to good if possible."

Then Wili repeated after his mother a short prayer, and never had he prayed so earnestly as now, with his heart full of dread for the results of his naughty conduct. Indeed he could scarcely stop praying; it seemed to relieve his heart to lay all his sorrow before his Heavenly Father, and beg his forgiveness and help.

And now he could look in his mother's eyes again as he bade her good-night.

Lili was waiting in the next room, for her turn to talk to this same good mother.

"Are you ready to say your prayers, Lili?" The little girl began, paused, began again and stopped in the middle. Presently she stammered out,

"Mamma I cannot pray, for God is angry with me."

"What have you done, Lili, to make him angry?"

Lili was silent, and sat pulling at the sheet, for she was naturally obstinate, and found it hard to own a fault.

"If the good God is not pleased with you, I certainly cannot be. Good night, my child, sleep well -- that is if you can."

"Mamma, do not go away, I will tell you everything; only stay with me."

Her mother gladly turned back.

"We were shooting with the bow, though papa told us not to touch it, and we hit something and it cried out; and we were so frightened that we could not be happy any more at all." Lili's voice was hurried, and full of distress.

"I don't wonder that you could not feel happy, and you cannot yet. Because of your disobedience, a poor little child is lying suffering in the next house, perhaps without its mother to comfort it, for it is a stranger here. Think of it there in a strange house, away from home, crying in pain all night long."

"I will go right over there and stay with it," said Lili dolefully, and she began to cry again. "I cannot sleep either mamma; I am so worried." "We are always worried, my dear child, when we have done wrong. I will go now and find out whether the child is in need of help; and you will pray to God to give you an obedient spirit, and to turn aside the evil that your naughtiness may have caused an innocent child to suffer."

Lili followed her mother's advice. She could pray, now that she had confessed her fault; as she felt that she might now be forgiven. She prayed heartily for the recovery of the wounded child, and for forgiveness for herself.

Trine was sent over to the widow's house, to inquire whether it was really a child that had been hit by the arrow, and whether it was badly hurt. Mrs. Kurd told Trine the whole story, and that the doctor had said, "We trust no serious harm is done," and that he would come again the next day. Trine carried this report back to her mistress, and Mrs. Birkenfeld was very much relieved; for her first fear had been that the child's eye might have been hit, even if no mortal wound had been inflicted, and she was thankful to find that things were no worse.



Chapter VII.

Long-Wished-For Happiness.


The next morning, Mrs. Birkenfeld went early to the widow's house, where she was most cordially received; for she as well as her friend Lili had been a favorite pupil of Mrs. Kurd's husband. What pleasure the ardent teacher had taken in these pupils, and what success he had had in teaching them! He had never been tired of talking about it, and his wife had never forgotten it.

Mrs. Birkenfeld was shown into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Kurd insisted on her taking a seat, saying that she had much to tell her, for she had not seen her before since she had had the strangers from Karlsruhe in her house. There was a great deal to say about them and especially about the accident of the day before. When the widow had talked herself out, Mrs. Birkenfeld asked if she could speak to the lady, and to the little girl who had been hurt.

Mrs. Kurd carried the message to Mrs. Ehrenreich, who came directly, followed by Dora, who wore a thick bandage upon her arm, and looked very pale and delicate. After the first greetings, Mrs. Birkenfeld took Dora's hand tenderly in her own, and inquired with sympathy about the wound. She then turned to Aunt Ninette and told her how deeply she regretted the accident, and inquired in a friendly way after her health and that of Mr. Ehrenreich. Aunt Ninette lost no time in giving her full particulars of her husband's illness; how he had sadly needed fresh country air, and how she had made inquiries for a quiet secluded spot, and had at last chosen this very place; how he had to keep the windows shut tight, because he could not bear the least sound when he was writing, and therefore he never got any fresh air after all; and how anxious she was all the time, lest the vertigo instead of being cured by his being here, should come on worse than ever.

"I am very sorry indeed, that Mr. Ehrenreich should suffer from my children's noise;" said Mrs. Birkenfeld, understanding at once the state of the case, "if Mr. Ehrenreich does not walk out at all, he certainly ought to have an unusually airy place to work in. I have an idea; quite at the farthest end of our garden, away from the house, and from the frequented part of the grounds, stands a cool summer house, with seats and a table. If Mr. Ehrenreich would use that for his study, I would direct the children to keep entirely away from that part of the garden."

Aunt Ninette was delighted with this proposal; she said she would suggest it to her husband, and she was sure that he would accept it with many thanks.

"And you, my dear little girl, I hope your Aunt will allow you to come to see us to-day and every day. You shall get well in our garden; my children have much to make up to you for."

"Can I really go into that beautiful garden where the children are?" asked little Dora, who could scarcely believe in her good fortune; and such a look of gladness shot from her eyes at the thought, that her aunt looked at her with surprise, for she had never seen an expression like that in them before. This beam of delight that transfigured the child's face, spoke so directly to Mrs. Birkenfeld's heart, that tears came to her eyes, and she loved the child from that moment. She did not know why or wherefore; yet these joyfully-beaming eyes had stirred a whole world of slumbering recollections in her heart.

It was arranged that directly after dinner Dora should go over into the garden, and stay there till late in the evening. Thereupon Mrs. Birkenfeld took her leave.

Aunt Ninette hastened at once to her husband's study, and laid the new plan before him. Uncle Titus received it with pleasure, for although the want of fresh air was becoming very trying to him, yet taking a walk for air and exercise was something he had never been accustomed to, and he could not make up his mind to the loss of so much valuable time. The offer was therefore very seasonable. He even proposed to go to the summer-house directly, and his wife accompanied him. They took the longest way, round the outside of the garden, so as to avoid meeting any one. At the farthest end they came to a little garden-gate which led directly to the secluded summer-house. Close to the little house were two old nut-trees and a weeping willow, with thick pendent branches, and behind, far away into the distance, stretched the soft green meadows. Far and near, all was perfectly still. Uncle Titus had brought several thick books with him, under each arm, for he thought he should like to take possession at once, if he found it to his mind. Aunt Ninette carried the inkstand and paper, and Dora brought up the rear, with cigars and the wax-taper.

Mr. Ehrenreich was well pleased with the place; he settled himself at once, took his seat at the table, drew in a long breath of the pure air which blew in through the open doors and windows, and softly rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He began to write directly, and Aunt Ninette and Dora withdrew, and left him alone to his work.

By this time the news of the twins' exploit of yesterday, had spread through the house. For when Rolf returned from his morning lessons, he went straight for his bow, and of course discovered at once the loss of one arrow. Very much incensed, he ran about the house to find out who had been meddling with his property. He had little trouble in discovering the offenders, for the twins were so broken down by the suffering they had been through, that they confessed at once, and told him the whole story, including their horror at the cry of pain, and adding that their mother had now gone to the cottage, to inquire who had been hit. Then they showed Rolf where they had fired the arrow through the hedge, and to be sure there it was, lying on the ground, in Mrs. Kurd's garden. The recovery of his treasure put Rolf again in good-humor. He rushed back to the house, calling out, "Jule, Paula, did you know that the twins shot a child yesterday?" And so it came about that all six of the children, and Miss Hanenwinkel, besides, stood on the stone steps, on tip-toe with excitement, awaiting the mother's return from the cottage. The moment she appeared, Hunne called out, "Where was it hit?" and then each one asked a different question, and all at once:

"Is it a child?" "Is it a boy?" "How big is it?" "What is its name?" "Is it much hurt?"

"Come into the house, first," said the mother, turning a deaf ear to the shower of questions; and when they were clustered about her in the house, she told them about the pale, delicate little maiden, with a bandage upon her arm, so tight that she could scarcely use it. She said that the child was apparently about Paula's age; that she spoke excellent German, and looked very nice and well-bred; that her name was Dora, and last of all, that she was to come into the garden after dinner, and then they could make her acquaintance. All was now curiosity and excitement; how did the child look -- what would she say? And each began to speculate what his own particular relation would be to the new-comer.

Paula stood still in intense delight; and only said, "Oh, if she is so nice, and just my age, too, mamma, how happy I shall be!" She had visions of a great, indissoluble friendship, and she could hardly wait till afternoon. Rolf was sure that Dora was just the right age to guess his charades, and that he should make friends with her at once on that ground. The twins had a feeling that Dora belonged especially to them, because they had shot her; and they thought she would be the very one to help them in carrying out their schemes; for they often needed a third person, and Paula was never in the mood.

"Well, I am glad that Dora is coming," said Hunne, "for I can go to her Saturdays, when all the chairs are standing on their heads, and no one else will have me."

Last of all Jule asked, "Hunne, I want to get some good out of Dora, too, what shall it be?"

"I know," said the child, after thinking awhile, "she can help you get off your riding-boots -- you know there weren't enough of us, last time."

"The very thing," said Jule, laughing.

Dora was also greatly excited -- she fairly trembled. One moment she did not know what to do for joy that the longed-for happiness had come, and she was to go into the garden, among the lovely, sweet-smelling flowers, and all those merry children. But the next moment she was afraid. She had watched the children from a distance, and she knew them all by sight; she already felt partly acquainted with them, and each one had excited an individual interest in her mind. But they had not even seen her, at all; she was a perfectly strange child to them. And then she said to herself with real distress, that she was so ignorant and awkward, and they knew so much, and were so clever, that they would certainly despise her, and would want to have nothing to do with her. She kept running it all over and over in her mind during dinner, and could scarcely eat a mouthful, in her excitement. Before she knew it, the time had come, and her aunt said,

"Now, Dora, you can go!"

So Dora put on her hat and went over to the next house. She went in at the front door, and passed through the long entry, at the other end of which the door into the garden stood open. Going out of this door she found herself in full view of the whole family. Directly in front of her, under the apple-tree, sat Mr. and Mrs. Birkenfeld, and round about them were the six children. Her timidity came back again, at seeing the parents, for she had expected to see only the children. She stood hesitating, and glanced shyly at the company. Little Hunne caught sight of her, and slipping down from his seat, ran toward her with outstretched arms, crying out,

"Come, Dora, there is room here on my seat; Come!" and seizing her hand, he pulled her along toward the others, who all came eagerly to meet her, and welcomed her as cordially as if she were an old friend. So, occupied with questions and greetings, she came to where the parents sat, and they were so friendly and kind, that all her shyness passed away, and she was soon sitting on the same seat with Hunne, in the midst of the circle, as much at home as if she belonged there.

Mr. and Mrs. Birkenfeld soon left their seats and walked up and down the garden; and then the children pressed round Dora, and each had some particular thing to say to her. Paula spoke least; but she looked at the new acquaintance, as if she were making a study of her. Rolf, Wili and Lili stood as near Dora as they could squeeze, to make her hear what they were saying, and Hunne kept fast hold of her, as if afraid that she would vanish away.

"If you squeeze Dora to death the first time she makes us a visit, she will not come a second time;" remarked Julius, who sat stretched out at full length on a garden-bench; "so take my advice, and give her room to breathe."

"How old are you, Dora? Not much older than I am?" asked Lili eagerly.

"I am just twelve."

"Oh, what a shame! then you are as old as Paula;" said Lili regretfully, who had hoped that Dora would belong to her in every respect, even in age.

"No, no," cried Rolf, "Dora is my age; at least nearer mine than Paula's, if she is only just twelve."

Rolf thought this opened a favorable prospect for special companionship. "Are you good at guessing riddles? And are you fond of them?"

"Yes, yes, and I have made a riddle;" cried Hunne, putting in his oar, "Now guess mine, Dora. My first you can eat but not drink" -- 

Rolf cut the little boy's charade ruthlessly in two with,

"Oh, get away with your old riddle, Hunne; it is no riddle at all! Now listen, Dora;

"My first conceals from light of day -- " But Rolf was not destined to finish his verses, for Lili had seized Dora's hand and was pulling her with all her might, saying,

"Come, Dora, I will play you everything I know." Dora had asked her if she was the one who played on the piano, and Lili thought this a good excuse for stealing the new friend for herself. Lili had her way, for Dora really wanted to hear the piano, though she did not like to disappoint Rolf.

"You must not take it amiss," she said, turning back to speak to him, as Lili drew her away, "I am not good at guessing, and I should only bother you with my stupidity."

"Won't you try just one?" asked Rolf, rather disappointed.

"Oh, yes, if you want me to. I will try bye and bye," she called back, for Lili was fairly dragging her towards the house. Hunne had not let go his hold of Dora, and was pulled along too. He kept calling out, "Mine too, guess mine too," and she promised that she would do her best. Wili also went with them, and all four betook themselves to the school-room where the piano stood. The twins had been taking music lessons from Miss Hanenwinkel for more than a year, not so much because their parents cared about having them learn to play on the piano, as because they thought the lessons would be a pleasant occupation, and the music would have a soothing effect on the children's somewhat restless dispositions; and moreover, last but by no means least, the twins could not be up to any mischievous pranks, while they were busy practising.

Now that they stood before the piano, Lili's ardor for playing it somewhat cooled, and she reverted to her usual point of view with regard to it.

"You know, Dora, of course," she said, "that playing on the piano is the most tedious thing in the world. Why, when I have to practise, I get perfectly tired to death, don't you, Wili?" Wili assented emphatically.

"How can you feel so?" asked Dora, casting a longing look at the piano, "Oh, if I could only sit down there and play as you do, Lili, I should be perfectly happy."

"Do you really think so?" said Lili, struck with the expression of Dora's eyes. She opened the piano quickly, and began to play a little melody. Dora sat by, thirstily drinking in the sounds, and looking as charmed as if Lili were conferring some substantial benefit upon her. The sight of her pleasure was very inspiriting to Lili, who kept on playing better and better, and when Wili saw the impression produced, he wanted to take his share.

"Now let me play, Lili," he said, as she came to the end; but Lili was now quite in the spirit of it, and did not stop for an instant, but began to repeat the piece from the beginning.

"Do you know any other tune?" asked Dora.

"No; Miss Hanenwinkel will not teach me another till I have learned my exercises better; but I know what I will do, Dora, just wait till to-morrow, and then I will give you music lessons, and we will learn ever so many tunes. Should you like that?"

"Will you really?" asked Dora, and she looked so overjoyed at the bare idea, that Lili at once decided to begin the lessons on the very next day.

"But my arm!" exclaimed Dora. They had forgotten that. But Lili did not give up her plans so easily.

"Oh, your arm will soon be better," she said, "and meantime I will learn ever so many pieces, and be all the more able to teach you."

At this moment the big bell rang for supper. Hunne grasped Dora's hand, declaring that there was no time to lose, for his father always came punctually to his meals, and Hunne liked to do the same. The table was spread under the apple-tree, and covered with a great variety of good things. As she sat there looking about at these new acquaintances who already seemed like old friends, Dora felt as if she were dreaming; it was so much more delightful even than she had hoped; and she was almost afraid that she should wake up all at once, and find it only a dream. But she did not wake up, except to find that her plate had been loaded with good things, so very real, that all anxiety passed away, and she realized that she was living, and living remarkably well, into the bargain.

"Do eat your cake, or you will be the last to get through," said Hunne, "see, Dora, Jule and I have eaten four. Jule and I can do a great many things; only we can't pull the riding-boots off very well. You'll help about that, won't you, Dora?" "Eat your cakes, and be quiet, Hunne," said Jule, in a warning tone; and Dora did not answer about the boots, for Mr. Birkenfeld was asking her questions, and she began to tell him about her father, and of their life together in Hamburg and Karlsruhe.

Up to this time, Paula had not made any attempt to talk with Dora; but when supper was over, she came up to her, and said, softly,

"Will you come with me a little while now?"

Dora was delighted with the invitation, for she had begun to be afraid that Paula did not mean to have anything to say to her, and yet she had been particularly attracted toward this quiet girl, so near her own age. Paula had wanted to see what sort of a girl Dora was, before she made advances, and she was evidently well pleased with what she saw, for she now took her new friend by the hand, and led her away down the garden path. The twins and Hunne, and even Rolf, were soon tired of waiting for Dora to come back, and went calling and searching everywhere for her; but they could not find her; she had quite disappeared. In fact, Paula had taken her all round the garden, and then up to her own room. There the two girls sat and talked, and talked, about all sorts of things. They told each other their thoughts and feelings on various subjects, and found themselves in perfect sympathy. It was a great happiness to both, for neither had ever had an intimate friend, of her own age, one whose tastes, purposes and ideals were like her own.

"Now we will be 'best friends' forever," they said, and sat, forgetful of all the world besides, till the stars stood shining in the heavens above, and all the earth was bathed in shadow.

The mother found them at last; she had suspected that they had taken refuge in Paula's room. Dora sprang up hastily when she noticed how dark it had grown, and recollected that her aunt would be expecting her. The other children were waiting below, rather a dissatisfied little party at Dora's disappearance; for they all wanted to talk to her. Rolf was particularly annoyed.

"Why Dora," he said, "I thought you were going to guess my charade; will you try now?"

But Dora said it was really time for her to go home; so Mrs. Birkenfeld told them that they must wait till to-morrow for all they had to say, and that Dora would come every day to see them and would take lessons with them too. This satisfied them, and they charged Dora to come very early and stay very late, for there was a great deal to do and a great deal to show her. The leave taking lasted a long time, but Rolf suddenly cut the thing short.

He was going to have the last word with Dora, for he was to walk home with her. As they crossed the grass plot towards the cottage, the stars were shining so brightly overhead, that Dora stood still.

"Look up, Rolf;" she said, "do you see those five twinkling stars up there? I know them very well; they were my own stars in Karlsruhe, and they are here with me too."

"Oh yes, I've seen those; they are on our map of the Heavens. Do you know their names, Dora?"

"No, indeed; can you tell the names of the stars Rolf? How much you do know!" said Dora admiringly. "Don't those five all belong together, and have one name? There are others too that look as if they belonged together. Do you know them all? How I should like to learn them from you!"

Rolf was much pleased with the idea of giving lessons in astronomy, to one so eager to learn.

"Let us begin now," said he enthusiastically; "I will tell them all to you one after another, even if it takes till midnight."

This reminded Dora how late it was.

"No, Rolf" she said quickly, "thank you very much, but no more to-night. To-morrow; will you tell me to-morrow?"

"Well, to-morrow then, Dora, don't forget. Good-night."

"Good-night, Rolf;" and Dora hurried into the house. She was so brimming over with happiness and the many pleasures of the day, that she sprang up-stairs to Aunt Ninette, and began to tell her everything all mixed up together, with such astonishing vivacity, that her aunt drew back rather startled.

"Dora! Dora! think a minute! this excitement may go to your arm! Go to sleep as quick as you can; that is the best thing you can do."

Dora went to her bed-room, but sleep was impossible. She knelt down at her bed-side and gave heart-felt thanks to God for sending her all this happiness; she resolved that when these holidays were over she would go back to her work again without complaint; no matter how long the hours might be, and she would never forget these happy days that the good God had sent her now. It was long before she could close her eyes for very bliss.



Chapter VIII.

More Charades.


Early the next day, as Julius was clattering along the passage with his big riding-boots and spurs, he heard the sounds of practising in the school-room, and knowing that Miss Hanenwinkel did not give lessons at this hour, he pushed open the door to see what was going on. There sat Lili at the piano, and Wili stood by, looking as if he were impatiently counting every minute till he could have his turn.

"What are you two about?" he called out, "is this the beginning of some mischievous prank?"

"Be quiet, Jule, we haven't a minute to lose," said Lili seriously. Jule laughed aloud and went on his way. Going down stairs, he met Miss Hanenwinkel.

"What has got into the twins now?" he asked. "Have they taken the notion of being virtuous, into their small noddles?"

"That is more likely at seven than at seventeen;" was all the answer he got.

He went on down stairs still laughing, and just at the front door met his mother. She was starting at that early hour to try to see the doctor before he went from home, to ask him exactly the state of Dora's arm, and whether there was any danger for the child. Aunt Ninette's anxiety had infected her, and she could not rest until she knew the probabilities of the case.

"Do I hear some one playing on the piano, Jule?" she asked. "It is an unusual sound for this time of day."

"Mother dear, I do believe that the end of the world is coming," replied Julius;

"Lili is up there hurrying from one finger-exercise to another as if she could not get enough of that exquisite amusement, and Wili is seated at her side in a similar condition of nervous industry, waiting for his turn at the piano."

"A strange state of things, to be sure, Jule," said his mother; "for it was only yesterday that Miss Hanenwinkel was complaining to me that Lili did not show the slightest interest in her music, and that she would not even play her piece, much less her exercises."

"It's just as I said; the end of the world is coming," said Jule, turning towards the stable.

"Let us hope rather the beginning," replied Mrs. Birkenfeld, starting in the other direction to go down the hill towards the village. When she reached the doctor's house, she was so fortunate as to find him at home, and she asked him the question that so greatly disquieted her. He assured her that the wound was doing perfectly well, and that there was not the slightest danger of any permanent stiffness of the arm; though he laughingly owned that he had made the worst of it to Dora, in order to impress her with caution for the future. It would be all over in a day or two at farthest. Mrs. Birkenfeld was much relieved, for besides her sympathy for Dora, she had felt keenly her children's responsibility for the misfortune.

On her way home Mrs. Birkenfeld stopped to speak to Aunt Ninette; not only to carry her the doctor's favorable verdict, but also to talk with her about Dora. She now learned for the first time, that Dora was to earn her living by sewing; and that for this reason her aunt felt obliged to keep her so closely to her shirt-making.

Mrs. Birkenfeld took a warm interest in Dora. She thought the little girl very delicate for such heavy work, and she was glad that there was still some time left for her to grow stronger before she had to go back to Karlsruhe, and settle down to regular work again. She begged Aunt Ninette to let the child, during the rest of their stay, give up the sewing entirely, and she offered to let her own seamstress make the shirts, that Dora might be free to amuse herself with the children, and gain strength by play in the open air.

The self-possessed, quiet manner of Mrs. Birkenfeld had an excellent effect on Mrs. Ehrenreich, and she acquiesced in this proposal without the slightest demur. Indeed the path of the future, that had looked so beset with difficulties, seemed now to lie smooth before her, and all her prospects were brightened. She spoke with great thankfulness on her husband's account; for he already found himself so improved by the fresh air and quiet of the summer house, and he was so thoroughly comfortable and contented there, that he could hardly bear to leave it, even to come in at night.

When Mrs. Birkenfeld rose to go, she cordially invited Aunt Ninette to come often to see her in the garden, saying that she must find it lonely in the cottage, and that the open air would be good for her also. Aunt Ninette was much gratified by this courtesy, and accepted it with pleasure; quite forgetting the noise of the children, which had been so great a bugbear to her.

Dora had sprung out of bed that morning as soon as she opened her eyes, for the thought of the pleasure before her made her heart dance for joy. She had to curb her impatience however for a time, for Mrs. Ehrenreich did not approve of imposing upon people who were inclined to be neighborly. It was not till Mrs. Birkenfeld had come over to the cottage, and after talking some time with the aunt had asked after Dora and repeated her invitation, that the little girl was allowed to go. This time she did not stand still and look shyly about; with a few springing steps she reached the house, and at the door of the sitting-room she was received with a chorus of welcoming voices; while Wili and Lili and little Hunne and Paula all ran out to meet her, and draw her in among them. Julius, just returned from his ride, had thrown himself as usual into an arm-chair, stretching out his legs, as an intimation that he should like to have his boots pulled off. Dora ran forward and offered her services, frankly desirous of making herself useful. But Jule instantly drew in his long legs.

"No, no, Dora; not for the world; what are you thinking about?" he cried, jumping up and very politely offering Dora his chair. Before she could take it, the twins pulled her away; saying "Come with us!" and Hunne tugged at her dress behind, calling loud, "Come with me!" while Paula reaching over him, whispered softly in her ear, "Go first with the twins; or they will keep this up all day; bye and bye I will come to you, and then we can have some comfort together."

"Dora," said Jule, waving off the three noisy creatures, "I advise you to stay by me; it is your only hope of a happy existence in this house-hold; for I can tell you if you go with Paula, you will grow too romantic; you will scarcely breathe the fresh air, and will lose your appetite completely. If you take Rolf for your companion, your whole existence will become one great perpetual riddle."

"That it will be at any rate," remarked Miss Hanenwinkel, who was passing through the room at that moment.

"If you prefer to go with Miss Hanenwinkel," said Jule quickly, so that the governess might be sure to hear what he said; "you will be preserved in salt; quite the opposite you see to plums, which are done in sugar! If your choice falls on the twins, you will be torn in two, and as to little Hunne; if you go with him he will talk you deaf!"

In spite of this melancholy prediction, Dora allowed herself to be carried off by the twins, and Hunne ran after them. When they reached the piano, Lili began to play her one piece, and when she came to the end, she glanced at Dora who nodded so pleasantly that Lili, thus encouraged, began again at the beginning. Presently Dora began to sing the words; Wili, who was waiting in vain for his chance to play, joined her; then Hunne too; so that a loud chorus rang out cheerily from the school-room -- 

"Live your life merrily While the lamp glows; Ere it can fade and die, Gather the rose."

They were so carried away by their own music that the voices rose louder and louder, and Hunne's out-screamed them all. Presently Lili twirled round on her stool, and said, her eyes shining with joyful expectation:

"Just wait till to-morrow, Dora, and then you'll see!" for the child had worked so diligently at her exercises that morning that she felt that she had a right to claim at least half a dozen new pieces from Miss Hanenwinkel to-morrow.

At this moment the bell rang for the twins to go to their lessons; a sound that Hunne was well-pleased to hear, for now he could have Dora to himself till dinner-time; and the little girl gave herself up to him so cheerfully and with such warm interest in the artistic performances of his nut-cracker, that he made a firm resolution then and there never to let her go again. But no sooner was dinner over, than his plan was completely upset. Paula had finished her French lessons, and with her mother's leave, she now took possession of Dora. As for Dora, she asked nothing better; she would have been glad to spend whole days and nights talking with Paula, telling all the secrets of her heart, and hearing in return all her friend's thoughts and wishes, hopes and fears. They both felt sure that they could never be tired of being together, and of sharing each other's memories of the past and plans for the future. A long life-time would not be enough for them. It was seven o'clock before they again joined the family group which was gathered under the apple-tree; and being late they slipped into their places very quickly, for the father had begun to cough significantly, to show that things were not just as they should be. During the meal, Rolf cast meaning looks across to Dora, that seemed to say,

"We two have a plan together next; don't forget!"

While they all sat chatting merrily after supper was over, Rolf was watching the sky, to see when the first pale star should peep through the twilight amid the twigs of the apple-tree; and as soon as he spied one, he came to Dora, saying

"Now, Dora, look, up there!" and he carried her off to the very farthest corner of the garden, to make sure that none of his brothers or sisters should interfere with them. He felt quite securely hidden under protecting nut-trees, and placing himself in the right position, he began his lesson.

"Do you see, there, your five stars -- one two three, and then two more. Do you see them distinctly?"

"Oh yes; I know them so well, so well," said Dora.

"Well, that constellation is Cassiopeia. And now just wait a moment, Dora. I've just thought of a riddle that is very appropriate. You can guess it easily, if you try."

"I will if I can, but I am afraid your riddles are too hard for me:"

"My first's a most delicious drink, But best of all when fresh, I think. Add then my second, and you make An adjective, small pains to take! My third must strait and narrow prove Or 'twill not lead to heaven above. Now for my whole -- a countless host In which each separate light is lost.

"Have you guessed it, Dora?"

"No, and I'm sure I cannot guess it. I am terribly dull at such things. I am sorry; for it makes it stupid for you, but I can't help it," said Dora dolefully.

"Of course you can't help it now, because you are not used to them," said the boy consolingly. "I will give you an easier one to begin with:

"For full enjoyment of our youth My first is needful as the truth, And at man's very farthest end My second comes -- and now attend, Master of Greek Philosophy My whole, its shining crown you see."

"I cannot, I cannot, you are only losing time and trouble, Rolf, I do not know the least bit about Greek things," said Dora sighing.

"Never mind, I will try another country; how is this?" and before Dora could protest, the indefatigable riddle-maker declaimed:

"My fickle first is said to be England's high-road of industry; But Germany denies the same And with a Key she makes her claim. In Russia, nihilistic power Threatens my second, every hour. But Rome, Imperial Rome, to you, My whole was pride and terror too!"

"That's true!" It was a deep voice that echoed in the surrounding darkness, and the startled children clung to each other for a moment in terror. Then Dora began to laugh.

"It is Uncle Titus," she said, "he is sitting there in the summer-house. Come, Rolf, let us go in and see him."

Rolf assented; and they found Uncle Titus sitting there with his chair tipped back against the wall, looking very much pleased to see them. Rolf returned his greeting very cordially, and inquired quite casually whether he had guessed the riddle.

"I think it must be 'Caesar,' is it not, my son?" said Uncle Titus tapping the lad kindly on the shoulder.

"Yes, that's right; and did you hear the others I was saying, and did you guess them?"

"Possibly, possibly, my son," replied the good man. "I am much mistaken if the first is not 'Milky-way,' and the second, 'Plato.'"

"Both right!" cried Rolf, highly delighted. "It is the greatest fun to make riddles and have them guessed so quickly. I have another, and another, and one more. May I give you another, Mr. Ehrenreich?"

"Certainly, my dear boy, why not? out with them, all three, and we will try to guess them all."

Rolf was enchanted, and set about recalling them. "I will take the shortest first," he said:

"My first implies strength and grace; In all things my second finds place; My whole was the scourge of the race."

"Have you guessed that?"

"Very likely, very likely, my son; now the next:"

"Take all that the senses attest Add the sign of the beast for the rest, And my glorious whole stands confessed."

"And now another," said Uncle Titus, nodding.

"And now I have a very long one, and rather harder," said the lad:

"A thrill through all the nations ran, When he, my whole, the grand old man, Spoke words that e'en my second turn My first, with hopes that glow and burn. But now are hearts to anger spurred; Nations are sick with hope deferred, Alas! small chance for Ireland we know! My first my second at my whole we throw."

Rolf stopped, quite excited with the declamation of his favorite charade.

"Now we will begin to guess, my son," said Uncle Titus, with a pleased expression: "First, Bonaparte. Second, Matterhorn. Third, Gladstone."

"Every one right!" cried Rolf, exultantly. "This is splendid! I have always wanted to do this with my riddles; that is, find some one who could guess them all. Before this, I've always had a heap of unguessed riddles. Now they are all guessed, and I can begin again with a new set!" Rolf was full of satisfaction.

"I will make you a proposal, my son," said Uncle Titus, as he rose from his seat, and prepared to return to the cottage; "Come to me here every evening, and bring me the fresh set. Who knows but that I may have a few to give you in return?"

By this time it was rather too late for the study of the stars, and that had to be postponed; so Dora and Rolf returned to the rest of the family; Rolf quite overjoyed with the pleasant interview he had had, and with the prospect of its repetition; while on his side Uncle Titus wended his way to the cottage, filled with quiet satisfaction at the thought of his new friend; for he had always wanted a son, a twelve year old son, who should have left behind the noise and follies of childhood, and have become old enough to be an intelligent and agreeable companion. Now Rolf fulfilled these conditions; and moreover displayed a decided predilection for Uncle Titus, who began to feel a most paternal interest spring up in his heart towards the lad. So gladly did he feel it, that as he strode through the garden, in the light of the shining, starry host, he broke out with,

"Live your life merrily While the lamp glows; Ere it can fade and die, Gather the rose."

For the tune was floating in his memory as he had heard it sung that morning by the fresh young voices, and out came the joyous notes under the peaceful heavens.

At the cottage window, Aunt Ninette stood looking out for her husband; and as she heard his voice singing this merry melody, it was with nothing short of amazement that she said to herself, "Can that be Uncle Titus?"



Chapter IX.

"What Must Be, Must Be."


Time passed quickly at the two houses, in this new and happy companionship.

"Another week gone already!" and "Sunday again so soon!" were the exclamations heard on every side, as each week went by. And Dora was the happiest of all; the days fairly danced with her: they certainly had not more than half as many hours as they had had in Karlsruhe, and every evening she was sorry to have to go to bed, and lose in sleep so much of the little time that remained of her visit. If she could only have passed the whole night at the piano, practising while the others were sleeping, she thought she could have nothing more to desire. Her arm was now wholly healed, and she was taking music-lessons with a kind of furor; and in Lili she had a teacher whose zeal equaled her own. A most agreeable teacher too, who did not trouble her pupil with finger-exercises and scales, but gave her tunes at once without more ado; and first of course the favorite, "Live thy life merrily." Dora learned the air very quickly with the right hand, and Lili did not require her to learn the left hand yet; declaring that it was quite too difficult to play both together. All this playing-teacher was so improving to Lili, that she began to make wonderful progress herself, so that Miss Hanenwinkel was equally surprised and pleased at her improvement, and her mother often paused outside of the school-room door to listen to the firm but lively touch with which her little daughter rendered her studies; for Lili had really great talent for music, and now that a sufficient motive had been applied, she advanced rapidly.

Paula was in a state of tranquil blessedness all day long. She had found a friend, and such a friend! The reality of this friendship far surpassed her imagination and her hopes, for such a one as Dora she could not have conceived of; one who was so attractive not only to her, but to every member of the family. Like Dora, Paula grudged the hours passed in sleep, now that there were so few left that they could spend together.

Rolf had abandoned his old plan of charade-making, and had started on an entirely new system, and he spent his leisure hours striding up and down certain of the garden-walks, sunk in thought with his hands clasped behind his back, and so lost to outward things that Hunne was charged to keep away from these paths; for more than once he was almost run down by his brother. A new set of riddles was now ready every evening for Uncle Titus, who was always waiting for his young friend in the summer-house, prepared to guess, and showing remarkable skill in finding out even the most intricate puzzles; and as a natural result, Rolf grew more and more clever in making them. Before long, Uncle Titus began to give riddles himself in return, and his were carefully written out; for they required serious study, as they were in Latin. Rolf carried these home to his father and Jule, but they would not even try to guess them. Mr. Ehrenreich declared that his Latin was quite too rusty for such work as this, and Jule maintained that during vacation he did not dare to tax his brain unnecessarily; he needed all his wits for his serious work next term. So Rolf worked away by himself, dictionary in hand, and twisted and turned the words till he wrung out their meaning. Then he showed them with triumph to his father and brother, and in the evening carried them to Uncle Titus. The pleasure which his kind old friend took in his success spurred the boy on to greater activity. He studied not only the riddles themselves, but his Latin lessons more earnestly, and he took to early rising, and every morning before breakfast he worked with his Lexicon in the garden, as if his livelihood depended on the solution of Latin puzzles.

Hunne too was a lucky boy in these days, for no matter how often or how long he hung upon Dora, and claimed her as his own property, never once did the good-natured girl avoid or repulse her little friend; but always lent herself to his wishes, and took so much pains to amuse him, that it seemed as if she found her own pleasure in pleasing him. Mrs. Birkenfeld had persuaded Aunt Ninette to leave Dora entirely at liberty both morning and evening, and when in the afternoon she took her sewing and sat with the family under the apple-tree, she found that even shirt-making might be an agreeable occupation, under such favorable circumstances as these.

One day Dora made a new riddle for Hunne; for indeed his "nut-cracker" one had become rather an old story; yet he couldn't bear to give up riddle-giving. To his unspeakable joy this new riddle had a triumphant experience, quite unprecedented in the family annals -- no one could guess it. This time nobody could turn him off with, "Oh, go away with that same old charade." For as no one knew the answer, no one could laugh at the little questioner, and he and Dora agreed not to give the slightest hint that might lead to the right guess, and so put an end to this delightful state of things.

The riddle was this:

"My first makes you cry -- not for sorrow, For my second a spoon you may borrow, To my whole, you say, 'thank you -- to-morrow.'"

What could it be? Julius said it was "Hot-tea, because if the tea is very hot and you try to drink it, the tears start to your eyes, and then you cool it with a spoon, and you would like to let it stand till to-morrow."

Hunne jumped for joy, crying "Wrong, wrong!"

Miss Hanenwinkel suggested "Plum-jam," because Hunne often cried when he couldn't have plums, and everybody ate jam with a spoon, and if plum-jam was not on the supper-table to-night, it was sure to be, to-morrow.

"Wrong! wrong!" cried Hunne again.

"Well, I guess Tear-ful," said Rolf; but that was even worse than the others.

"I think it may be Snow-drop," said the mother. "The sight of the snow makes you cry for joy, and a spoon is used for your drops if you are ill, and you always want snowdrops to-morrow."

Mamma had failed! "Not Snowdrops; no!" screamed Hunne, almost beside himself with delight.

"I guess it is ice-cream," said Mr. Birkenfeld. "Ice makes me cry sometimes, it is so cold. Cream certainly needs a spoon, and I have often heard the cry, 'To-morrow please,' when ice-cream has been mentioned."

Hunne spun round with delight. "No, no!" he shouted. It was almost too good to be true, that his father should have missed it too. He scampered about crying out to everyone, "Guess! guess!"

Rolf was really vexed not to be able to see through this simple little "Hunne riddle" as he called it; and was mortified to perceive that he had made a worse guess than any one.

Meantime the days were passing. One morning at breakfast Uncle Titus said,

"My dear Ninette, our last week is drawing near. What should you say if we put off going home, another fortnight? I feel remarkably well here, no dizziness at all, and an extraordinary increase of strength in my legs!"

"You show it in your looks, my dear Titus -- " said his wife tenderly, "you look ten years younger, at the very least, than when we came here."

"And to my mind, this way of living has done you a world of good too, my dear Ninette;" replied he, "It seems to me that you find much less to lament over of late."

"Everything is so different," she answered; "It seems to me that everything has changed. The noise of the children even doesn't seem the same, now that I know each one of them. I must say that I am very glad that we didn't leave here that first week; I feel the loss of something pleasant now when I do not hear the children's voices, and I am always a little uneasy if it is perfectly quiet in the garden."

"It is just so with me," said Uncle Titus, "and I cannot get through an evening with any satisfaction unless that bright boy has been in to see me, full of impatience to tell me what he has been about during the day, and eager to hear the enigmas I have to give him. It is a perfect pleasure to have such a young fellow about one."

"My dear Titus, you are growing younger every day. We will certainly stay longer," said Aunt Ninette decidedly, "just as long as we conveniently can. I'm sure even the doctor did not expect such good results from one country visit; it is almost miraculous!"

Dora lost no time in carrying the enchanting news of this decision to Paula, for in her inmost heart she had been very unhappy at the thought of going away so soon. How could she live, away from all this dear family with whom she had learned to feel so entirely at home? She thought that when the day of separation came her heart would surely break.

When the good news of Dora's longer stay among them spread through the family, there was general rejoicing, and the little girl was in danger of being fairly hugged to death by her friends.

That evening after the children were all safely in bed, and Miss Hanenwinkel had withdrawn to her own room, Mr. and Mrs. Birkenfeld sat together upon the sofa, talking. This was the only quiet time that they could count upon in the course of the day, when they could talk over the needs, the pleasures and the pains, of their large and busy family. They were talking now about the decision of their new friends, and Mrs. Birkenfeld expressed her great satisfaction with it, adding,

"I cannot bear to think of losing Dora. She has grown very dear to me. What a real blessing that child has been in the family! She leaves her mark wherever she goes, and always for good. Wherever I turn I find some new evidence of her beneficial influence. And to me personally she is particularly attractive; I can't understand exactly why, but whenever I look into her eyes, I feel as if I had known her for a long time, and as if we had been sympathetic friends in days gone by."

"Ah, my dear wife, how often I have heard you say that whenever you feel a particular friendship for any one. I recollect perfectly that after we had known each other a little while, you said it seemed to you as if we had been intimately acquainted some time before."

"Well, suppose I did, you most incorrigible tease," said his wife, "you cannot convince me to the contrary, nor can you take away the fact that Dora is dear and delightful, not only to me, but to all the family besides. Paula goes about beaming like the sunshine, and with no trace of her usual discontent. Jule pulls off his own riding-boots without stirring up the whole house about it; Rolf is so full of interest in his pursuits that he has not a moment of idleness all day long; Lili has developed a love for music and a talent for playing the piano, that we never dreamed she possessed; and little Hunne has become so gentle and so contented at his games, that it is a pleasure just to look at the child."

"I think too," said Mr. Birkenfeld, "that it is because of Dora's being with us, that there has been a cessation of those mischievous pranks that the twins were always at, and that kept the house in a constant state of excitement."

"I have not the least doubt of it;" said his wife, "Dora has aroused in Lili an enthusiasm for music, and all the child's lively energy is turned into that channel. Wili follows his sister's lead, and they are both therefore so busy that they have not even a thought for mischief."

"Dora is certainly an uncommon child and I am very sorry she is to leave us so soon;" said Mr. Birkenfeld regretfully.

"That is what is weighing upon my mind," said his wife, "I am constantly trying to devise some plan for prolonging her stay still farther."

"No, no;" said her husband, decidedly, "we can't do anything about that. We don't know these people well enough to try to influence their movements. They must go away now, but perhaps next year we may see them here again."

Mrs. Birkenfeld sighed; there was a long winter to come, and there seemed to her to be but little chance of the visit being repeated.

The day fixed for the departure was Monday, and on the day before there was to be a grand feast, a farewell festival; though to tell the truth, none of them felt much like making a jubilee. Rolf alone was in the mood, and he took charge of the preparations, as an important part of which, a number of choice riddles were to be hung about the summer-house as transparencies: in honor of his patron.

On Saturday Dora took her seat, as usual, with the family at dinner, but no one had any appetite; the coming separation was too much in their thoughts. As the mother was helping to soup, one after another exclaimed, "Very little for me," "Please only a little," "I really don't care for any to-day," "Scarcely any for me, thank you," "And less for me, to-day."

"I should like to ask -- " said their father, amid this shower of "No, thank yous;" "I can't help wondering whether this 'thank you, to-morrow,' style of thing is caused by grief at parting, or by a general dislike for onion-soup."

"Onion-soup! onion-soup! that is the answer to Hunne's riddle!" cried Rolf with a cry of victory, for he had really taken it seriously to heart, that Hunne's charade had been so long unguessed. The answer was right. Poor Hunne was quite depressed at this unexpected blow, and in a moment he said somewhat pitifully,

"Oh dear! papa, if you had not said that about 'thank you, to-morrow,' for the soup, then no one would ever have found it out. Now I shall have no more fun with it."

But Dora had a comforting word for him, even now, and whispered softly, "Yes, Hunne dear, you shall have some more fun with it, for I will bring over my album this afternoon, and I will guide your hand while you write the charade in it, and then I will take it to Karlsruhe, and show it to all the people I know there, and they will all try to guess it."

So Hunne was comforted, and was able to finish his dinner happily. But under the apple-tree where they were assembled for the last time, the family were in very low spirits. For the next day Dora must stay with her aunt to help her, and could not join them until the evening, in time for the good-bye feast. Paula sat with her eyes full of tears, and did not speak one word. Lili had already given signs of her state of mind, by all sorts of restless movements, and at last she exclaimed,

"Mamma, I wish I never need touch the piano again; it will be terribly tiresome without Dora, and Miss Hanenwinkel will find fault again and say I am 'not progressing,' and I don't want to 'progress' when Dora is not here!"

"Oh dear!" sighed Jule, "what terrible days are before us, with danger to life and limb, when the twins begin again to find their time hang heavy on their hands. It is a very stupid arrangement anyway," he went on quite excitedly; "it would be far better for Dora to pass the winter with us. Her aunt and uncle could go on in their quiet way in Karlsruhe all the same without her."

The mother sympathized entirely in the children's regret at the separation and said she hoped to persuade Mr. Ehrenreich to bring his wife and Dora back for another summer.

Hunne was the only one more interested in the present than in the future, and he kept pulling Dora's dress and saying,

"Go get your book, Dora! get the book!"

So Dora went to get her album, and brought it over for each one of her friends, in the good old fashion, to write a verse or a motto in it, by way of remembrance. It was no new, elegant, gilded affair. It was an old book, faded and worn, and much of the writing in it was pale with age. Here and there had been pasted on, tiny bunches of flowers and leaves all of which had lost their color, and many of which had fallen off. The album had belonged to Dora's mother, and the verses were all written in unformed, childish characters. There were also some drawings, and among these one of a small house and a well, with a man standing near it, particularly attracted Hunne's attention, and he took the book in his own hands, and began turning the leaves.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed with a knowing look, as he took out a piece of paper that lay folded between the leaves; "Mamma has one like this; it belongs to Lili; the one I am going to America to find."

Julius laughed aloud. "What in the world are you chattering to Dora about now, Hunne?" But his mother glanced, quickly at the little boy as she caught his words, took the paper from his hand and read what was written there.

Great tears fell from her eyes as she read; the memory of long past hours of her happy childhood rose before her, clear and distinct, and almost overpowered her, Her own mother's face, and all the sights and sounds of childhood! It was the other half of her own poem that she held in her hand, the half that had been kept by her dearly loved friend. She gave it silently to her husband; she could not trust her voice to read it aloud.

The children watched her curiously as she took the other half from her notebook, and laid the two bits of yellow faded paper side by side. They made a sheet of the usual size of old-fashioned letter paper. The writing was the same on both, and as the lines were joined, their meaning became plain. Mr. Birkenfeld read the verses aloud:

"Lay your hand in mine dear, Joined thus we need not fear, Each the other clasping fast, That our union should not last, But behold, the fates decree That our future severed be. We will cut our verse in two, Half for me and half for you. But we still will hope forever That the halves may come together, And with no loss to deplore. Our friendship be as 'twas before."

The mother had taken Dora's hand in hers. "Where did you get this paper, Dora?" she asked, much moved.

"It has always been in my mother's album," replied the child with surprise.

"Then you are my Lili's child!" cried Mrs. Birkenfeld, "and that is what your eyes always said to me, when I looked into them;" and she folded Dora softly to her heart.

The children were intensely excited, but seeing how much moved their mother was, they restrained themselves, and sat very still, watching Dora and their mother with eager looks. But little Hunne broke the spell.

"Then I sha'n't have to go to America, shall I, mamma?" he said gaily, for since he had given his word to go to find the lost Lili, he had often thought with alarm of the long journey that he must take alone.

"No, dear child, we will all stay here together," said his mother, turning towards the children with Dora's hand fast in hers; "Dora is the Lili you were to seek, and we have found her."

"Oh, mamma," cried Paula, "Dora and I will be what you and her mother were; we will carry out the verses. We will say:

"'But we still will hope forever Now the halves have come together No farther losses to deplore, Our friendship prove as yours before.'"

"Oh yes, and ours," "me too," "so will I," and all the children joined in promising eternal friendship with Dora. But the mother had taken her husband's hand and had drawn him away down the shady walk.

"All right, I agree to it all," said Mr. Birkenfeld over and over again, as his wife talked eagerly, while they walked back and forth. Presently Mrs. Birkenfeld left him and crossed over to the next house. She asked for Mrs. Ehrenreich, and now as they sat together by the window, she told Aunt Ninette in words that came from her heart, with what delight she had discovered that Dora was the daughter of her earliest and dearest friend; that friend from whom she had been so long separated, but whose memory was still green in her heart. She wanted to learn all that could be told of her friend's life and death, but Aunt Ninette had little to tell. She had never known Dora's mother; her brother had spent several years in America where he had married, and his wife had died in Hamburg shortly after Dora's birth. That was all she knew. Then Mrs. Birkenfeld went directly to the point. She explained to Mrs. Ehrenreich how much she had enjoyed and profited by, her long visits at her friend's father's house, and how deeply she felt that she owed these kind friends a debt of gratitude which she now saw an opportunity partly to repay, by doing what she could for Dora. In short, if Aunt Ninette and her husband would consent, her most fervent wish would be to take Dora and bring her up as her own child.

She met with none of the opposition which she had feared. Aunt Ninette said frankly that Dora had not a cent of property, and that she would be entirely dependent on her own work as a seamstress; as neither her aunt nor her uncle could afford to spend anything on her farther education. She considered it a great blessing that the child should have found such a friend, and she heartily rejoiced in her good fortune; and was sure that her husband would fully agree with her. So there was nothing farther for Mrs. Birkenfeld to do, but to embrace Mrs. Ehrenreich most cordially, and then to hasten home to tell the children the happy news. She knew how they would take it.

There they were all under the apple-tree, all looking towards their mother and impatient for what she might have to tell them; hoping that it might be some plan for prolonging Dora's stay. But when the mother told them that from that day forward Dora was to belong to them, forever, as their sister and a child of the family, then a shout of joy arose that made the welkin ring again and awoke the echoes in the farthest corner of the garden. It aroused Uncle Titus and brought him from his distant summer-house with a gentle smile, saying half to himself and half aloud,

"It is a pity it will soon be over."

Aunt Ninette was standing at an open window, looking down into the garden, and as she heard the shouts of joy that rose again and again from under the apple-tree, she said to herself, smiling "How we shall miss all this cheerful noise when we are far away."

The children were indeed jubilant, and they decided to organize a feast in honor of Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette, a feast more brilliant than any that had ever before made the shades of the garden glow with splendor.

That night Dora went up to her little room for the last time, for the next morning she was to move over to the other house. The happy family of children whom she had secretly watched with longing heart, were now to be her brothers and sisters; the lovely garden into which she had gazed with hopeless eyes was henceforth to be her home; she was to have parents who would surround her always with their protecting love. She was to learn what the others learned; yes, to have regular studies with them, as well as music-lessons. Dora's heart was flooded with the thoughts that welled up within her. One thing she was sure of; that her father was looking down at her, and rejoicing with her. She stood at the window and gazed up at the sparkling stars, and recalled the sad hours of depression that she had known, when these stars did not seem to bring her comfort, and when she had almost lost faith in that kind heavenly Father, who nevertheless had now brought all this happiness to her.

She fell on her knees and thanked God for his goodness, and prayed that she might never again doubt Him, but that even in times of sorrow, she might be able to say, with heart-felt trust in the words of her father's verse:

"God holds us in his hand, God knows the best to send."

Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette engaged their rooms with Mrs. Kurd for the following summer; Uncle Titus even went farther still, and begged Mrs. Kurd, no matter what happened, never to promise them to any one else; for he left her house now with keen regret, and hoped to return to it every summer as long as he lived.

When Monday morning came, the whole family were on hand before the cottage, to wish the departing guests good-speed. Rolf drew the uncle aside, and asked if he might venture to send a charade to Karlsruhe, now and then; to which Uncle Titus kindly replied that he should receive any such with pleasure, and answer them with punctuality.

Sly little Hunne, when he overheard these remarks, declared at once, "I will also send mine;" for he did not doubt that his would be equally acceptable to Uncle Titus, if not more so. He thought also that the quiet people of Karlsruhe would never be able to guess such charades as he would make, and his heart was filled with pride. Dora and Paula wandered arm in arm into the garden, singing gaily,

"No farther losses to deplore In friendship live for evermore."

<eob>

American Boy's Life Of Theodore Roosevelt

By

Edward Stratemeyer



Chapter I

Birthplace And Ancestry Of Theodore Roosevelt -- His Father's Philanthropy -- City And Country Home -- Days At School -- Religious Training


"Our country calls not for the life of ease, but for the life of strenuous endeavor. The twentieth century looms before us big with the fate of many nations. If we stand idly by, if we seek merely swollen, slothful ease and ignoble peace, if we shrink from the hard contests where men must win at hazard of their lives and at the risk of all they hold dear, then the bolder and stronger peoples will pass us by and will win for themselves the domination of the world. Let us therefore boldly face the life of strife, resolute to do our duty well and manfully; resolute to uphold righteousness by deed and by word; resolute to be both honest and brave, to serve high ideals, yet to use practical methods. Above all, let us not shrink from strife, moral or physical, within or without the nation, provided that we are certain that the strife is justified; for it is only through strife, through hard and dangerous endeavor, that we shall ultimately win the goal of true national greatness."

These words, taken from President Roosevelt's remarkable speech on "The Strenuous Life," show well the character of the man, his lofty ideals, his sterling courage, his absolute honesty, and unwavering patriotism. He is a typical American in the best sense of the word, and his life is worthy of careful study. From it American boys of to-day, and in generations to come, may gain lessons that will do them much good.

Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth President of our country, was born in New York City, October 27, 1858. The place of his birth was the old family mansion at 28 East Twentieth Street, in a neighborhood which, at that time, was the abode of wealth and culture. The building is one of a row, of a type to be seen in hundreds of other places, of brick and stone, four stories and a basement high, the upper floor being an attic. A heavy railing runs from in front of the basement up the broad front steps to the doorway. Inside, the rooms are large and comfortably arranged, and there was, in those days, quite a nice garden in the rear.

It can truthfully be said that Theodore Roosevelt comes from a race of soldiers and statesmen, and that Dutch, Scotch, French, and Irish blood flows in his veins. This being so, it is no wonder that, when the Spanish-American War broke out, he closed his desk as Assistant Secretary of the Navy, saying, "My duty here is done; my place is in the field," and went forth to win glory on the battle-field of San Juan Hill.

Five generations of Roosevelts lived in or near New York previous to the birth of Theodore Roosevelt, the father of the President, in 1831. Nearly all were well-to-do, and many served the city and the state as aldermen and members of the legislature. During the Revolution they followed under Washington's banner, and their purses were wide open to further the cause of independence.

Theodore Roosevelt the elder was a merchant and banker; a man broad in his views and filled with the spirit of genuine philanthropy. He founded one of the hospitals of the city and was at one time chairman of the State Board of Charities. A story is told of him which is probably true. One day Charles Loring Brace came to him for financial assistance in establishing homes for the little waifs of the city.

"I will see what I can do," said Mr. Roosevelt. "But you know that just at present I am busy with other charitable works."

"I know that," said Mr. Brace. "But what I ask for is very much needed. The waifs and poor, homeless newsboys have no shelter."

The next day, when returning from the establishment in which he was a partner, Mr. Roosevelt came upon a newsboy sitting on a doorstep, crying bitterly.

"What is the matter, my little man?" he asked.

"I lost me money; it dropped down into de sewer hole!" sobbed the ragged urchin. "Every cent of it is gone."

Mr. Roosevelt questioned the lad and found out that the boy had no home and that his only relative was a longshoreman who was hardly ever sober. He gave the lad some money to replace the amount lost, and the next day sent word to Mr. Brace that he would do all he possibly could toward establishing the waifs' shelters that were so much needed. The Newsboys' Lodging House of New York City is one of the results of Mr. Roosevelt's practical charities. He also did much to give criminals a helping hand when they came from prison, stating that that was the one time in their lives when they most needed help, for fear they might slip back into their previous bad habits.

In 1853 Theodore Roosevelt the elder married Miss Martha Bullock, of Roswell, Cobb County, Georgia. Miss Bullock was the daughter of Major James S. Bullock and a direct descendant of Archibald Bullock, the first governor of Georgia. It will thus be seen that the future President had both Northern and Southern blood in his make-up, and it may be added here that during the terrible Civil War his relatives were to be found both in the Union and the Confederate ranks. Mrs. Roosevelt was a strong Southern sympathizer, and when a certain gathering, during the Civil War, was in progress at the Roosevelt city home, she insisted upon displaying a Confederate flag at one of the windows.

"I am afraid it will make trouble," said Mr. Roosevelt; and he was right. Soon a mob began to gather in the street, clamoring that the flag be taken down.

"I shall not take it down," said Mrs. Roosevelt, bravely. "The room is mine, and the flag is mine. I love it, and nobody shall touch it. Explain to the crowd that I am a Southern woman and that I love my country."

There being no help for it, Mr. Roosevelt went to the front door and explained matters as best he could. A few in the crowd grumbled, but when Mrs. Roosevelt came to the window and looked down on the gathering, one after another the men went away, and she and her flag remained unmolested.

Theodore Roosevelt, the future President, was one of a family of four. He had a brother Elliott and two sisters. His brother was several years younger than himself, but much more robust, and would probably have lived many years and have distinguished himself, had he not met death in a railroad accident while still a young man.

In the years when Theodore Roosevelt was a boy, New York City was not what it is to-day. The neighborhood in which he lived was, as I have already mentioned, a fashionable one, and the same may be said of many other spots near to Union Square, where tall business blocks were yet unknown. The boys and girls loved to play in the little park and on the avenue, and here it was that the rather delicate schoolboy grew to know Edith Carew, who lived in Fourteenth Street and who was his school companion. Little did they dream in those days, as they played together, that one day he would be President and she his loving wife, the mistress of the White House.

Mr. Roosevelt was a firm believer in public institutions, and he did not hesitate to send his children to the public schools, especially his boys, that they might come in direct personal contact with the great outside world. So to a near-by institution of learning Theodore and Elliott trudged day after day, with their school-books under their arms, just as thousands of other schoolboys are doing to-day. But in those days there were few experiments being tried in the schools, and manual training and the like were unknown. The boys were well grounded in reading, writing, and arithmetic, as well as spelling, history, and geography, and there was great excitement when a "spelling-bee" was in progress, to see who could spell the rest of the class or the gathering down.

It is said upon good authority that Theodore Roosevelt was a model scholar from the start. He loved to read Cooper's "Leatherstocking Tales," and works of travel, and preferred books above anything else. But when he found that constant studying was ruining his constitution, he determined to build himself up physically as well as mentally.

In the summer time the family often went to the old Roosevelt "out of town" mansion on Long Island. This was called "Tranquillity," a fine large place near Oyster Bay, set in a grove of beautiful trees. The journey to "Tranquillity" was in those days a tedious one, but the Roosevelt children did not mind it, and once at the old place they were certain of a good time so long as their vacation lasted. Here it was that Theodore Roosevelt learned to ride on horseback and how to handle a gun. And here, too, the boys would go boating, fishing, and bathing, to their hearts' content.

Mr. Theodore Roosevelt the elder was a member of the Dutch Reformed Church, and the religious teaching of his children was not neglected. At an early age the future President became a member of that denomination and has remained a member ever since. The church was on the East Side, and had high-backed pews, and here were delivered sermons that were as long as they were full of strength and wisdom. That these sermons had their full effect upon the future President is shown by his addresses delivered before the Young Men's Christian Association of New York City and a church community of the West, years later. In addressing the Young Men's Christian Association Mr. Roosevelt, who was then governor of the State, said: -- 

"The vice of envy is not only dangerous, but also a mean vice, for it is always a confession of inferiority. It may provoke conduct which will be fruitful of wrong to others; and it must cause misery to the man who feels it. It will not be any the less fruitful of wrong and misery if, as is often the case with evil motives, it adopts some high-sounding alias. The truth is, gentlemen, that each one of us has in him certain passions and instincts which, if they gain the upper hand in his soul, would mean that the wild beast had come uppermost in him. Envy, malice, and hatred are such passions, and they are just as bad if directed against a class or group of men as if directed against an individual."

Golden words, well worth remembering. A person who believes in them with all his heart cannot go far wrong in his actions, no matter what his station in life.



Chapter II

Nicknamed Teddy -- Goes To Harvard College -- Member Of Many Clubs -- Death Of Mr. Roosevelt -- Anecdotes Of College Life


The instincts of the hunter must have been born in Theodore Roosevelt. His first gun was given to him when he was ten years of age, and for the time being his books and his studies were forgotten, and he devoted his whole time and attention to shooting at a target set up in the garden of the country home and in going out with the older folks after such small game as were to be found in that vicinity.

The horses on the place were his pets, and he knew the peculiarities of each as well as did the man who cared for them. Riding and driving came to him as naturally as breathing, and the fact that a steed was mettlesome did not daunt him.

"My father often drove four-in-hand," he has said. "I liked very much to go with him, and I liked to drive, too."

Theodore Roosevelt's schoolboy days were not far out of the ordinary. He studied hard, and if he failed in a lesson he did his best to make it up the next time. It is well said that there is no royal road to learning, and even a future President must study just as hard as his classmates if he wants to keep up with them. Sometimes he was absent from school on account of sickness, and then it was a sharp struggle to keep from dropping behind.

"In those days nobody expected Teddy Roosevelt to amount to a great deal," some one has said. "He was thin, pale, and delicate, and suffered with his eyes. But he pulled through, and when he took to athletics, it was wonderful how he got stronger."

By his intimate companions, and indeed by nearly everybody who knew him, he was called Teddy, and this nickname clung to him when he went forth into the great world to become a governor and a president. How the nickname came first into use is not known.

Since those schoolboy days Mr. Roosevelt has been asked this question: -- 

"What did you expect to be, or dream of being, when you were a boy?"

"I do not recollect that I dreamed at all or planned at all," was the answer. "I simply obeyed the injunction, 'Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do that with all thy might,' and so I took up what came along as it came."

In 1876, while the great Centennial Exhibition was being held at Philadelphia in commemoration of one hundred years of national liberty, Theodore Roosevelt took up his residence at Cambridge, Massachusetts, and became a student at Harvard College. During the previous year his health had been poor indeed, but now he had taken hold of himself in earnest.

"I determined to be strong and well, and did everything to make myself so," he has said. "By the time I entered Harvard I was able to take part in whatever sports I liked."

As perhaps some of my readers know, Harvard College (now termed a University) is the oldest and largest institution of learning in the United States. It was founded in 1636, and among its graduates numbered John Quincy Adams, sixth President of our country. The college proper is located in Cambridge, but some of the attached schools are in Boston.

Theodore Roosevelt was rich enough to have lived in elegant style while at Harvard, but he preferred unostentatious quarters, and took two rooms in the home of Benj. H. Richardson, at what was then No. 16 and is now No. 88 Winthrop Street. The residence is a neat and comfortable one, standing on the southwest corner of Winthrop and Holyoke streets.

The young student had two rooms on the second floor, -- one of good size, used for a study, and a small bedroom. In the whole four years he was at the college he occupied these rooms, and he spent a great deal of time in fixing them up to suit his own peculiar taste. On the walls were all sorts of pictures and photographs, along with foils and boxing-gloves, and the horns of wild animals. On a shelf rested some birds which he had himself stuffed, and books were everywhere.

"It was a regular den, and typical of Roosevelt to the last degree," a student of those times has said. "He had his gun there and his fishing rod, and often spoke of using them. He was noted for trying to get at the bottom of things, and I remember him well on one occasion when I found him with a stuffed bird in one hand and a natural history in the other, trying to decide if the description in the volume covered the specimen before him." When Roosevelt graduated from college, he was one of a very few that took honors, and the subject of his essay was natural history. How his love of natural history continued will be shown later when we see him as a ranchman and hunter of the West.

Theodore Roosevelt had decided to make the most of himself, and while at Harvard scarcely a moment was wasted. If he was not studying, he was in the gymnasium or on the field, doing what he could to make himself strong. He was a firm believer in the saying that a sound body makes a sound mind, and he speedily became a good boxer, wrestler, jumper, and runner. He wrestled a great deal, and of this sport says: -- 

"I enjoyed it immensely and never injured myself. I think I was a good deal of a wrestler, and though I never won a championship, yet more than once I won my trial heats and got into the final rounds."

At running he was equally good. "I remember once we had a stiff run out into the country," said a fellow-student. "Roosevelt was behind at the start, but when all of the others got played out he forged ahead, and in the end he beat us by several minutes. But he never bragged about it. You see, it wasn't his style."

With all his other sports, and his studying, the young collegian did not give up his love for driving. He had a good horse and a fancy cart, -- one of the elevated sort with large wheels, -- and in this turnout he was seen many a day, driving wherever it pleased him to go. Sometimes he would get on the road with other students, and then there was bound to be more or less racing.

With a strong love for natural history it was not surprising that he joined the Natural History Club of the college, and of this he was one of the most active members. He also joined the Athletic Association, of which he was a steward, and the Art Club, the Rifle Corps, the O.K. Society, and the Finance Club. In his senior year he became a member of the Porcellian Club, the Hasty Pudding, and the Alpha Delta Phi Club, and also one of the editors of a college paper called the Advocate. On Sundays he taught a class of boys, first in a mission school, and then in a Congregational Sunday school. It was a life full of planning, full of study, and full of work, and it suited Theodore Roosevelt to the last degree.

As he grew older his love of natural history was supplemented by a love for the history of nations, and particularly by a love of the history of his own country. The war of 1812 interested him intensely, and before he graduated he laid plans for writing a history of this war, which should go into all the details of the memorable naval conflicts.

It was while in his third year at Harvard that Theodore Roosevelt suffered the first heavy affliction of his life. On February 9, 1878, his father died. It was a cruel blow to the family, and one from which the faithful wife scarcely recovered. The son at Harvard felt his loss greatly, and it was some time before he felt able to resume his studies. The elder Roosevelt's work as a philanthropist was well known, and many gathered at his bier to do him honor, while the public journals were filled with eulogies of the man. The poor mourned bitterly that he was gone, and even the newsboys were filled with regret over his taking away. In speaking of his parent, President Roosevelt once said: "I can remember seeing him going down Broadway, staid and respectable business man that he was, with a poor sick kitten in his coat pocket, which he had picked up in the street." Such a man could not but have a heart overflowing with goodness.

While at college Theodore Roosevelt often showed that self-reliance for which he has since become famous. To every study that he took up he applied himself closely, and if he was not at the head of the class, he was by no means near the foot. When he was sure of a thing, no amount of argument could convince him that he was wrong, and he did not hesitate at times to enter into a discussion even with some of the professors over him.

Although a close student, and also a good all-round athlete, Theodore Roosevelt did not forget his social opportunities. Boston was but a short distance from his rooms in Cambridge, and thither he often went to visit the people he had met or to whom he had letters of introduction. He was always welcome, for his manner was a winning one, and he usually had something to tell that was of interest -- something of what he had seen or done, of the next foot-ball or base-ball game, of the coming boat races, of his driving or exploring, or of how he had added a new stuffed bird to his collection, or a new lizard, and of how a far-away friend had sent him a big turtle as a souvenir of an ocean trip in the South Seas. There is a story that this big turtle got loose one night and alarmed the entire household by crawling through the hallway, looking for a pond or mud-hole in which to wallow. At first the turtle was mistaken for a burglar, but he soon revealed himself by his angry snapping, and it was hard work making him a prisoner once more.



Chapter III

Marries Miss Alice Lee -- Travels In Europe -- Bold Mountain-Climbing -- Studying Law In New York -- Elected To The Assembly -- Personal Encounter With The Enemy


It was a proud and happy day for Theodore Roosevelt when, in the summer of 1880, he was graduated from Harvard. He took scholarly as well as social honors, and came forth a Phi Beta Kappa man. His fellow-students wished him well, and his family greeted him most affectionately.

Yet with it all there was just a bit of melancholy in this breaking away from a place that had been as a second home to him for four long years. The students were scattering to the four points of the compass, and he might never see some of them again. But others were there whom he was to meet later, and who were destined to march under him up the bullet-swept slopes of San Juan in far-away Cuba. But at that time there was no thought of war and carnage, only good-fellowship, with addresses and orations, music, flying flags, and huge bonfires and fireworks at night. Happy college days were they, never to be forgotten.

While a student at Harvard, Theodore Roosevelt had become intimately acquainted with Miss Alice Lee, of Boston, a beautiful girl who was a member of an aristocratic family of that city. The young college student was a frequent visitor at the home of the Lees, and on September 23, 1880, the two were married.

It had been decided that Theodore Roosevelt should travel in Europe after graduating. His father had left the family well provided for, so there was no rush to get into something whereby a living might be earned. Yet Theodore Roosevelt had long since determined not to be an idler. He would travel and improve his mind, and then settle down to that for which he seemed best fitted.

To Europe then he went, accompanied by his bride, to study a little and to visit the art galleries and museums, the palaces of kings and queens, and the many great cities of that continent. He travelled through Italy, Switzerland, Germany, France, and the British Isles, taking note of everything he saw and comparing it with what he had seen in his own country. When in lower Europe, the spirit of adventure seized him, and he climbed those lofty mountains of the Alps, the Jungfrau and the Matterhorn, and for those deeds of daring was made a member of the Alpine Club of London. It may be mentioned here that climbing the mountains mentioned is a very difficult feat, and that more than one traveller has lost his life in such attempts. The peaks are covered with snow and ice; the path from one cliff to the next is narrow and uncertain, and a fall into some dark and fearful hollow usually means death. But the danger only urged Theodore Roosevelt on, and added zest to the undertaking.

He was intensely interested in all he saw, both in Europe proper and in the British Isles, but wrote that he was glad to get back home again, among his own people. To him there was no country like America, the land of Golden Opportunity, as one of our most noted writers has called it. In Europe there was more or less a lack of personal liberty; here a man could try to make what he pleased of himself, be it cobbler or President.

The young college graduate had an uncle in New York, named Robert B. Roosevelt, who was a well-known lawyer. On his return to this country Theodore Roosevelt entered his uncle's office, and likewise took up the study of law at Columbia University, attending the lectures given by Professor Dwight. Here again his search after what he termed "bottom facts" came to light, and he is well remembered as a member of the law class because of the way he frequently asked questions and called for explanations -- accepting nothing as a fact until it was perfectly clear in his own mind. The interruptions did not always suit the professor or the other students, yet they were often the means of clearing up a point that was hazy to many others who had not the courage to thrust forth their inquiries as did Theodore Roosevelt.

"He wants to know it all," said one student, in disgust.

"Well, never mind; I wish I knew it all," answered another. "I guess he knows what he is doing." And in this he was right; Theodore Roosevelt knew exactly what he was trying to accomplish.

The young man was now twenty-three years of age, broad-shouldered, and in much better health than ever before. He had not abandoned his athletic training, and would often run out to the old home at Oyster Bay for a tramp into the woods or on a hunting tour.

While still studying law, Theodore Roosevelt entered politics by taking an active part in a Republican primary. He lived in the twenty-third assembly district of the state. The district included a great number of rich and influential citizens, and on that account was called the "Diamond Back District."

"Let us put up young Roosevelt for Assembly," said one of the politicians. "He's a clever fellow."

"That may be," said another. "But I don't know that we can manage him. He seems a fellow who wants his own way."

"Yes, he'll want his own way, but I reckon that way will be the right way," put in a third speaker.

No sooner had Theodore Roosevelt's name been mentioned as a possible candidate than there was a storm of opposition from some politicians who had in the past ruled the district with a rod of iron. It was a Republican district, so that the contest for the place was entirely in the primary.

"If he is nominated and elected, our power will be gone," they told themselves; and set to work without delay to throw the nomination into the hands of somebody else.

Theodore Roosevelt suspected what was going on, but he said nothing to those who opposed him. With his friends he was very frank, and told them that if he was nominated he would do his best to win the election and serve them honestly in the legislature.

His open-heartedness won him many friends, and when the primary was held, those who had opposed him were chagrined to see him win the nomination with votes to spare. Some at once predicted that he would not be elected.

"Those who opposed him at the primary will not vote for him," they said. "They would rather help the Democrats."

But this prediction proved false. At the election Theodore Roosevelt was elected with a good majority. It was his first battle in the political arena and if he felt proud over it, who can blame him?

The State Capitol of New York is, as my young readers must know, at Albany, on the Upper Hudson, and hither the young assemblyman journeyed. The assemblymen poured in from all over the state, and were made up of all sorts and conditions of men, including bankers, farmers, merchants, contractors, liquor dealers, and even prize-fighters. Many of these men were thoroughly honest, but there were others who were there for gain only, and who cared little for the passing of just laws.

The party to which Theodore Roosevelt belonged was in the minority, so that the young assemblyman found he would have to struggle hard if he expected to be heard at all. But the thoughts of such a struggle only put him on his mettle, and he plunged in with a vigor that astonished his opponents and caused great delight to his friends.

"He is fearless," said one who had voted for him. "He will make things warm for those who don't want to act on the square." And he certainly did make it warm, until a certain class grew to fear and hate him to such a degree that they plotted to do him bodily harm.

"He has got to learn that he must mind his own business," was the way one of these corruptionists reasoned.

"But what can we do?" asked another. "He's as sharp on the floor of the Assembly as a steel trap."

"We'll get Stubby to brush up against him," said a third.

Stubby was a bar-room loafer who had been at one time something of a pugilist. He was a thoroughly unprincipled fellow, and it was known that he would do almost anything for money.

"Sure, I'll fix him," said Stubby. "You just leave him to me and see how I polish him off."

The corruptionists and their tool met at the Delavan House, an old-fashioned hotel at which politicians in and around the capital were wont to congregate, and waited for the young assemblyman. Roosevelt was not long in putting in an appearance and was soon in deep discussion with some friends.

"Watch him, Stubby," said one of the young assemblyman's enemies. "Don't let him get away from you to-night."

"I have me eye on him," answered Stubby.

Roosevelt was on the way to the buffet of the hotel when the crowd, with Stubby in front, pushed against him rudely. The young assemblyman stepped back and viewed those before him fearlessly.

"Say, what do yer mean, running into me that way?" demanded Stubby, insolently.

As he spoke he aimed a savage blow at Theodore Roosevelt. But the young assemblyman had not forgotten how to box, and he dodged with an agility that was astonishing.

"This fellow needs to be taught a lesson," Theodore Roosevelt told himself, and then and there he proceeded to administer the lesson in a manner that Stubby never forgot. He went down flat on his back, and when he got up, he went down again, with a bleeding nose and one eye all but closed. Seeing this, several leaped in to his assistance, but it was an ill-fated move, for Roosevelt turned on them also, and down they went, too; and then the encounter came to an end, with Theodore Roosevelt the victor.

"And that wasn't the end of it," said one, who witnessed the affair. "After it was over young Roosevelt was as smiling as ever. He walked straight over to some of his enemies who had been watching the mix-up from a distance and told them very plainly that he knew how the attack had originated, and he was much obliged to them, for he hadn't enjoyed himself so much for a year. Phew! but weren't those fellows mad! And wasn't Stubby mad when he learned that they had set him against one of the best boxers Harvard ever turned out? But after that you can make sure they treated Roosevelt with respect and gave him a wide berth."



Chapter IV

Theodore Roosevelt And Governor Cleveland -- Good Work As An Assemblyman -- Some Measures Pushed Through -- Birth Of Alice Roosevelt -- Death Of Mr. Roosevelt's Mother


The career of an assemblyman is not generally an interesting one, but Mr. Roosevelt managed to extract not a little pleasure and also some profit from it. The experience was just what he needed to fit himself for the larger positions he was, later on, to occupy.

One happening is of peculiar interest to note. While Theodore Roosevelt was a member of the Assembly, Grover Cleveland became governor of the state. Mr. Cleveland was a Democrat, while Mr. Roosevelt was a Republican, yet the two future Presidents of the United States became warm friends, -- a friendship that has endured to the present day.

It is said that the friendship started in rather a peculiar manner. There was at the time a measure before the Assembly to reduce the fare of the elevated roads in New York City from ten cents to five cents. After a great deal of talking, the bill passed the Assembly and then the Senate, and went to the governor for his signature. Much to the surprise of the general public Governor Cleveland vetoed the bill, stating that when the capitalists had built the elevated roads they had understood that the fare was to be ten cents, and that it was not right to deprive them of their profits. At once those who wanted the measure to become a law decided to pass it over the governor's head. When this attempt was made, Theodore Roosevelt got up boldly and said he could not again vote for the bill -- that he was satisfied that Governor Cleveland's view of the matter was correct.

"These people would not have put their money in the elevated railroads had they not been assured that the fare was to be ten cents," said he. "We are under obligation to them, and we must keep our promises." And so the bill fell through. It was not in itself right that the fare should be ten cents, and it has long since been reduced to five cents, but it shows that Theodore Roosevelt was bound to do what was right and just, according to the dictates of his own conscience, and this won for him many friends, even among those who had opposed him politically.

In a work of this kind, intended mainly for the use of young people, it is not necessary to do more than glance at the work which Theodore Roosevelt accomplished while a member of the New York Assembly.

He made a close study of the various political offices of New York County and discovered that many office-holders were drawing large sums of money in the shape of fees for which they were doing hardly any work. This he considered unfair, and by dint of hard labor helped to pass a law placing such offices on the salary list, making a saving to the county of probably half a million dollars a year.

One of the best things done by Theodore Roosevelt at that time was the support given by him to a civil service law for the state. Up to that time office-holding was largely in the hands of the party which happened to be in power.

"This is all wrong," said the young assemblyman. "A clerk or anybody else doing his duty faithfully should not be thrown out as soon as there is a political change." The new law was passed, and this was the beginning of what is commonly called the merit system, whereby a large number of those who work for the state are judged solely by their capabilities and not by their political beliefs. This system has since been extended to other states and also to office-holding under the national government.

Another important measure pushed through the Assembly by Theodore Roosevelt was what was known as the Edson Charter for New York City, giving to the mayor certain rights which in the past had rested in the board of aldermen. This measure was defeated during Roosevelt's second term of office, but in 1884 he pressed it with such force that it overcame all opposition and became a law. Many have considered this victory his very best work.

By those who knew him at this time he is described as having almost a boyish figure, frank face, clear, penetrating eyes, and a smile of good-natured friendship and dry humor. When he talked it was with an earnestness that could not be mistaken. By those who were especially bitter against him he was sometimes called a dude and a silk stocking, but to these insinuations he paid no attention, and after the encounter at the Delavan House his opponents were decidedly more careful as to how they addressed him.

"Take him all the way through he was generally even tempered," one has said who met him at that time. "But occasionally there was a flash from his eye that made his opponent draw back in quick order. He would stand a good deal, but there were some things he wouldn't take, and they knew it. One thing is certain, after he was in the Assembly for a few months everybody knew perfectly that to come to him with any bill that was the least bit shady was a waste of time and effort. Roosevelt wouldn't stand for it a minute."

In those days Theodore Roosevelt did not give up his habits of athletic exercise, and nearly every day he could be seen taking long walks in the country around Albany. In the meantime his "Naval War of 1812" was well under way, but he could spare only a few hours occasionally to complete his manuscript.

His married life had thus far been a happy one, and its joy was greatly increased by the birth of his daughter Alice. As will be seen later, Mr. Roosevelt is what is called a family man, and he took great comfort in this new addition to his little household. But his happiness was short-lived, for in 1884, when the daughter was but a baby, the beloved wife died, and the little one had to be given over to the care of the grandparents in Boston. Not many months later Mr. Roosevelt's mother died also, heaping additional sorrow upon his head.

With the conclusion of his third term in the Assembly Theodore Roosevelt's work as a member of that body came to an end. If he had made some enemies, he had made more friends, and he was known as an ardent supporter of reform in all branches of politics. In recognition of his ability he was chosen as a delegate-at-large to the Republican convention brought together to nominate a candidate to succeed President Arthur.

At that time James G. Blaine from Maine had served many years in the United States Senate, and it was thought that he would surely be both nominated and elected. But many were opposed to Blaine, thinking he would not support such reform measures as they wished to see advanced, and among this number was Theodore Roosevelt.

"We must nominate Mr. Edmunds," said the young delegate-at-large, and did his best for the gentleman in question.

"It cannot be done," said another delegate.

The convention met at Exposition Hall in Chicago, and Mr. Roosevelt was placed on the Committee on Resolutions. It was a stormy convention, and ballot after ballot had to be taken before a nomination could be secured. Blaine led from the start, with Senator Edmunds a fairly close second.

"If Blaine is nominated, he will be defeated," said more than one.

At last came the deciding vote, and James G. Blaine was put up at the head of the ticket, with John A. Logan for Vice-President.

At once Blaine clubs were organized all over the country, and the Republican party did all in its power to elect its candidate. He was called the Plumed Knight, and many political clubs wore plumes in his honor when on parade. In the meantime the Democrats had nominated Grover Cleveland.

The fight was exceedingly bitter up to the very evening of election day. When the votes were counted, it was found that Blaine had been defeated by a large majority, and that Grover Cleveland, Roosevelt's old friend, had won the highest gift in the hands of the nation.

His work at the convention in Chicago was Theodore Roosevelt's first entrance into national affairs, and his speeches on that occasion will not be readily forgotten. It was here that he came into contact with William McKinley, with whom, sixteen years later, he was to run on the same ticket. The records of that convention show that on one occasion McKinley spoke directly after Roosevelt. Thus were these two drawn together at that early day without knowing or dreaming that one was to succeed the other to the Presidency.

But though Theodore Roosevelt was disappointed over the nomination made at Chicago, he did not desert his party. Instead he did all he could to lead them to victory, until the death of his mother caused him to withdraw temporarily from public affairs.

Signature: Alice Lee Roosevelt



Chapter V

Theodore Roosevelt As A Ranchman And Hunter In The Bad Lands -- Bringing Down His First Buffalo -- Rattlesnakes, And A Wild Goose


Theodore Roosevelt had now published his "Naval History of the War of 1812," and it had created a decidedly favorable opinion among those critics who were best able to judge of the production. It is an authoritative work, and is to-day in the library of nearly every American war-ship afloat, as well as in numerous government libraries in this country, as at Washington, West Point, and Annapolis, and also in leading libraries of England.

Being out of politics the young author thought of taking up his pen once more. But he was restless by nature, and the loss of his wife and his mother still weighed heavily upon him. So he took himself to the West, to where the Little Missouri River flows in winding form through what are called the Bad Lands of North Dakota.

Here, on the edge of the cattle country, Theodore Roosevelt had become possessed of two ranches, one called the Elkhorn and the other Chimney Butte. Both were located by the river, which during the dry season was hardly of any depth at all, but which during the heavy rains, or during the spring freshets, became a roaring torrent.

At one of these ranches Theodore Roosevelt settled down for the time being, to rough it in hunting and raising cattle. When the weather would not permit of his going abroad, or when the mood of the author seized him, he wrote. As a result of these experiences he has given us a delightful work called "The Hunting Trips of a Ranchman," first published in 1885, giving his adventures among the cattle and while on the hunt, sometimes alone and sometimes in company with the rude but honest cow punchers and plainsmen who surrounded him.

Mr. Roosevelt has described the ranch at which he lived for the greater part of his time as a long, low, story-high house of hewn logs, clean and neat, and with many rooms. It faced the river, and in front was a long, low veranda, where one might idle on a clear, warm day to his heart's content. Inside, the main room contained a shelf full of the owner's favorite outdoor books and the walls half-a-dozen pet pictures. Rifles and shot-guns stood handy in corners, and on pegs and deer horns hung overcoats of wolf or coon skin and gloves of otter or beaver.

That Theodore Roosevelt was a close observer of all that occurred around him is proved by his writings. With great minuteness he has described his life at the ranch home and while in the saddle, both in winter and summer, telling of his experiences while rounding up cattle and while bringing down waterfowl and larger game of various kinds. He likewise describes the trained hunters he has met at different seasons of the year, and tells of what they have done or were trying to do.

At this time his favorite horse was a steed called Manitou. But when on a round-up of cattle, many ponies were taken along, so that a fresh mount could be had at any time. It was a breezy, free life, and to it our President undoubtedly owes the rugged constitution that he possesses to-day.

His observations led him to make many investigations concerning the smaller wild animals near his ranches and the larger beasts to be found farther off. The tales which were told to him by other ranchmen and hunters he always took "with a grain of salt," and he soon reached the conclusion that many of the so-styled mighty hunters were only such in name, and had brought down quantities of game only in years gone by when such game was plentiful and could be laid low without much trouble. Once when a man told him he had brought down a certain beast at four hundred yards, Roosevelt measured the distance and found it to be less than half that.

"You couldn't fool him on much," said one of the persons who met him about that time. "He would take precious little for granted. He wanted to know the how of everything, and he wasn't satisfied until he did know."

Regarding his own powers as a hunter at that time, Mr. Roosevelt is very modest. He says his eyesight was rather poor, and his hand not over steady, so that "drawing a bead" on anything was not easy. Yet he went into the sport with much enthusiasm, and if at times he came back at nightfall empty-handed, he did not complain, and he was almost certain to have something interesting to tell of what he had seen.

Theodore Roosevelt had been in this territory before, although not to remain any great length of time. Once he had come out to hunt buffalo, no easy thing to do, since this game was growing scarcer every day. He had a guide named Ferris, who was not particularly struck with the appearance of the pale young man, plainly dressed, whom he met at the railroad station.

"I sized him up as not being able to endure a long trip after a buffalo," said the guide, in speaking afterward of the meeting. "He was well mounted, but he looked as if he might play out before the sun went down."

But in this the guide was mistaken. Roosevelt proved that he could ride as well as anybody. The first night out found the hunters about thirty miles from any settlement. They went into camp on the open prairie, tethering their horses with ropes fastened to their saddles, which they used as pillows.

All went well for an hour or two, when the improvised pillow was jerked from beneath Theodore Roosevelt's head, and he heard his horse bounding away in the distance.

"Wolves!" cried the guide. "They have frightened our horses!"

So it proved; and the hunters lost no time in reaching for their firearms. But the wolves kept their distance, and soon Theodore Roosevelt was running after the horses, which, after a good deal of trouble, he secured and brought back. After that the guide no longer looked on him as a "tenderfoot."

"A tenderfoot," said he, "would have been scared to death. But Teddy Roosevelt was as cool as a cucumber through it all -- as if the happening wasn't in the least out of the ordinary."

For several days the hunters remained on the prairie looking for buffalo, but without success. They were on the point of turning back when the guide noticed that the horses were growing uneasy.

"Some big game at hand," he announced. "Come on to yonder washout and see if I am not right."

With great caution the hunters advanced to the washout the guide had mentioned. Dismounting, they crept forward in the shelter of the brushwood, and there, true enough, resting at his ease was a great buffalo bull.

"Hit him where the patch of red shows on his side," whispered the guide, and Roosevelt nodded to show that he understood. With care and coolness he took aim and fired, and the buffalo bull leaped up and staggered forward with the blood streaming from his mouth and nose.

"Shall I give him another?" was the question asked, but before it could be answered the buffalo bull gave a plunge and fell dead.

Rattlesnakes are rather unpleasant reptiles to deal with, and Theodore Roosevelt has shown his bravery by the way in which he speaks of them in his accounts of outdoor life. He says to a man wearing alligator boots there is little danger, for the fang of the reptile cannot go through the leather, and the snake rarely strikes as high as one's knee. But he had at least one experience with a rattlesnake not readily forgotten.

He was out on a hunt for antelope. The sage-brush in which he was concealing himself was so low that he had to crawl along flat on his breast, pushing himself forward with hands and feet as best he could.

He was almost on the antelope when he heard a warning whirr close at his side, and glancing hastily in that direction, saw the reptile but a few feet away, coiled up and ready to attack.

It was a thrilling and critical moment, and had the young hunter leaped up he might have been dangerously if not fatally struck. But by instinct he backed away silently and moved off in another direction through the brush. The rattlesnake did not follow, although it kept its piercing eyes on the hunter as long as possible. After the antelope stalk was over, Roosevelt came back to the spot, made a careful search, and, watching his chance, fired on the rattlesnake, killing it instantly.

In those days Theodore Roosevelt met Colonel William Cody, commonly known as "Buffalo Bill," and many other celebrated characters of the West. He never grew tired of listening to the stories these old trappers, hunters, scouts, and plainsmen had to tell, and some of these stories he afterward put into print, and they have made excellent reading.

During many of his hunting expeditions at that time Theodore Roosevelt was accompanied by his foreman, a good shot and all-round ranchman named Merrifield. Merrifield had been in the West but five years, but the life fitted him exactly, and in him Roosevelt the ranchman and hunter found a companion exactly to his liking, fearless and self-reliant to the last degree.

As perhaps most of my young readers know, wild geese are generally brought down with a shot-gun, but in the Bad Lands it was not unusual to bring them down with a rifle, provided the hunter was quick and accurate enough in his aim. One morning, just before dawn, Theodore Roosevelt was riding along the edge of a creek when he heard a cackling that he knew must come from some geese, and he determined if possible to lay one low.

It was easy work to dismount and crawl to the edge of the creek. But a fog lay over the water, and he could see the geese but indistinctly. Leaving the creek bank, he ran silently to where the watercourse made a turn and then crawled forward in the brush. Soon the fog lifted once more, and he saw the geese resting on the water close to the bend. He fired quickly and brought down the largest of the flock, while the others lost no time in disappearing. It was a good fat goose and made excellent eating.



Chapter VI

Grouse And Other Small Game -- The Scotchman And The Skunk -- Caught In A Hailstorm On The Prairie -- Bringing Down Black-Tail Deer


It cannot be said that Theodore Roosevelt's venture as a ranchman was a very successful one, and it is doubtful if he expected to make much money out of it. He lost nothing in a financial way, and there is no doubt but that the experience was of great benefit to him. In this semi-wilderness he met all sorts and conditions of men, and grew to know them thoroughly. In the past his dealings had been almost entirely with people of large cities and towns, and with men of learning and large business affairs; here he fell in with the wildest kind of cowboys and frontiersmen. Some he soon found were not fit to be associated with, but the majority proved as honest and hard-working fellows as could be met with anywhere. Many of these loved the young "boss" from the start, and when, years later, the war with Spain broke out, and there was a call to arms, not a few of them insisted upon joining the Rough Riders just to be near Theodore Roosevelt once more.

Around the ranches owned by Theodore Roosevelt there were more or less grouse of the sharp-tailed variety. As this sort of game made excellent eating, ranchmen and regular hunters did not hesitate to bring them down at every opportunity.

One afternoon Theodore Roosevelt left his ranch to visit the shack of one of his herders, about thirty-five miles down the river. It was a cold, clear day, and he was finely mounted on a well-trained pony. He writes that he was after grouse, hoping to get quite a number of them.

He had trusted to reach the shack long before sundown, but the way was bad, over bottoms covered with thin ice and snow, and soon darkness came on, leaving him practically lost in the cottonwoods that lined the watercourse.

What to do the young ranchman did not know, and it is safe to say that he wished himself heartily out of the difficulty. It was so dark he could not see three yards ahead of him, and it was only by the merest accident that he struck the shack at last, and then he found it empty, for the herder had gone off elsewhere on business.

So far Roosevelt had seen no game, so he was without food, and what made matters worse, the larder of the shack proved to be empty. All he had with him was a little package of tea.

It was a dismal outlook truly, and especially on such a cold night. But firewood was at hand, and after turning his pony loose to shift for itself, the future President of our country started up housekeeping for himself by lighting a fire, bringing in some water from under the ice of the river, and brewing himself a good, strong cup of tea! It was not a very nourishing meal, but it was all he had, and soon after that he went to sleep, trusting for better luck in the morning.

He was up almost before daybreak, and my young readers can rest assured that by that time his appetite was decidedly keen. Listening intently, he could hear the grouse drumming in the woods close by.

"I must have some of them, and that directly," he told himself, and rifle in hand lost no time in making his way to the woods. By keeping out of sight behind the brushwood he managed to get quite close to the game, and so brought down one after another until he had five. Such success was a great satisfaction to him, and returning to the shack he fixed himself a breakfast of broiled sharptails, to which he did full justice.

It was not all play at the ranches, and sometimes Theodore Roosevelt went out with his men to round up the cattle and help "cut out" what was his own. This was hard work, for frequently the cattle did not want to be separated from the beasts belonging to another ranchman. More than once an angry cow or a bull would charge, and then there would be a lively scramble on pony-back or on foot to get out of the way. Sometimes, too, the cattle would wander off and get lost, and then a long and hard hunt would be necessary in order to find them again.

But there was fun as well as hard work, and Mr. Roosevelt has told one story about a skunk that is sure to be remembered. He says that skunks were very numerous, and that they were more feared than larger animals by the cowboys because the bite was sure to bring on hydrophobia.

One night a number of the cowboys and Mr. Roosevelt were sleeping in a hut. A skunk came along, and after a time worked its way into the hut. It got among the pots and pans and made a noise which quickly awoke a Scotchman named Sandy.

Thinking something was wrong, Sandy struck a light, and seeing the eyes of the skunk, fired. But his aim was bad, and the animal fled.

"What were you firing at?" asked half a dozen of the other cowboys.

The Scotchman explained, and, satisfied that it had been a skunk, the others told him he had better leave the animal alone or there would be trouble.

Nobody thought the skunk would come back, but it did, and again Sandy heard it among the pots and pans. This was too much for his Scotch blood, and taking aim once more, he fired and gave the skunk a mortal wound. At once the hut was filled with a powerful odor that made all the inmates rush for the open air.

"Now see what you have done!" cried several, indignantly.

"Hoot mon!" answered the Scotchman, holding his nose tightly, "A didna ken 'twould cause sec' a tragedee!"

And after that we may be sure that Sandy let skunks severely alone.

Hunting in the summer time, or when the weather was but moderately cold, was well enough, but hunting in the dead of winter was quite a different thing. Then the thermometer would frequently drop to thirty and forty degrees below zero, and there would be a cutting "norther" fit to freeze the very marrow in one's bones. Seldom was there much snow, but when it came, it caused a veritable blizzard, during which neither man nor beast felt like stirring out.

It was during such weather that Theodore Roosevelt once had the tip of his nose and one cheek frozen -- something that caused him not a little pain and trouble for a long time afterward.

It was in those dreary days that the logs were piled high in the broad fireplace of the ranch home, and Theodore Roosevelt spent his days in reading and studying, in writing letters to his friends and relatives, and in penning some of the hunting sketches that have won him literary fame.

One day, early in the winter, Theodore Roosevelt and his foreman went out to see if they could not bring in two white-tail deer which had been seen in the vicinity of the ranch the day before. One of the deer, a large buck, had been shot in the ankle by the foreman, so the beginning of the trail was easy to follow. The buck and his mate had gone into a thicket, and it was likely that there the pair had spent the night.

"We'll have our own trouble finding the tracks again," said the foreman. And so it proved; for during the night some cattle and other animals had passed in and out of the thicket, which covered a large extent of territory.

At last the hunters hit upon the right trail, and the foreman went ahead, leaving Roosevelt to keep somewhat toward the outside of the cover. Both were wide-awake and on the alert, and presently the foreman announced that he had found the spot where the wounded buck had passed the night.

"He is not very far from here," said the foreman, and hardly had he said this than Theodore Roosevelt heard a cracking of fallen twigs and a breaking of the brush and lower limbs of the trees as the buck rushed through the thicket. He ran with all speed in the direction and took station behind a large tree.

Only a few seconds passed, and then the buck showed his head and antlers among the brushwood. He was gazing ahead anxiously, no doubt trying to decide if it would be safe to leap into the open and run up the trail. Then he turned his gaze directly toward where Theodore Roosevelt was crouching, rifle in hand.

Another instant and it would have been too late. But just as the buck's head was turned and he sniffed the air suspiciously, the young ranchman pulled the trigger.

"He turned his head sharply toward me as I raised the rifle," says Mr. Roosevelt, in writing of this adventure, "and the bullet went fairly into his throat, just under the jaw, breaking his neck, and bringing him down in his tracks with hardly a kick."

The buck proved to be an extra fine one, and the two hunters lost no time in dressing the game and taking it to the ranch. Not wishing to go back for their horses, the two dragged the game over the snow, each taking hold of an antler for that purpose. It was intensely cold, so that each of the hunters had to drag first with one hand and then with the other for fear of having his fingers frozen.

This was one of the times when the young ranchman and hunter was successful in his quest. But Mr. Roosevelt has not hesitated to tell of the many times he has gone out on the hunt only to return empty-handed and glad enough to get back to a warm shelter and where he was sure of a good meal.

"Ranching and hunting was no bed of roses," some one who knew him at that time has said. "Many a time he came back utterly fagged out and not a thing to show for his labor. But he never complained, and on the contrary could generally tell a pretty good story about something he had seen or had taken note of. In the summer he would examine the nests of birds and waterfowl with great care, and I have seen him with a horned frog before him, studying every point of the creature."

Once while on the prairie the young ranchman was caught in a heavy hailstorm. He was out with a number of others, when, with scarcely any warning, the sky began to grow dark, and the wind came up in fitful gusts.

"We must get out of this, and quick too," said a companion. And all pushed onward as fast as they could. But soon the heavy fall of hail overtook them, and they were glad enough to seek even the slight shelter of a deep washout, where men and horses huddled close together for protection. The hailstones came down as large as marbles, causing the horses to jump around in a fashion that was particularly dangerous to themselves and to their owners. The time was August, yet the air grew very cold, and when the storm was over, some cattle were found completely benumbed. A few had been killed, and there had likewise been great slaughter among a flock of lambs that had been driven into the Bad Lands the year previous.

Mr. Roosevelt tells us that the greatest number of black-tailed deer he ever killed in one day was three. He is a true sportsman in this respect and does not kill for the mere sake of killing. Those who go out just to slaughter all they possibly can are not sportsmen, but butchers. To be sure, a hunter may have to play the butcher at times, when the meat is needed, but not otherwise.

On the occasion when the three black-tails were laid low the young ranchman and his foreman started on the hunt very early in the morning, when the bright moon was still in the sky. It was late in November and stinging cold, so they allowed their horses to take their own pace, which was far from slow.

The course of the hunters was up the bed of a dry creek, along which they passed the still sleeping cattle and also a drove of ponies. Then they reached a spot where they left their own steeds, and, rifles in hand, hurried silently toward a great plateau which lay some distance before them. Signs of deer could be seen on every hand, and both were certain that the day's outing would prove a grand success.

Theodore Roosevelt had separated from his companion when of a sudden he caught sight of a beautiful doe. It was a fair shot, and dropping on one knee he took aim and fired. But to his intense chagrin the doe bounded off and disappeared in the brushwood.

"Hit anything?" sang out the foreman.

"I am afraid not," was the answer.

"Never mind; better luck next time." And then both sank down behind a rock where they could get a good view of a hollow ahead of them.

They had been behind the rock but a short time when they heard a cracking of twigs, and a fine black-tail buck came cautiously into view. Both fired, and the buck rolled over, never to rise again. Then another deer came into view and both fired again, but the game was not struck and lost no time in disappearing.

"Never mind; one isn't so bad," said Theodore Roosevelt, and his companion agreed with him.

The hunters now decided to go forward into the hollow and look for the doe Theodore Roosevelt had missed. This was done, and soon the foreman pointed to some drops and splashes of blood.

"Must have hit her, after all," said the foreman. "We can take our time about following her up. We'll be sure to get her sooner or later."

But locating the wounded doe proved not so easy, after all. The trail was followed for some time, but was lost on the hard ground higher up; and at last the two hunters agreed to look for new game. They had lunch, and then started out nearly as fresh as before when suddenly the foreman called out: -- 

"There's your game all right!"

He pointed to a clump of bushes, and running forward, both saw the doe stretched out, stiff and cold. She had been mortally wounded, after all, much to both hunters' gratification.

So far the hunting had been on foot, but now the hunters took again to their steeds. Mr. Roosevelt says he was wishing for just one more shot, to see if he could not do better than before, when his wish was gratified. Just ahead a yearling black-tail buck leaped into view and cantered away. After the buck went both hunters, but Theodore Roosevelt was in the lead, and this time determined to make no miss or poor shot. He waited until the buck turned its side to him, then fired with especial care. The game staggered on, then fell. The bullet had gone clean through its body, and in a few seconds it breathed its last.



Chapter VII

Runs For Mayor Of New York City -- Marriage To Edith Kermit Carew -- Hunting In The Bighorn Mountains -- A Wild Chase After Three Elk


Although Theodore Roosevelt was devoting himself to ranching, hunting, and literary work in North Dakota he had by no means given up his residence in New York or at Oyster Bay. More than this, he still continued his connection with the Republican party in spite of the set-back at the last National Convention.

In 1886, while Grover Cleveland was still President of the United States, there was an exceedingly sharp and bitter fight in New York City over the office of mayor. There was great discontent both in the Republican and the Democratic party, and nobody could tell what was going to happen on election day.

"Let us put up Teddy Roosevelt," said some of the Republicans, and shortly after this Theodore Roosevelt was nominated for mayor of New York. His regular opponent was Abram Hewitt, while the Independents put up Henry George, the "single tax" man, well known as the author of a book entitled "Progress and Poverty."

From the very start the campaign was an exceedingly hot one, and there was a good deal of parading and speech-making. Many clubs were organized in behalf of Theodore Roosevelt, and clubs were likewise formed to support the other candidates. The supporters of Henry George came from both regular parties, so political matters became very much mixed up.

"There is no show for Roosevelt unless George withdraws," said more than one old politician.

"And George won't withdraw," added others. And so it proved. Henry George was exceptionally strong with the poorer classes, and on election day he polled over 68,000 votes; 90,552 votes were cast for Hewitt, while Roosevelt received 60,435 votes.

It was certainly a disheartening defeat, and many a man would have retired from the political field, never to show himself again. But Theodore Roosevelt was made of sterner stuff. He held his ground and went his way as before, resolved to do his duty as it should present itself.

It was about this time that his intimacy with Miss Edith Kermit Carew was renewed. It will be remembered that she had been his playmate during his earlier days around Union Square. In the years that had followed she had been graduated from a young ladies' seminary and had travelled abroad, visiting London, Paris, and other large cities. Now she was home again, and on December 2, 1886, she became Mr. Roosevelt's wife.

Mr. Roosevelt's second marriage has been a very happy one. Mrs. Roosevelt is a loving wife and a gracious mistress of the White House. Five children have come to bless their union, of which more will be said later. Mrs. Roosevelt at once took Mr. Roosevelt's daughter Alice to her heart, and from that time to this the two have been as mother and daughter.

Theodore Roosevelt had already produced his "Naval War of 1812" and his "Hunting Trips of a Ranchman," both spoken of in previous pages. A short while after he was married the second time he brought out a "Life of Thomas Benton," and a year later a "Life of Gouverneur Morris." In addition to this he wrote a number of articles for the magazines, and also some short stories for young folks. All were well received and added not a little to his literary reputation.

But the desire to be out in the open, to roam the prairie and to hunt, was in his veins, and again and again he visited his ranches in the Bad Lands, and took hunting trips in other directions. Sometimes he cared little or nothing for the game brought down, and at others he went on the hunt with great deliberation, for "something worth while," as he expressed it.

How careful he could be on the latter occasions is shown by his printed views on hunting, in which he discusses the best rifles, shot-guns, and pistols to use, the best knives to carry, how to dress with comfort, and how to follow up game, on horseback and on foot, in the open and when in the woods or in the short brush. He has also told us much about the habits of the beasts and birds that he has hunted, showing that he followed the sport intelligently and not in the haphazard fashion of many who go out merely to get a big bagful of game.

Edith Kermit Roosevelt

Hunting was not all fun in those days. We have already related how Theodore Roosevelt was caught in a heavy hailstorm. At another time he and his companions were caught in a three-days' rain-storm, during which the wind blew a hurricane. They were miles away from the ranch home, and it was utterly impossible to move in any direction.

"Reckon we are booked to stay here," said one of the cowboys, a fellow from the South. "It's a right smart storm, and it's going to stay by us." And stay by them it did, until the party were almost out of provisions. They got what shelter they could in something of a hollow overhung with trees and brush, but this was not very satisfactory, and all were soaked to the skin, and the blankets in which they rolled themselves at night were both wet and muddy.

"Teddy Roosevelt didn't like that wetting, and I know it," one of the cowboys has said since. "But he didn't grumble near as much as some of the others. We had to take our medicine, and he took his like a man."

There were no elk in the immediate vicinity of Theodore Roosevelt's ranches, nor were there many bears or buffaloes. But all of these animals were to be met with further westward, and the young ranchman had been after them during a previous year's hunting while on a trip to Montana and Wyoming.

At that time the destination of the party was the Bighorn Mountains, which were reached only after a painful and disheartening journey over a very uncertain Indian trail, during which one of the ponies fell into a washout and broke his neck, and a mule stuck fast in a mud-hole and was extricated only after hours of hard work.

"It was on the second day of our journey into the mountains that I got my first sight of elk," says Mr. Roosevelt. The party was on the trail leading into a broad valley, moving slowly and cautiously along through a patch of pine trees. When the bottom of the valley was gained, Mr. Roosevelt saw a herd of cow elk at a great distance, and soon after took a shot at one, but failed to reach his mark.

"I'm going after that herd," he said. And as soon as the party had pitched camp, he sallied forth in one direction, while his foreman, Merrifield, took another.

As Theodore Roosevelt had supposed, the elk had gone off in a bunch, and for some distance it was easy to follow them. But further on the herd had spread out, and he had to follow with more care, for fear of getting on the wrong trail, for elk tracks ran in all directions over the mountains. These tracks are there to-day, but the elk and the bears are fast disappearing, for ruthless hunters have done their best to exterminate the game.

After passing along for several miles, Theodore Roosevelt felt he must be drawing close to the herd. Just then his rifle happened to tap on the trunk of a tree, and instantly he heard the elk moving away in new alarm. His hunting blood was now aroused, and he rushed forward with all speed, but as silently as possible. By taking a short cut, the young ranchman managed to come up beside the running elk. They were less than twenty yards away, and had it not been for the many trees which were on every side, he would have had an excellent shot at them. As it was he brought low a fine, full-grown cow elk, and hit a bull calf in the hind leg. Later on he took up the trail of the calf and finished that also.

Of this herd the foreman also brought down two, so that for the time being the hunters had all the meat they needed. But Theodore Roosevelt was anxious to obtain some elk horns as trophies of the chase, and day after day a watch was kept for bull elk, as the hunters moved the camp from one place to another.

At last the long-looked-for opportunity arrived. Three big bulls were seen, and Roosevelt and his man went after them with all possible speed. They were on foot, and the trail led them over some soft ground, and then through a big patch of burnt timber. Here running was by no means easy, and more than once both hunters pitched headlong into the dirt and soot, until they were covered from head to foot. But Theodore Roosevelt was bound to get the elk, and kept on until the sweat was pouring down his face and neck. Shot after shot was fired, and all three of the animals were wounded, but still they kept on bounding away.

"One is down!" shouted Roosevelt at last. And the news proved true; the smallest of the bulls had rocked unsteadily for a few seconds and gone to earth. Then on and on after the remaining game sped the hunters, panting and sweating as before.

"The sweat streamed down in my eyes and made furrows in the sooty mud that covered my face, from having fallen full length down on the burnt earth," writes the dauntless hunter, in relating this story. "I sobbed for breath as I toiled at a shambling trot after them, as nearly done out as could well be."

But he did not give up; and now the elk took a turn and went downhill, with Theodore Roosevelt pitching after them, ready to drop from exhaustion, but full of that grit to win out which has since won the admiration of all who know the man. The second bull fell; and now but one remained, and this dashed into a thicket. On its heels went the daring hunter, running the chance of having the elk turn on him as soon as cornered, in which case, had Roosevelt's rifle been empty, the struggle for life on both sides would have been a fierce one.

In the midst of the thicket the hunter had to pause, for the elk was now out of sight, and there was no telling what new course had been taken by the game. At a distance he saw a yellow body under the evergreen trees, and, taking hasty aim, fired. When he came up, he was somewhat dismayed to learn that he had not brought down the elk, but a black-tail deer instead. In the meantime, the elk got away, and it proved impossible to pick up the trail again.

There is a valuable lesson to be learned from this hunting trip, and one that all young readers should take to heart. It shows what sticking at a thing can accomplish. Mr. Roosevelt had determined to get at least a portion of that game, no matter what the labor and hardship involved. Many a hunter would have given up in disgust or despair after the first few shots were fired and it looked as if the elk were out of range and intended to keep out. But this determined young man did not give up thus easily. Hard as was that run up hill and down, and regardless of the tumbles taken, and that he was so tired he could scarcely stand, he kept on until two elk were brought down, and it was firmly settled that the third could not be captured.

The way to accomplish anything in this life is to stick at it. Theodore Roosevelt understood this truth even when he went to college, for in the Harvard journal of which he was an editor he wrote, speaking of foot-ball practice, "What is most necessary is that every man should realize the necessity of faithful and honest work, every afternoon." He put "every afternoon" in italics himself, and he meant that every foot-ball player who hoped to win in the inter-collegiate foot-ball games should stick at it until he had made himself as perfect a player as possible. A victory worth gaining is worth working for, and usually the hardest-earned victories are the sweetest.



Chapter VIII

Bringing Down A Grizzly Bear -- Back To New York -- Appointed A Civil Service Commissioner -- The Work Of The Commission


It was while in the Bighorn Mountains that Theodore Roosevelt got his first shot at a bear. He had been wanting such a chance for a good many years, but up to that date the bears had kept well out of his sight.

In his writings he has said much about bears, both common and grizzly, and told of their habits, and how they have been tracked down and shot at various times of the year. He holds to the opinion that the average bear would rather run away than fight, yet he tells the story of how one bear faced the hunter who had shot him, and gave the man one blow with his powerful paw that proved fatal.

One day his companion of the hunt came riding in with the carcass of a black bear killed in a network of hollows and ravines some miles from their present camp.

"The hollows are full of bear tracks," said Merrifield. "I am sure, if we go up there, we'll get one or more black bears and perhaps a grizzly."

"Then let us go by all means," responded Theodore Roosevelt. And no time was lost in moving to the new locality.

The hunters had been out nearly all of the next day, when, on returning through the forest toward nightfall, Roosevelt came across the footmarks of a large bear. He tried to follow them, but night closed in on him, and he had to return to camp. That very night the bear came around the camp, looking for something to eat.

"Let us try to bring him down," cried Roosevelt, seizing his rifle, while his companion did the same. But outside it was pitch dark.

"Do you see him?" questioned Merrifield.

"No."

"Neither do I."

"Listen."

Both listened, and at a distance heard the bear lumbering off slowly through the woods. They went forward a short distance, then came to a halt.

"We'll have to give it up for the present," said Theodore Roosevelt. "But I am going to have him, sooner or later, if the thing is possible."

Early the next morning both of the hunters sallied forth and discovered that the bear had been at the carcasses of some game left in the forest. The tracks were fresh.

"He has been here, no doubt of it," said Merrifield. "Shall we wait for him to come again?"

"We might as well," was the answer. "He'll get hungry again, sooner or later."

So the pair sat down to watch. But the bear was shy, and kept his distance. Then it grew dark once more, so that but little could be seen under the trees.

"He knows enough to keep away," said Roosevelt's companion.

"Hark!" was the reply and both strained their ears. There was a faint crackling of twigs, and they felt certain it was the bear. But it was too dark to see anything; so both shouldered their rifles and walked back to camp.

Here was another illustration of Theodore Roosevelt's method of sticking at a thing. Two days had been spent in trying to get that bear, and yet he did not give up. On the following morning he sallied forth once more, as full of hope as before.

The bear had been at the carcass again, and the trail was now one to be followed with ease.

"I'm going to hunt him down to his lair," said Theodore Roosevelt, and stalked off with his companion beside him. Soon they were again deep in the woods, walking perhaps where the foot of white man had never before trod. Fallen trees were everywhere, and over these they often had to climb.

"Getting closer," whispered Roosevelt's companion, and pointed to some fresh claw scratches on the bark of fallen trees.

They now moved forward as silently as Indians, sure that the bear could not be far off. Suddenly Merrifield dropped on his knee as if to take aim. Roosevelt sprang to the front, with rifle raised. The bear was there, standing upright, only a few paces away. Without hesitation Theodore Roosevelt fired. His aim was true, and the great beast fell with a bullet straight between the eyes. The leaden messenger had entered his brain, and he died with scarcely a struggle.

"The whole thing was over in twenty seconds from the time I caught sight of the game," writes Mr. Roosevelt, in his book "Hunting Trips on the Prairies" (Part II of "Hunting Trips of a Ranchman"). "Indeed it was over so quickly that the grizzly did not have time to show fight at all or come a step toward me. It was the first I had ever seen, and I felt not a little proud as I stood over the great brindled bulk which lay stretched out at length in the cool shade of the evergreens. He was a monstrous fellow, much larger than any I have seen since, whether alive or brought in dead by hunters. As near as we could estimate he must have weighed about twelve hundred pounds."

There is a bear story for you, boys. And the best of it is, it is every word true. In later years Theodore Roosevelt brought down many more grizzlies, but I doubt if he was as proud of them as he was of that first capture.

While Theodore Roosevelt was spending a large part of his time in hunting and in literary work, and in studying political economy, Grover Cleveland's first term as President came to an end, and Benjamin Harrison was inaugurated to fill the office of Chief Magistrate.

At that time the question of Civil Service was again being agitated. Theodore Roosevelt was a warm advocate of the merit system, and knowing this, President Harrison appointed him, in 1889, a Civil Service Commissioner, and this office he held for six years, until his resignation in 1895. When Benjamin Harrison's term of office was up, and Grover Cleveland was reelected to the Presidency, it was thought that Roosevelt would have to go, but his friend, the newly elected President, wished him to remain as a commissioner, and he did so for two years longer, thus serving both under a Republican and a Democratic administration.

To some of my young readers the term Civil Service, as applied here, may be a bit perplexing. For the benefit of such let me state that civil service here applies to the thousands of persons who work for the government, such as post-office clerks, letter carriers, clerks in the various departments at Washington, like the Treasury, the Congressional Library, the Government Printing Office, the War Department, and the hundred and one other branches in which Uncle Sam needs assistance.

For seventy or eighty years these various positions had been under what is commonly called the "spoils system." "To the victor belong the spoils," had been the old motto, which generally meant that the party happening to be in power could do as it pleased about dealing out employment to those under it. A worker might have been ever so faithful in the discharge of his duties, but if the administration was changed, he ran the risk of losing his position without any notice.

Statesmen of both great political parties had long seen the injustice of the spoils system, but few cared to take the matter up for fear of offending their political friends. But as matters grew worse, those who were honest said they would stand such a system no longer, and they began to advocate the merit plan, whereby each worker for our government should stand on his merit, so that he could not be removed from his position without just cause. This merit system is in operation to-day and is a most excellent thing, only becoming dangerous when extended too far.

There were two other commissioners besides Mr. Roosevelt on the Commission, but all worked together in harmony, although in many moves taken Mr. Roosevelt was the leader. About this work he has written a notable essay called "Six Years of Civil Service Reform," in which he reviews much of the work done. In this essay, among many other things, he says: -- 

"No republic can permanently endure when its politics are corrupt and base; and the spoils system, -- the application in political life of the degrading doctrine that to the victor belong the spoils, -- produces corruption and degradation. The man who is in politics for the offices might just as well be in politics for the money he can get for his vote, so far as the general good is concerned." Certainly wise words and well worth remembering.

The work of the Commission was by no means easy, and the members were often accused of doing some things merely to benefit their own particular party or friends. Politicians of the old sort, who wanted everything they could lay hands on, fought civil service bitterly, and even those who might have been expected to help often held back, fearing they would lose their own popularity. Yet on the other hand, some members of Congress upheld the Commission nobly, and when President Garfield was assassinated by a half-crazy office-seeker many more came forward and clamored to put public offices on the merit system by all means.

Part of the work of the Commission was to prosecute the head of any bureau or department where an employee had been discharged or had suffered without just cause. Such cases came up in large numbers and were prosecuted with all the vigor of which the Commission were capable.

"We were not always successful in these trials," says Mr. Roosevelt. "But we won out in the majority of cases, and we gave the wrong-doing such a wide publicity that those who were guilty hesitated to repeat their actions." And he goes on to add that during his term of service not over one per cent. of those who worked for Uncle Sam were dismissed purely for political reasons. This was certainly an excellent record, and our government will do well to maintain such a high standard in the future.

To give a further idea of the work required in the way of examinations for positions under our government, let me state that during the year from July 1, 1890, to July 1, 1891, 5251 applicants were examined for the departments service, 1579 for the customs service, 8538 for the postal service, 3706 for the railway mail service, making a total of nearly 20,000, of which about 13,000 passed and the balance failed. Since our war with Spain, the work of the government has been vastly increased, and the places to be filled every year run up into figures that are startling.

One of the best and wisest acts of the Commission was to place the colored employees of the government on an equal footing with the white employees. In the past the colored employees had occupied their places merely through the whim or goodwill of those over them. Now this was changed, and any colored man who could pass the examination, and who was willing to attend strictly to his labor, was as safe in his situation as anybody.



Chapter IX

A Trip To The Shoshone Mountains -- Caught In A Driving Snowstorm -- Back To Work -- Resignation As Civil Service Commissioner


Notwithstanding the great amount of labor involved as a Civil Service Commissioner, Theodore Roosevelt did not forego the pleasures of the hunt, and in 1891 he made an extended trip to the Shoshone Mountains in Wyoming, going after elk and such other game as might present itself.

On this trip he was accompanied by his ranch partner, a skilled shot named Ferguson, and two old hunters named Woody and Hofer. There was also in the party a young fellow who looked after the pack-horses, fourteen in number.

The start was made on a beautiful day in September, and the party journeyed along at a gait that pleased them, bringing down everything that came to hand and which could be used as meat. Two tents were carried, one for sheltering their packs at night and the other for sleeping purposes.

In his book called "The Wilderness Hunter," Mr. Roosevelt has given many of the details of this grand hunt, which he says was one of the most exciting as well as most pleasurable undertaken. With an interest that cannot be mistaken, and which betrays the true sportsman at every turn, he gives minute descriptions of how the tents were erected, how everything in camp was put in its proper place, and how on wet days they would huddle around the camp-fire in the middle of the larger tent to keep warm and dry. He also tells how the packs on the horses were adjusted, and adds that the hunter who cannot take care of his outfit while on the hunt, or who must have all his game stalked for him, is a hunter in name only; -- which is literally true, as every genuine sportsman knows.

The young Civil Service Commissioner went out garbed in a fitting hunting costume, consisting of a buckskin shirt, with stout leggings, and moccasins, or, when occasion required, alligator-leather boots. Heavy overcoats were also carried and plenty of blankets, and for extra cold nights Theodore Roosevelt had a fur sleeping-bag, in which, no doubt, he slept "as snug as a bug in a rug."

The horses of a pack-train in the wild West are not always thoroughly broken, and although the majority rarely do anything worse than lag behind or stray away, yet occasionally one or another will indulge in antics far from desired. This was true on the present occasion, when at different times the pack-beasts went on a "shindy" that upset all calculations and scattered packs far and wide, causing a general alarm and hard work on the part of all hands to restore quietness and order.

For two days the hunters pushed on into the mountains with but little signs of game. Then a rain-storm set in which made the outlook a dismal one.

"Going to have a big storm," said one of the old hunters.

"Never mind, we'll have to take it as it comes," was Mr. Roosevelt's philosophical answer. "We can't expect good weather every day."

It was almost noon of that day when all heard the call of a bull elk, echoing over the hills. The sound came from no great distance, and in the face of the rain, Theodore Roosevelt and the hunter named Woody set off on foot after the beast, who was still calling as loudly as ever.

It was not long before the hunters could hear the bull plainly, as he pawed the earth, a challenge to another bull who was answering him from a great distance.

"We are gettin' closer to him," said Woody. "Got to go slow now, or he'll take alarm and be off like a flash."

The timber was rather thin, and the ground was covered with moss and fallen leaves, and over this the pair glided as silently as shadows, until Woody declared that the bull was not over a hundred yards away.

"And he's in a tearing rage, on account of that other bull," he added. "Got to plug him fair and square or there will be trouble."

Without replying to this, Theodore Roosevelt took the lead, keeping eyes and ears wide open for anything that might come to hand. Then through the trees he caught sight of the stately horns of the elk, as he stood with head thrown back, repeating his call in trumpet-like tones.

As the hunters came closer, the elk faced around and caught sight of his human enemies. Up went his antlers once more, as if to defy them.

"He's coming!" shouted Woody. And scarcely had he spoken when Theodore Roosevelt took aim and fired at the animal. There was a snort and a gasp, and the elk turned to run away. Then Roosevelt fired a second shot, and over went the monarch of the forest in his death agony. It was a fine bit of game to bring down, the antlers having twelve prongs. The head was cut off and taken back to camp, along with a small part of the best of the meat.

After that the forward march was resumed in the face of a sweeping rain that wet everybody to the skin. On they went until, just as the rain ceased, they reached a bold plateau, overlooking what is called Two-Ocean Pass, a wild and wonderful freak of nature, surrounded by lofty mountains and watered by streams and brooks flowing in several directions. Far up the mountains could be seen the snow-drifts, while lower down were the heavy forests and underbrush, the haunts of the game they were seeking.

In this Wonderland Theodore Roosevelt hunted to his heart's content for many days -- bringing down several more elk and also a fair variety of smaller game. It was now growing colder, and knowing that the winter season was close at hand, the hunters decided to strike camp and return homeward.

The movement was made none too soon. The snow was already filling the air, and one morning, on coming from his tent, Theodore Roosevelt found the ground covered to a depth of a foot and a half. To add to his discomfort the pony he was riding began to buck that day and managed to dislocate his rider's thumb. But Theodore Roosevelt stuck to him and showed him who was master; and after that matters went better. The snow continued to come down, and before the end of the journey was reached, at Great Geyser Basin, the hunters almost perished from the cold.

Such pictures as the above give us some idea of the varied life that Theodore Roosevelt has led. Even at this early age -- he was but thirty-three years old -- he had been a college student, a traveller, an author, an assemblyman, a ranchman and hunter, and a Civil Service Commissioner. He had travelled the length and breadth of Europe and through a large section of our own country. He had visited the palaces of kings and the shacks of the humble cowboys of the far West, he had met men in high places and in low, and had seen them at their best and at their worst. Surely if "experience is the school wherein man learns wisdom," then the future President had ample means of growing wise, and his works prove that those means were not neglected.

As already mentioned, when Grover Cleveland became President a second time, he requested Theodore Roosevelt to retain his place on the Civil Service Commission. This was a practical illustration of the workings of the merit system, and it made for Mr. Cleveland many friends among his former political enemies. By this movement the workings of the Commission were greatly strengthened, so that by the time Theodore Roosevelt resigned, on May 5, 1895, the Commission had added twenty thousand places filled by government employees to those coming under the merit system. This number was larger than any placed under the system before that time, and the record has scarcely been equalled since.

"He was a fighter for the system, day and night," says one who knew him at that time. "He was enthusiastic to the last degree, and had all sorts of statistics at his fingers' ends. If anybody in the government employ was doing wrong, he was willing to pitch into that person regardless of consequences. Some few politicians thought he was a crank on the subject, but the results speak for themselves. Some politicians, who wanted the old spoils system retained, were often after him like a swarm of angry hornets, but he never got out of their way, and when they tried to sting, he slapped them in a way that soon made them leave him alone. And more than that, he was very clever in the way that he presented his case to those representatives and senators who understood the real value of Civil Service reform. He made them appreciate what he and his fellow-commissioners were trying to do, and when the Commission was attacked in Congress it always had, as a consequence, a support that could not be easily overthrown."

When Theodore Roosevelt resigned, President Cleveland wrote as follows to him: -- 

"You are certainly to be congratulated upon the extent and permanency of civil service reform methods which you have so substantially aided in bringing about. The struggle for its firm establishment and recognition is past. Its faithful application and reasonable expansion remain, subjects of deep interest to all who really desire the best attainable public service." It was high praise for the retiring commissioner, and it was well deserved.



Chapter X

Appointed Police Commissioner Of New York City -- Corruptness Of The Department -- Strenuous Efforts To Make Matters Better -- A "Dry" Sunday -- Enforcing The Tenement House Law And Other Measures


During the time that Theodore Roosevelt was a Civil Service Commissioner there were several important political changes made in New York City.

In the past there had been a great deal of what is familiarly called "machine politics," and matters had been going from bad to worse. But now there was an upward turn by the election of William S. Strong to the office of mayor. Mr. Strong was a man of high character, and was elected by a vote that combined the best elements of all the political parties.

It was at a time when New York City was in urgent need of reform. Those in power were doing but little to stop the corruption that was stalking abroad upon every hand. Bribes were given and taken in nearly all departments, clerks were being paid large salaries for doing practically nothing, and contracts were put out, not to those who could do the best work, but to those who would pay the political tricksters the most money for them.

The record of the police department was perhaps the blackest of the lot. It was to this department that the citizens looked for protection from crime, yet it was known that many in the department winked at all sorts of vice, providing they were properly paid for so doing. Saloons and worse resorts were kept open in defiance of the law, and wickedness flaunted itself in the face of the public in a manner that was truly shocking. Occasionally a private citizen would try to do something to mend matters, but his complaint was generally "pigeon-holed," and that would be the end of the matter. The rottenness, as it was well called, extended from the highest places in the department to the lowest, so that it was said not even a policeman could secure his appointment without paying several hundred dollars for it, and this he was, of course, expected to get back by blackmailing those who lived or did business on his beat. And get it back the policeman would, even if he had to make an Italian fruit dealer pay him a dollar a month for having a stand on the sidewalk, where the walk was supposed to be free from obstruction.

When William Strong came into office, the first thing he did was to cast his eyes about him for reliable men who might aid him in purifying the city. He already knew of Theodore Roosevelt's work as an assemblyman and a Civil Service Commissioner.

"Mr. Roosevelt is just the man to take the office of Police Commissioner and put the department on an honorable basis," said the newly elected mayor, and he lost no time in tendering the office to Mr. Roosevelt. The tender was accepted, and Theodore Roosevelt was sworn into his new position on May 24, 1895.

The appointment of Mr. Roosevelt to the office of Police Commissioner was a great shock to nearly the entire police department. He was known for his sterling honesty, and it was felt that he would not condone crime in any shape or form.

"There will be a grand shaking up," said more than one. "Just you wait till he gets to the bottom of things. He'll turn the light on in a way that will make more than one officer tremble in his boots."

On the Board with Mr. Roosevelt were Andrew D. Parker, Avery D. Andrews, and Frederick D. Grant, the latter the son of former President Grant. Theodore Roosevelt was chosen president, and the Board lost no time in getting to work.

"The new Board found the department in a demoralized condition," says Mr. Roosevelt, in his report on the matter. "A recent grand jury had investigated the records of many officers, and many indictments had been found; 268 vacancies existed in the department, and 26 officers, including one inspector and five captains, were under suspension on account of indictment for crime." This was truly a sad state of affairs, and a horrible example to the other large cities of our Union.

The Commissioners went to work with a will, and Theodore Roosevelt was the leading spirit in every move made. Every branch of the police department was given an overhauling, and those who would not do their duty were promptly dismissed, while minor offences were met with heavy fines. By an act of the legislature the force of men was increased to eight hundred, to keep pace with the growth of the metropolis. The men who were particularly faithful in the discharge of their duties were rewarded by honorable mention, engrossed certificates, medals of honor, and by promotions. More than this, they were given to understand that if they did their duty faithfully they need not fear trouble from those over them, no matter what changes were made. No officer was allowed to accept blackmail money from those lower in the service; and above all, no politics were to interfere with the fair and square running of the whole department.

It was a gigantic task, and it cannot be said that it was totally successful, for the opposition in some quarters was strong. More than once Mr. Roosevelt was threatened with violence, but, as when an assemblyman, he paid but scant attention to these mutterings.

His habits of personally investigating matters still clung to him, and it is well remembered how he went around at odd hours of the day and night, and on Sundays, seeing if the policemen were really doing their duty. There had been a boast that all policemen were at their posts at night. Mr. Roosevelt went out once and found just two out of an even dozen where they should be. Then began that "shaking up" that has resulted in better police service in New York to this day.

The effect of the new vigor in the police department was felt in many other ways. There was a tenement-house law regarding buildings which were unfit for human habitations. New York City was crowded with such buildings, but nobody had ordered them torn down, because either nobody wanted to bother, or the owners paid blackmail money to keep them standing for the rent they could get out of them.

"Those tenements must come down," said Theodore Roosevelt.

"If you order them down, the owners will fight you to the bitter end," said another officer of the department.

"I don't care if they do. The houses are a menace to life and health. They are filthy, and if a fire ever started in them, some would prove regular traps. They have got to go." And shortly after that about a hundred were seized, and the most destroyed.

The enforcement of the Sunday liquor law was another thing that occasioned great surprise during Mr. Roosevelt's term as Police Commissioner. In the past, saloons had been almost as wide open on Sundays as on week days. On account of the cosmopolitan character of the population it was thought that to close up the saloons on Sundays would be impossible. But the police force was given strict orders, and on one Sunday in June, 1895, New York City had the first "dry" Sunday that it could remember in many years.

This "dry" Sunday provoked a new storm of opposition, especially from many of foreign birth, who were used to getting liquor as easily on that day as on any other. More threats were made against the vigorous commissioner, and on two occasions dynamite bombs were placed in his desk, evidently with the hope that they would explode and blow him to pieces. But the bombs were found in time, and no damage was done, and Theodore Roosevelt paid scant attention to them.

After that he was attacked in a new way. Some of the politicians laid traps for him whereby they hoped to bring discredit to his management of the department. The fight grew very hot and very bitter, and he was accused of doing many things, "just for the looks of them," rather than to benefit the public at large. But he kept on his way, and at last the opposition were silenced to such an extent that they merely growled behind his back.

For many years a large number of shiftless and often lawless men, and women too, were attracted to the metropolis because of the "Tramps' Lodging Houses" located there. These resorts were continually filled by vagrants who would not work and who were a constant menace to society at large.

"We must get rid of those lodging houses," said Mr. Roosevelt. "They simply breed crime. No respectable man or woman, no matter how poor, will enter them."

"But we'll have to have some sort of shelter for the poor people," said others.

"To be sure -- for those who are deserving. The others should be driven off and discouraged," answered Mr. Roosevelt. And one by one the tramps' lodging places were abolished. In their place the Board of Charities opened a Municipal Lodging House, where those who were deserving were received, were made to bathe, and given proper shelter and nourishment.

A story is told that, during the excitement attending the closing of saloons on Sunday, a friend came to Mr. Roosevelt and told about hearing some saloon-keepers plotting to harm him.

"What can they do?" demanded the Police Commissioner.

"I am afraid they can do a good deal," was the answer. "Each of those men has a barkeeper who has been in jail for various crimes. They may attack you some dark night and kill you."

"Perhaps I won't give them the chance," answered the man who had been on many a dangerous hunt in the wild West. "If they can shoot, so can I."

"But they may sneak up behind you and knock you out," insisted the visitor.

"Well, if they do that, I shall have died doing my duty," was the calm answer made by the future hero of the Rough Riders.



Chapter XI

Appointed First Assistant Secretary Of The Navy -- The Condition Of Affairs In Cuba -- Preparing For War -- Theodore Roosevelt's Resolve


While Theodore Roosevelt was serving as Police Commissioner of the city of New York, William McKinley ran for the Presidency of the United States the first time and was elected.

The young commissioner was a firm upholder of McKinley, for he did not believe in "free silver" as it was called, but in "sound money," which meant that in the future, as in the past, all national indebtedness should be made payable in gold, instead of in gold and silver, as many desired.

As soon as the new President was inaugurated, March 4, 1897, he appointed Hon. John D. Long to be Secretary of the Navy. Mr. Long knew Theodore Roosevelt well, and also knew of the "History of the Naval War of 1812," which the energetic author and commissioner had written.

"He is just the man we need here," said Mr. Long to President McKinley. "He has made a study of the navy, and he is not afraid of work," and without further delay Theodore Roosevelt was asked to resign his position in the metropolis and come to Washington, where he was duly installed as First Assistant Secretary of the Navy.

In his new position, certainly a high one for such a young man to occupy, Mr. Roosevelt had much to do. As first assistant, nearly the whole responsibility of the real workings of the department fell upon his shoulders. He took up these responsibilities manfully, and how well he succeeded in the work, history has abundantly proved.

"It was Roosevelt's work that made Dewey's victory at Manila possible," one who knew of the inner workings of the department has said, and another has said that the victory off Santiago Bay was also due in part to Roosevelt's watchfulness over the ships that took part in that conflict.

At Washington the Assistant Secretary found an era of extravagance equal to that which he had discovered in New York. The Navy Department was paying dearly for almost everything it bought, and many laborers and others were drawing high wages for doing little or no work. Against this Theodore Roosevelt set his face uncompromisingly, so that inside of a year the actual saving to our government was twenty-five per cent. When it is remembered that the Navy Department spends each year millions of dollars, something of what such a saving means can be realized.

For many years our country had been at peace with the whole world, but now a war cloud showed itself on the horizon, scarcely visible at first, but gradually growing larger and larger. Those at Washington watched it with great anxiety, wondering if it would burst, and what would be the result.

Cuba had been fighting for liberty for years. It was under Spanish rule, and the people were frightfully oppressed. To Spain they paid vast sums of money and got but little in return. Money that should have gone into improvements -- that should have supplied good roads and schools -- went into the pockets of the royalty of Spain. When a Cuban tried to remonstrate, he could scarcely get a hearing, and this state of affairs went from bad to worse until, in sheer desperation, the Cubans declared war on the mother-country, just as in 1776 our own nation threw off the yoke of England.

As my young readers know, Cuba lies only a short distance from the southeast coast of Florida. Being so close, it was but natural that our people should take an interest in the struggle at hand. Everybody sympathized with the Cubans, and some made offers of assistance. Then, when many Cubans were on the verge of starvation, we voted to send them relief in the way of something to eat.

The action of the United States was viewed with suspicion by Spain. The people of that country were certain we wanted to help Cuba only in order to "gobble her up afterward," as the saying went. Such was not our intention at all, and total Cuban liberty to-day testifies to that fact.

Not knowing how far matters might go, President McKinley and his advisers deemed it wise to prepare for the worst. This meant to put the army and navy on the best possible footing in the least possible time.

It was felt that should war come, it would be fought largely on the sea, and nobody realized this more than did Theodore Roosevelt. He was active day and night in the pursuit of his duty, seeing to it that this ship or that was properly manned, and this fortification and that put in proper order to resist attack. Our ships were in all parts of the world, on the Atlantic and the Pacific, in the far north and the far south, in European waters and Hong Kong Harbor. Each had to be supplied with coal and ammunition and with provisions. Those that were "out of commission," that is, laid up, generally for repairs, were put into commission with all speed. A thousand contracts had to be inspected, judged, and passed upon. Outwardly the Navy Department at Washington was moving along as peacefully as ever, internally it was more active than it had been at any time since the great Civil War.

"War may come at any moment," said Mr. Roosevelt to his friends. "And if it does come, there is nothing like being prepared for it."

About one thing Theodore Roosevelt was very particular. In the past, gun practice on board of our war-ships had been largely a matter of simply going through the motions of handling the guns.

"This will not do," said the Assistant Secretary. "Our gunners will never make good marksmen in that way. They must practise with powder and ball, shot and shell." And after that they did. Such practice cost a round sum of money, and the department was criticised for its wastefulness in this direction; but the worth of it was afterward proven when Commodore Dewey sank the Spanish ships in Manila Bay, and the Atlantic Squadron likewise destroyed the enemy's ships that were trying to escape from Santiago Harbor.

In those days at Washington, Theodore Roosevelt made a warm, personal friend of Dr. Leonard Wood. Dr. Wood was an army surgeon, who had seen considerable active service while under General Miles in the campaigns against the Apache Indians. Mr. Roosevelt has himself told how he and Dr. Wood would often, after office hours, take long walks out of the city, or play foot-ball, or go snow-skating when the weather permitted, and during such pastimes their conversation was invariably about the situation in Cuba, and what each intended to do should war break out.

"If war actually comes, I intend, by hook or by crook, to get out into the field," said Dr. Wood.

"I shall go with you," answered Theodore Roosevelt. "No more office work for me if there is any fighting to be done."

In the meantime, as already mentioned, matters in Cuba were rapidly approaching a crisis. Spain could not send a large enough army to the island to conquer the people while they were at liberty to roam through the jungles and mountains, and so began to drive men, women, and children into various cities or camps, where they were kept, under penalty of death if they tried to escape. Thus large numbers were torn from their homes, and sent miles and miles away, with no money, and nothing with which to support themselves. Food became scarce and high in price, and many grown folks and children were literally starved to death.

To help these starving people the Congress of our country voted to expend fifty thousand dollars from the national treasury. This excited Spain more than ever, and we were accused of trying to prolong the rebellion. But the deed was done, and many would have had us go farther, and recognize Cuba as a free and independent nation. This desire was overruled on the ground that our government could not with propriety endanger the peace of the world by taking so serious a step at that time. But the strength of popular sympathy with an oppressed people was shown by the fact that many Americans at grave personal risk went to Cuba, and joined the army in one capacity or another, fighting as bravely as if for their own individual rights.



Chapter XII

Destruction Of The Maine -- Dewey's Victory -- Theodore Roosevelt Becomes A Soldier -- Organizing The Rough Riders -- Various Men In The Command


"The Maine has been blown up!"

Such was the awful news which startled this whole nation in the middle of February, 1898, and which caused the question of war with Spain to crystallize without further deliberation.

The Maine was a battleship of large size, that had been sent down to the harbor of Havana, Cuba, on nothing more than a friendly visit. The explosion that destroyed this noble vessel occurred about ten o'clock at night, and was heard for miles around. Soon after the explosion, the war-ship began to sink, and over two hundred and fifty sailors and officers lost their lives.

The entire nation was now aroused, and many wanted to go to war with Spain immediately. But the Spaniards professed to be ignorant of the cause of the explosion, and said it must have come from the inside of the ship and not the outside. Without delay a Board of Inquiry was established, and it was settled that the explosion had come from the outside, probably from a mine set by the Spaniards in Havana Harbor.

"This means war, and nothing but war," said even the wisest of our statesmen. And so it proved. Without hesitation the whole nation sprang forward to uphold the administration, and in a few days Congress passed an appropriation of fifty millions of dollars "for national defence." It may be added that this appropriation was passed unanimously, regardless of party politics and regardless of the differences which, in the past, had existed between the North and the South.

We have already learned what had been done to prepare the navy for the conflicts to follow. Now there was even more work on hand, to get the army into shape for service in Cuba and on other foreign soil.

The regular army at that time consisted of about twenty-five thousand men, scattered all over the United States, -- on the frontier, at the Indian reservations, and along the sea-coasts. Many of these troops were hurried to camps in the southeast portion of our country, leaving but small garrisons in the far West.

It was realized by President McKinley that our regular army could not cope with the troubles at hand, and soon came a call for one hundred and twenty-five thousand volunteers. These volunteers were to come from the various States and Territories, each furnishing its proportion of soldiers according to its population. These soldiers were quickly collected and marched to the various state camps, there to be sworn into the service of the United States.

The "war fever" was everywhere, and many private parties began to raise companies, while all sorts of independent commands, Grand Army, Confederate Veterans, Italian-American Guards, German Singing Societies, Colored Guards, and the like, offered their assistance. Even the colleges caught the fever, and men went forth from Yale, Harvard, Princeton, and other institutions of learning to battle for Uncle Sam.

The first blow struck at Spain was a most effective one. Commodore, afterwards Admiral, Dewey was at Hong Kong when the trouble began, and he was directed by the War Department to hunt for a Spanish fleet somewhere among the Philippine Islands and engage it. On Sunday, May 1, came the news that the gallant commodore had reached Manila Bay, fought the Spanish fleet and sunk every hostile ship, and come out of the battle with all of his own ships safe and not a single man killed!

"Hurrah! that shows what our navy can do!" cried many citizens. And they were justly proud. In the past, foreign nations had looked with something akin to scorn on our vessels and the way they were manned. Now such criticism was silenced; and this result was, in a certain measure, due to the work of Theodore Roosevelt, while First Assistant Secretary to Secretary Long.

But Theodore Roosevelt was no longer in the department. He resigned and closed his desk, saying, "My duty here is done; my place is in the field." With such an active nature, it was impossible for him to remain a private citizen while stern war was a reality.

In his own excellent work, "The Rough Riders," and in his sworn testimony before the Commission of Investigation of the Spanish War, Mr. Roosevelt has given us graphic pictures of how the First United States Volunteer Cavalry, commonly called the Rough Riders, happened to be organized, and what it tried to do and did, and this testimony is supplemented by many who know the facts, and who took part in the battles which made the organization famous throughout the length and breadth of our land.

At first Theodore Roosevelt thought to attach himself to the militia of New York, but found every place taken.

"Let us try one of my Massachusetts regiments," said Dr. Wood. And this was also done, with a like result.

"We could fill every place, did we want five times as many men," said one colonel. "Everybody seems crazy to go." This shows how truly patriotic our nation can become when the occasion arises for going to the front.

While Theodore Roosevelt and his intimate friend were wondering what to do next, Congress authorized the raising of three cavalry regiments, to be composed of the daring riflemen and riders of New Mexico, Oklahoma, Arizona, and Indian Territory.

"There, that will just suit me," said Theodore Roosevelt. "I know many of those men, and I know we can raise a regiment in no time."

And without delay he sought out Secretary of War Alger and told him of his hopes.

"I am perfectly willing to give you command of one of those regiments," said the war secretary. "I know you are something of a rough rider yourself, and a good marksman to boot."

This was certainly flattering, but Theodore Roosevelt's head was not turned by the offer.

"I don't think I am quite ready to take command," said he. "I know that I can learn, and that quickly, but it will be precious time wasted."

"Well, what do you wish, Mr. Roosevelt?" asked the Secretary of War, curiously.

"What I should like best of all is for Dr. Wood to become colonel of the regiment, and for myself to become lieutenant-colonel."

"Very well; I will consult President McKinley on the subject," said the secretary. The request was granted, and in a few days more Colonel Wood and Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt sallied forth to organize the Rough Riders, and fit them for service in Cuba.

Leaving his family, which now consisted of his wife and six children, the lieutenant-colonel made his way to San Antonio, Texas, where the regiment was to gather. Previous to going he spent a full week in Washington, seeing to it that arrangements were completed for supplying the command with uniforms, carbines, saddles, and other articles which were needed. This was in itself quite a task, for all of the departments at the Capitol were more than busy, and it took a great amount of "hustling" to get what one wanted.

As soon as it was known that Theodore Roosevelt was going to help organize the Rough Riders, offers from everywhere began to pour in upon him. Not alone did the men of the plains and ranch who knew him want to go, but likewise his old college chums at Harvard. These men, of wealth and good families, were willing to serve in any capacity, if only they could be mustered in. There were crack base-ball and foot-ball players, yachtsmen, all-round athletes and men of fortune, all mixed in with hunters, cowboys, men who had served as sheriffs in the far West, where fighting was an everyday occurrence, some policemen who had served under Roosevelt when he was a Police Commissioner in New York, and even some Indians. Nearly every nationality was represented when it came to blood, and the men ran from the best educated to the most ignorant.

Theodore Roosevelt as a Rough Rider (Photograph by Pach Bros., N.Y.)

But there were three tests which every man, private or officer, had to pass. He had to be in perfect health, he had to know how to ride, and he had to know how to shoot. To these conditions were afterward added two more: each man had to learn his duty as quickly as he could and had to learn to obey his superiors.

In such a collection of soldiers it was but natural that the real leaders soon asserted themselves. Several of the captains had served in the United States army before; two were former famous western sheriffs; and all were full of that pluck and energy which is bound to command success.

In this regiment were some men who had hunted with Theodore Roosevelt on more than one occasion. They knew him well and loved him, and did their best to serve him. To them he was really their commander, although they officially recognized Colonel Wood. They were preeminently "Roosevelt's Rough Riders," and the great majority of the people of our nation call them such to this day.

The majority of the command were rather young in years, although a few were of middle age. But all were tough and hardy, either from athletic training or from years spent in the open air of the great West. Some of them could ride almost any kind of a horse, and "bronco busting," that is, breaking in a wild steed, was common sport among them. Some had spent nearly their entire lives in the saddle, and some could exhibit remarkable skill with their firearms while riding at full speed.

When the men began to come into San Antonio, they found but little in the way of accommodations. But soon tents and blankets were procured. It is said that good shoes were scarce, but some of the soldiers did not mind going without them. The regiment was supplied with good rifles, but the cartridges were not made of smokeless powder, which was a bad thing, for smoke sometimes enables an enemy to locate the shooter, when, if smokeless powder were used, nothing could be seen. Each man had also a six shooter, and was to have had a machete, but the long knives did not come.

"On to Cuba!" was the cry. And it was taken up every day. The Rough Riders were eager for the fray. Alas! little did many of them realize that, once in the "bloody isle," they would never see their native land again.



Chapter XIII

In Camp At Tampa -- To Port Tampa In Coal Cars -- Theodore Roosevelt's Quick Move To Obtain A Transport -- The Wait In The Harbor -- Off For Cuba At Last


That the path of the soldier is not always one full of glory can easily be proven by what happened to the Rough Riders when, late in May, they were ordered to Tampa, Florida, where a part of the army was gathering in readiness to be transported to Cuba.

"We were just wild to go," says one of the number, in speaking of that time. "We were tired of staying at San Antonio and drilling day in and day out, rain or shine. I guess everybody felt like hurrahing when we piled on to the cars.

"Colonel Roosevelt -- he was only Lieutenant-Colonel then -- had six troops under him, and he did all he could to make the boys comfortable. But the cars were crowded, and travelling was so slow it took us four days to reach Tampa. Then when we got there, we found everything in confusion. The railroad yard was chock-a-block with freight and passenger cars, and nobody was there to tell us where to go or where to find provisions.

"The boys were hungry and tired out, for sleeping on the railroad had been almost out of the question. There wasn't a sign of rations in sight, and it looked as if we would have to stay hungry. But Teddy Roosevelt just put his hand into his own pocket and bought us about all we wanted. Then he scurried around and found out where we were to go, and in another twenty-four hours we were settled in camp." Even in camp the Rough Riders had to put up with continued discomfort. The weather was warm, flies and mosquitoes were numerous, and the drinking water was not of the best. The rations were plain, but the Rough Riders did not mind this, for many of them had often fared worse on the plains.

Although it was now a regular military camp that the Rough Riders were in, it was rather difficult to control some of the men, especially those who had been used to an unusually rough life. But they were held in check as much as possible by their commanders, and on Sunday all attended a church service held by Chaplain Brown, who spoke to them in a manner that soon claimed their attention.

After but a few days spent in the camp at Tampa, within walking distance of many of the fashionable hotels, the command was ordered to Port Tampa, there to board a transport to sail for some destination not revealed. But the soldiers knew they were going to Cuba, to fight the Spaniards and to aid in freeing Cuba, and again there was a loud hurrahing.

But immediately on top of this came one of the hardest blows the Rough Riders had to endure, and one which some of them will probably never forget.

As already stated, volunteers from all over our nation were anxious to get into the fight, and it was no easy matter for the authorities at Washington to decide who should go and who should be left behind.

"Only eight troops of seventy men each of the Rough Riders will embark on the transport," was the order sent to Colonel Wood. More than this, it was ordered that the command should be on board of the transport by the following morning, otherwise it could not go.

"Four troops to be left behind!" exclaimed Theodore Roosevelt.

"Too bad," returned Colonel Wood. "Every man expects to go, and wants to go."

It was a hard task to tell some of the men that they could not go. Mr. Roosevelt tells us that many of them actually cried at the news. They were willing to go under any conditions. They did not want any pay, they did not want any pensions if they were disabled, and some, who had money, even offered to pay their way, just for the privilege of fighting for Uncle Sam. After such an exhibition, let nobody dare to say that true patriotism is dying out in this country.

But orders were orders, and as quickly as possible those to go were selected. Then the command marched to the railroad tracks to await the cars. None came, and they were given orders to march to another track. This they also did; but still no train appeared.

"We'll be left, that is certain," said Colonel Wood, anxiously.

"It certainly looks like it, unless we march the boys down to the port."

"Here comes a train!" was the cry.

It was a train, but only of empty coal cars. It was about to pass by when the Rough Riders halted it.

"What's the matter with riding down to the port in the coal cars?" was the question asked by several.

"Good enough!" came the answer. "Into the cars, boys, and don't waste time!" And into the dirty coal cars they piled, and persuaded the engineer of the train to take them down to Port Tampa as quickly as he could.

If there had been bustle and confusion up at Tampa, it was far worse at the port. Everybody was in a hurry, and ten thousand soldiers stood around, not knowing what to do with their baggage, and not knowing which of the many transports to board.

At last the Rough Riders were told to go aboard the Yucatan, and started to do so.

"The Yucatan?" exclaimed a member of another command. "That is our transport."

"No, she has been allotted to us," put in an officer belonging to still another command.

"How many men will she hold?" questioned a captain of the Rough Riders.

"About a thousand."

"Then she can't take the three commands."

Theodore Roosevelt overheard this talk, and at once made up his mind that it would be a question of what command got aboard of the transport first. Without the loss of a moment he ran back to where his men were in waiting.

"Double-quick to the dock!" was his order. And forming quickly, the troops made their way to the wharf with all possible speed. In the meantime, Colonel Wood had gone out to the transport in a steam-launch and gotten the vessel to come up to the wharf. On board went the Rough Riders pell-mell, and not a minute too soon.

"This is our boat!" cried an officer, as he came up with his command a minute later.

"Sorry for you, sir, but it is our boat," was Colonel Wood's firm answer.

Then the third command loomed up, and a three-handed dispute arose. But the Rough Riders remained aboard of the transport, taking four companies of another command in with them.

I have told of the particulars of this affair to show my young readers what was needed at this time, and how well Theodore Roosevelt performed his duties. He had been a soldier and officer only a few weeks, yet he realized that army life on paper and army life in reality were two different things. He felt that an officer must do much besides leading his men in the field: that he must look after them constantly, see that their health was provided for, see that they got their rations, see that transportation was ready when needed, and even see to it that some were kept away from the temptations of drink, and that they did not quarrel among themselves.

When going on board of the transport, the Rough Riders were supplied with twelve days' rations each. The most of the food was good, but the canned beef was very bad, just as it was found to be very bad in many other quarters, and it made a great number sick. Added to this, somebody had forgotten to issue salt to the soldiers; so much had to be eaten without this very necessary seasoning.

"But we took matters good-naturedly," said one of the number, in speaking of the trip that followed. "Many of the boys were out for a lark, and when they growled, they did it good-naturedly. We had all sorts of men, and all sorts of nicknames. An Irishman was called Solomon Levi, and a nice young Jew Old Pork Chop. One fellow who was particularly slow was called Speedy William, and another who always spoke in a quick, jerky voice answered to the hail of 'Slow-up Peter.' One cowboy who was as rough as anybody in the command was christened The Parson, and a fine, high-toned, well-educated college boy had to answer to the name of Jimmy the Tramp. Some of the boys could sing, and they organized the Rough Rider Quartette; and others could play, and they gave us music on the mouth harmonicas and other instruments they had managed to smuggle along."

The War Department had expected to send the troops to Cuba without delay, but now came in a report that some Spanish war-ships were hovering around, ready to sink the transports as soon as they should show themselves, and for five days the vessels remained in Port Tampa Harbor, until it was ascertained that the report was untrue.

Those five days were important to Theodore Roosevelt and to the men under him. Every day the young officer spent a certain portion of his time in studying military tactics and in drilling his soldiers. Much had still to be learned, and the officers had their school of instructions as well as did those under them.

The weather was broiling hot, and some were already suffering from fever or its symptoms. Fortunately bathing was good, and many went in once or twice a day. Bathing in the ocean was great sport to some of the plainsmen who had never seen anything larger than a river or creek, and they frolicked around like children, and got up races, with prizes for the best swimmers.

At last came the orders for the transports to set sail for Cuba. They numbered thirty-two in all, including a schooner which was towed along filled with drinking water, for water must be had, and that was the only place where it could be stowed. To protect the transports from a possible attack by the enemy, they were accompanied by five war-ships at first, and later on by fourteen. All told, there were on the transports eight hundred officers and sixteen thousand enlisted men. Of the commands, the most were from the regular army, the volunteers numbering but three -- the Rough Riders, the Seventy-first New York Infantry, and the Second Massachusetts Infantry.



Chapter XIV

Life On The Transport -- The Landing At Daiquiri -- The March To Siboney -- The Trail Through The Jungle -- The Skirmish At La Guasima


While the army was preparing to invade Cuba, matters so far as they concerned the navy had been moving along rapidly. Commodore Dewey had sunk the Spanish fleet in Manila Bay; Havana and the adjacent coasts were being blockaded, so no ships could pass in or out without running the risk of capture; and a large fleet of war-ships under Admiral Cervera, of the enemy's navy, had been "bottled up" in Santiago Harbor.

It had been decided that the United States troops should be landed on the southeast coast of Cuba, not far from the entrance to Santiago Bay, and from that point should make an advance on Santiago, which is the second city of importance in the island.

Day after day the flotilla of transports kept on its way, spread out in a broad column during the time it was light, and coming in close together during the night. The war-ships hovered near, and at night swept the ocean with their powerful search-lights, rendering a surprise by the enemy impossible.

The trip to the southeast coast of Cuba lasted seven days. It was very hot, even for this time of the year, and those who could, slept on deck during the voyage. There was but little to do, and when not drilling, the men took it easy in the shade, -- sleeping, chatting, or playing games. Sometimes they would talk of the future and wonder how much of real fighting lay before them.

"We didn't know even then where we were going," said one, in speaking of the trip. "I don't believe Wood or Roosevelt knew either. First we thought it might be Havana, then we imagined it might be Porto Rico, but when we turned southward and ran around the eastern end of the island, we all knew we were bound for Santiago."

As the transports swept up toward the mouth of Santiago Bay, they came within sight of the American war-ships that were keeping Admiral Cervera's fleet "bottled up" in the harbor. A shout of recognition went up, and one of the bands struck up a patriotic air that was truly inspiring.

The landing of the Rough Riders and many other commands was made at Daiquiri, a small settlement on the coast east of Santiago Harbor. The Yucatan got closer to the shore than most of the other transports, and the men lost no time in disembarking, taking with them two Colt's automatic guns and a dynamite gun of which they had become possessed. As there had not been transports enough, only the officers' horses had been brought along. These were thrown into the water and made to swim ashore. Theodore Roosevelt had two horses, but one was drowned.

It was important that the landing should be guarded, and the war-ships sent in some shot and shell to dislodge any Spaniards who might be in the vicinity. But none showed themselves, and soon nearly all of the soldiers were ashore, either at Daiquiri or at a landing a short distance farther westward. No enemy was in sight, and the only persons who appeared were some Cubans, soldiers and civilians, who wanted but one thing, food.

The Rough Riders had been put into a brigade commanded by General S.B.M. Young. There were two of these brigades, and it is worth noting that they formed a division under the command of Major-General Joseph Wheeler, who had in years gone by fought so gallantly on the side of the Confederacy. Now, as brave as of old, he was fighting for Old Glory, the one banner of the North and the South alike.

As the Rough Riders landed, they were marched up the beach, and here they went into temporary camp, -- an easy matter, since each soldier carried his outfit with him, or, at least, as much as he could get of what belonged to him. Theodore Roosevelt had his weapons and ammunition, a mackintosh and a toothbrush, certainly much less than he had carried even when roughing it in the Bad Lands of the West.

As soon as the larger portion of the army was landed, General Lawton -- he who was afterward to give his life for his flag in the Philippines -- threw out a strong detachment on the Santiago road to the westward, and also detachments on the roads to the north and east.

"On to Santiago!" was the cry. And many were for pushing forward without delay. But the transports had still to unload their baggage, and word did not reach the Rough Riders to move on until the afternoon of the day after landing.

It was a rocky, uneven country, with much brushwood and jungles of trees and vines. It had rained, but now the sun came out fiercely, and the Rough Riders (riders in name only, for only the officers were on horseback) suffered greatly through being clad in winter uniform.

"It was a tough and tiresome march," said one who was there. "The air just quivered with heat, and many of the boys felt like throwing half of their clothing away. Whenever we reached a drinking place, the crowd would swarm around for water like a lot of bees.

"General Lawton had his outposts pretty well advanced. Our commander, old General Wheeler, was just as anxious to make a showing, and he ordered General Young to push on with the Rough Riders and some other troops. So away we went, with Colonel Wood at our head, and Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt in command of one squadron and Major Brodie in command of the other. In some spots the road was frightful, full of mud-holes, with big land crabs crawling around in all directions, and with the trailing vines full of poisonous spiders. We didn't know but that the woods might be full of Spaniards, and we were on the alert to give the Dons as good as they sent, should they show themselves."

By nightfall the Rough Riders reached the little village of Siboney without having met the enemy. Here they went into camp in the midst of a heavy thunder-storm in which every soldier and officer was drenched to the skin. Fires could scarcely be lighted, and it was not until the storm had partly cleared away that the cooks could prepare anything to eat. Surely being a soldier was not all glory after all.

It had been learned that a portion of the Spanish army was less than four miles away, and General Young was ordered by General Wheeler to move forward at daybreak and engage the enemy. Colonel Wood received orders to move the Rough Riders by a trail over a hill, beyond which the country sloped toward the bay and the city of Santiago.

The first encounter with the enemy occurred at a place called La Guasima (or Las Guasimas), so called on account of trees of that name growing in the vicinity. Here the Spaniards had rifle-pits and mounds of earth to shelter them and had likewise the sugar-house of a plantation. They had been watching for the coming of the Americanos eagerly, and were determined to give our soldiers a lesson not to be forgotten. They knew that our army had not been in active warfare for years, and felt certain that they would soon be able to make the "paper" soldiers retreat.

The Rough Riders found the way led up a steep hill, and the pace was so fast that before the firing line was reached some men fell out from exhaustion. Theodore Roosevelt was at the head of the first squadron and did his best to urge those under him forward. There was an advance guard, led by some men under Sergeant Hamilton Fish, and Captain Capron's troop, and soon a crash of firearms notified all that a fight was on.

Orders were at once issued to fill the magazines of the guns, and this was done. Then, while some troops moved to the left of the trail, Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt was ordered to take three troops to the right. Here the jungle was heavy, and no sooner had the Rough Riders advanced than the Spaniards opened fire upon them. In speaking of the opening of this fight, Mr. Roosevelt himself writes: -- 

"The effect of the smokeless powder (used by the enemy) was remarkable. The air seemed full of the rustling sound of the Mauser bullets, for the Spaniards knew the trails by which we were advancing, and opened heavily on our position. But they themselves were entirely invisible. The jungle covered everything, and not the faintest trace of smoke was to be seen in any direction, to indicate from whence the bullets came."

It was certainly a trying time -- to stand up and be shot at without being able to return the compliment. Roosevelt and all the other leaders knew that this would not do, and at a great risk they continued to advance, until some Spaniards were at last discovered across a valley to the right of where the troops under Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt were located.

"There they are!" was the cry. "Forward and at 'em, boys! Down with the Dons!" Without delay some sharpshooters fired on the Spaniards, and then the regular troops opened up, and at last the Spaniards ran from cover.

Bullets were now flying in all directions, and both sides were making their shots tell. The Americans had but scant protection, and it was not long before a number of them fell. Some bullets came close to Theodore Roosevelt, and one hit a palm tree near where he was standing, filling his left eye and ear with the dust and splinters. Had that Mauser bullet come a few inches closer, the man who was destined to become the future President of our country might have been killed on the spot.

In the midst of the skirmish -- for the conflict proved to be nothing more -- there was a report that Colonel Wood was dead, and Theodore Roosevelt took it upon himself to restore the fighting line of Rough Riders to order. But happily the report proved false; and a little while after this the skirmish came to an end, and both Spaniards and Americans betook themselves to positions of greater safety. In this skirmish, brief as it was, the Rough Riders lost eight men killed and nearly forty wounded.



Chapter XV

Along The Jungle Trail -- Fording The River -- Opening Of The Battle Of San Juan Hill -- Bravery Of The Rough Riders -- Personal Experiences Of Theodore Roosevelt During The Battle


Taken as a whole, the skirmish at La Guasima was quite an important one, for it showed the Spaniards that our soldiers were bound to advance upon Santiago, be the cost what it might.

More than this, it showed that Theodore Roosevelt was brave under fire. During the skirmish he paid but scant attention to his own personal safety. He went wherever he thought he was needed, and the fact that Mauser bullets were flying about in all directions did not daunt him.

"He was about as cool a man as I ever saw in a fight," said one old soldier. "He did all he could to encourage the men, and had a kind word for every man he ran across who was wounded. Once, in the thickest of the brush, he grabbed up a gun and began to shoot with us, and I reckon he fired as straight as anybody there, for he had had lots of practice while hunting."

The Spaniards had been driven from their pits and from the sugar-house of the plantation, and now took good care to keep out of sight. Picket-guards were thrown out by the officers of the army, and those who had been in the fight took a much-needed rest, and looked after the dead and wounded. There was certainly a touching scene at the temporary hospital, where one soldier started to sing "My Country, 'tis of Thee," and many others joined in. On the following morning the dead were buried, the men gathering around the one common grave to sing "Rock of Ages" in a manner that brought tears to the eyes of many.

From La Guasima the Rough Riders moved to the bank of a small stream in the neighborhood. Part of the army was ahead of them and the rest behind, and for several days nothing unusual occurred. But during that time General Young caught the fever, whereupon Colonel Wood had to take charge of the brigade, and Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt took command of the Rough Riders.

It was now the end of June, and the weather was anything but agreeable. When the rain did not come down in torrents, the sun shone with a glare and a heat that was terrific. As said before, the uniforms of the Rough Riders were heavy, and much clothing had to be cast aside as unfit for use. To add to the discomfort, rations that were promised failed to appear, so that a good square meal was almost unknown.

"This will not do; the men must have enough to eat, even if I have to buy it for them," said Acting Colonel Roosevelt, and made two trips down to the seacoast in search of beans, tomatoes, and other things to eat. Here he was informed that he could only buy stuff meant for the officers.

"All right; I'll buy the things for the officers," he answered, and purchased as much as they would allow. When he got back, he turned the food over to the officers, but saw to it that they gave their men a fair share.

"It was a kindness none of his men ever forgot," said a soldier who was there. "It wasn't any of his business to buy the grub, -- the commissary department had to supply it free, -- but he knew we might starve while the department was getting itself straightened out and ready to do the right thing. Before he went on a hunt for food, all we had was salt pork, hardtack, and coffee, and some of the stuff wasn't fit to put in your mouth." And this testimony was the testimony of scores of others.

The Spaniards were strongly intrenched upon the outskirts of Santiago, and as it was a rough, hilly country, with many shallow streams and much jungle, it was hard for the American army to advance. It was General Shafter's idea to form a grand semicircle around Santiago, starting from El Caney on the north, and running in an irregular line to Aguadores on the south. Throughout this territory the Spaniards had done everything possible to hinder the advance of our troops. Barbed wire was strung in many directions, and often the brushwood would conceal dangerous pitfalls, so that any advance had to be made with great caution.

The attack upon the Spanish lines began on July 1, and the fighting took place in several quarters at once, but was unusually heavy at El Caney and at San Juan Hill. At El Caney the heroic General Lawton was in command, and fought as gallantly as he afterward did in the Philippines. Some of the charges were terrific, and will ever be remembered by those who participated in them.

The Rough Riders struck camp and moved along the trail on the last day of June. It was as hot as ever, with no sign of rain. The trail was filled with troops and provision wagons, and the progress, consequently, was slow.

"Let us get into the fight!" was the cry heard on every side. "Don't keep us waiting any longer."

"Keep cool," said one of the officers. "You'll get all the fighting you want soon." And so it proved.

At a little after eight o'clock in the evening the Rough Riders found themselves on El Poso Hill, and here the whole brigade to which they were attached went into camp.

"It wasn't much of a camp," said one who was there. "We just threw out a strong picket-guard and went to sleep on our arms, and glad of it, after that day in the broiling sun. We had had to ford some pretty muddy streams, and all of us were water and mud up to our knees. But everybody was as enthusiastic to fight as ever."

At sunrise the battle opened at El Caney, and the Rough Riders could hear the booming of cannon. At once all was activity, and the men prepared to move ahead at a moment's notice.

Acting Colonel Roosevelt was with Colonel Wood at the time, and both were listening to the roar of the artillery.

"I wish we could move -- " began Colonel Wood, when, of a sudden, both he and Theodore Roosevelt heard a strange humming sound in the air. Then came the explosion of a shrapnel shell over their heads, and both leaped to their feet.

"This is getting warm!" cried Theodore Roosevelt, and ran toward his horse, when boom! came another explosion, and one of the bullets fell upon his wrist, making, as he himself says, "a bump about as big as a hickory nut." This same shell, he adds, wounded four of the men under him and two or three regulars, one of whom lost his leg. Certainly another providential escape on the part of the future President.

Without loss of time Theodore Roosevelt ordered his troops into the underbrush, and here, for the time being, they were safe. On account of the smokeless powder they used, the Spanish batteries could not be precisely located, so our own artillery were at a slight disadvantage.

But now the blood of the Americans was fully aroused, and soon came an order for a general advance, -- something that was hailed with wild delight by the Rough Riders.

"Hurrah, now we'll show 'em what the Yankees can do!" was the cry. "Down with the Dons! Three cheers for Uncle Sam!"

The Rough Riders had to ford the river, and while they were doing this, a balloon that had been used for observations came down in that vicinity and attracted the attention of the Spanish sharpshooters. The firing was now heavy on all sides, and many a gallant soldier went down to rise no more.

Then came another wait of an hour, during which the Rough Riders rested in a hollow leading up from the river. Again there was grumbling. With so much fighting on all sides, why could they not advance?

"We'll get our turn," said Theodore Roosevelt. And soon after a staff officer dashed up with orders to move forward and support the cavalry of the regular army on the hills in front.

"Now to the front!" was the cry. "Down with the Dons!" And away went troop after troop on the double-quick, with Acting Colonel Roosevelt leading them. Shot and shell were hurling themselves through the air in all directions, and on all sides could be heard the shrieks and groans of the dead and the dying. It was a time long to be remembered. Men went down in all directions, and with them not a few officers. It was so hot that Roosevelt's orderly was prostrated from the heat and afterward died. Roosevelt summoned another Rough Rider, and had just finished giving the man some orders when the soldier pitched forward upon his commander, killed by a bullet through the throat.

As the troops advanced, Theodore Roosevelt urged his men forward and told them to do their best, to which they responded with a cheer. He was on horseback at the time, and soon came across a man lying in the shade, probably overcome by the heat. He started to speak to the Rough Rider when a bullet hit the fellow and killed him on the spot.

"I suppose that bullet was meant for me," says Mr. Roosevelt, in writing of this incident. "I, who was on horseback in the open, was unhurt, and the man lying flat on the ground in the cover beside me was killed."

The fight had now centred around the possession of San Juan Hill, upon which was located a Spanish blockhouse. The bullets were flying as thickly as ever, when Roosevelt was ordered to advance in support of another regiment. As the Rough Riders reached the spot where the other regiment was, they found the men lying down awaiting orders.

"I am ordered to support your regiment," said Theodore Roosevelt to the first captain he met.

"We are awaiting orders to advance," answered the captain of the regulars.

"In my opinion we cannot take these hills by firing at them," returned the commander of the Rough Riders. "We must rush them."

"My orders are to keep my men where they are."

"Where is your Colonel?"

"I don't know."

"Well, if he isn't here, then I am the ranking officer, and I give the order to charge," came quickly and positively from Theodore Roosevelt.

"Well, sir, -- I -- I have orders from our Colonel -- " began the captain of the regulars.

"If you won't charge, let my men pass through, sir," cut in the Acting Colonel of the Rough Riders, and he ordered his men to move to the front. This was too much for the regulars, and up they sprang with shouts and yells, and Rough Riders and regulars went up San Juan Hill together. Roosevelt was on horseback as before, but at a barbed-wire fence he leaped to the ground, swung his hat in the air, and joined his men on foot.

The fight was now at its fiercest, and men were being mowed down in all directions. But the fever of battle was in the veins of all the American soldiers, and nothing could stop them. Up the hill they went, loading and firing at random, and making as many shots as possible tell. The Spaniards were in retreat, and soon Old Glory was planted in several places. Some of the leading officers had been shot, and Theodore Roosevelt found himself at one time in command of five regiments, and doing his best to keep them in military order. Strange as it may seem, with bullets flying all around him, he remained unharmed, saving for some slight scratches which, he tells us, "were of no consequence."

With the top of the hill gained, the American soldiers could get a distant glimpse of Santiago, several miles away, and some wanted to move still farther forward. But the Spaniards had strong intrenchments to fall back upon, and it was deemed best to "let well enough alone." Accordingly the American line was made as strong as possible, and by nightfall the battle was at an end, and the Rough Riders were told to hold the hill and intrench, and they did so. In the blockhouse they found some food belonging to some Spanish officers, and upon this they feasted after their well-earned victory.



Chapter XVI

Results Of The Fight -- Life In The Trenches -- The Spanish Fleet In Santiago Harbor -- Another Great Naval Victory -- The Rough Riders And The Spanish Guerillas


The fight had been a hard and heavy one. The Rough Riders had gone into the engagement just 490 strong, and of that number 89 were killed or wounded. The total loss to the Americans was 1071 killed and wounded. The loss to the Spanish was also heavy, but the exact figures will probably never be known.

Utterly tired out with their marching and fighting, the Rough Riders intrenched as best they could, cared for their wounded and dead, and then dropped down to get a well-earned rest. The night was misty and cold, and many who had been bathed in perspiration suffered accordingly. Theodore Roosevelt had a blanket taken from the Spanish, and in this he rolled himself, and slept with others of his command.

At three o'clock in the morning came an unexpected alarm. The Spanish skirmishers were out in force, trying to drive the Americans back. But there was no heavy attack, and presently all became as quiet as before.

"They'll not give up yet," said one of the officers of the Rough Riders. "They mean to retake this hill if they can."

Just at daybreak the Spaniards opened the attack on San Juan Hill once more. Theodore Roosevelt was resting under a little tree when a shrapnel shell burst close by, killing or wounding five men of the command. He at once ordered the eight troops under him to a safer position, where the Spanish battery and the sharpshooters could not locate them so readily.

If the fight had been hard, guarding the trenches was almost equally so. The sun beat down fiercely, and the newly turned up earth made many of the Rough Riders sick. Added to this, provisions were, as usual, slow in arriving. Those in the trenches were kept there six hours, and then relieved by the others who were farther to the rear.

"Running from the cover of brush to the trenches was no easy matter," says one Rough Rider who was there. "We had dug the trenches in a hurry, and had no passages from the rear leading to them. All we could do was to wait for a signal, and then rush, and when we did that, the Spaniards would open a hot fire and keep it up for perhaps fifteen minutes. The sun was enough to turn a man's brain, and more than one poor fellow caught a fever there that proved fatal to him."

Through the entire day the firing continued, but no advances were made upon either side. The Americans were waiting for reinforcements, and the Spaniards were doing likewise. On our side a dynamite gun and two Colt's guns were used, but with little success. But the Gatling guns proved very effective, and caused a great loss to the enemy.

The city of Santiago lies on the northeast coast of a large bay of the same name. This bay is shaped somewhat like a bottle, with a long neck joining it to the Caribbean Sea.

In the harbor, at the time of the battles just described, the Spaniards had a fleet of war-ships under the command of Admiral Cervera, an old and able naval commander. In the fleet were four large cruisers and two torpedo-boats. Three of the cruisers were of seven thousand tons burden each, and all could make from eighteen to nineteen knots an hour. Each carried a crew of about five hundred men, and all were well supplied with guns and ammunition.

To keep this fleet "bottled up," our own navy had a fleet of its own just outside of the harbor, where it had been stationed ever since Admiral Cervera had been discovered within. The American fleet consisted of the cruiser Brooklyn, which was Commodore Schley's flag-ship, the battleships Texas, Iowa, Indiana, and Oregon (the latter having sailed all the way from the Pacific coast around Cape Horn to get into the fight), and the converted yachts Gloucester and Vixen. There were also close at hand, but not near enough to get into the fight, the cruiser New York, Admiral Sampson's flag-ship, and several other vessels of lesser importance.

For a long time it had been thought that Cervera would try to escape from the harbor, in which he could not be reached because of the strong forts that protected the entrance. To bottle him up more effectively, the Americans tried to block up the harbor entrance by sinking an old iron steamboat, the Merrimac, in the channel. This heroic work was undertaken by Lieutenant Hobson with a crew of seven daring men, but the plan failed, for the Merrimac, instead of sinking where intended, swung to one side of the main channel.

When it was reported to him that the Americans had taken the heights of El Caney and San Juan and were strongly intrenched in their positions, Admiral Cervera concluded that Santiago Bay might soon become too hot to hold him. The capture of the city would be followed by the taking of the forts at the harbor entrance, and then there would be nothing left for him to do but to surrender.

San Juan and El Caney had been taken on Friday, and all day Saturday occurred the shooting at long range, as already described. In the meantime the war-ships outside of the harbor kept up a close watch on the harbor entrance, lying well out during the day, but coming in closer at night, and using their powerful search-lights from sundown to sunrise.

Sunday dawned bright and clear, and for the time being all was quiet both ashore and afloat. In the trenches the Rough Riders and other soldiers were still on guard, doing what they could for their wounded, and trying to get the rations which were still delayed.

Presently, those on board of the American fleet noticed a thick cloud of smoke hanging over the harbor, coming from the funnels of the Spanish war-ships. Then one of the enemy's vessels showed itself, quickly followed by the others, and all turned westward, to escape up the coast.

"The enemy is escaping!" was the signal hoisted. And then one cannon after another boomed out, giving the signal to all our ships in that vicinity. The booming of the cannon was heard away eastward at Siboney, whither Admiral Sampson had gone with his ship to confer with General Shafter, and without delay the New York raced madly back to get into the fight that followed.

"Remember the Maine!" was the cry. "Down with the Spanish ships! Give 'em what Dewey did!" And this cry, "Give 'em what Dewey did!" was heard on every hand.

The first vessel to go down was a torpedo-boat, sunk by the Gloucester, and this was quickly followed by the sinking of the second torpedo-boat. In the meantime the larger vessels were pouring in their rain of steel upon the Spanish cruisers with deadly effect, knocking great holes into the ships and killing scores of those on board.

The Spanish cruiser Teresa was the first to succumb to the heavy attack, and soon she turned in to shore to save her crew from drowning. Then the Oquendo caught fire in several places, and burning fiercely from stem to stern, she, too, turned in.

But two ships were now left to Admiral Cervera, the Vizcaya and the Colon, and each had suffered much. Both were doing their best to get out of reach of our guns and the marvellous accuracy of our gunners.

"Don't let 'em get away!" was the cry. "Give 'em what Dewey did!" Forward went the war-ships of Uncle Sam, the powerful Oregon leading, with the Brooklyn and Texas not far behind. The rain of steel continued, and at last, burning like her sister ships, the Vizcaya turned shoreward, and many of her crew leaped overboard to save their lives.

Only the Colon now remained. She was still in fair condition, and it was the Spaniards' ardent hope to save at least one ship from the dire calamity that had overtaken them. But this was not to be, and after a run of a few miles, during which the Oregon and Brooklyn continued to pound her with shot and shell, the Spanish flag was lowered, and the Colon also ran ashore.

It was assuredly a mighty victory, a fitting mate to the great victory won by Admiral Dewey, and when the news reached our country there was such a Fourth of July celebration everywhere as will never be forgotten. Twice had our navy met the ships of Spain, and each time we had sunk every vessel without losing any of our own. More than this, while the Spaniards had lost many men through shot and fire and drowning, our total loss was but one man killed and a handful wounded.

The loss of her second fleet was a bitter blow to Spain, and many predicted that the war would not continue much longer, and this prediction proved correct.

During the rush made by the Rough Riders and our other soldiers, they had gone right through several bodies of Spanish guerillas who were secreted in the trees of the jungle. These guerillas, really lawless fellows belonging to no particular command, could not get back into Santiago because of the strong American guard at the intrenchments, and consequently they contented themselves with remaining out of sight and peppering our soldiers whenever the opportunity offered.

"This will not do," said Theodore Roosevelt. "They are shooting down our men without giving them a chance to fire back. We'll have to get after them." And without delay he sent out a detachment of the best Rough Rider shots to be found. These sharpshooters searched the jungle back of the intrenchments thoroughly, and as a result killed eleven of the guerillas and wounded many more. After that the guerillas kept their distance, satisfied that the Yankees could beat them at their own game.



Chapter XVII

Devotion Of The Rough Riders To Theodore Roosevelt -- His Kindness To His Men -- Last Of The Fighting -- The Truce And Treaty Of Peace


With the defeat of Admiral Cervera's fleet, a flag of truce was sent into Santiago by the commander of our army, demanding the surrender of the city. While these negotiations were pending, all fighting came to an end, and the Rough Riders had but little to do outside of making themselves comfortable and caring for the many who were getting sick because of the lack of shelter and proper food. Food was now coming in more rapidly, and soon all were supplied with tents and blankets. During this time Theodore Roosevelt's personal baggage appeared, and he celebrated the arrival by treating himself to a shave and a change of linen, something impossible to do since the fighting had begun.

In his own writings, Mr. Roosevelt has spoken at great length of the devotion which all of the Rough Riders displayed toward him. They were anxious to wait on him at all hours of the day and night. Some would pitch his tent, others would clean his weapons, and still others would go hunting and bring in such game as the vicinity afforded. When ordered to do anything, there was rarely a grumble. Those in the hospital bore their sufferings with remarkable fortitude.

In return for this, Theodore Roosevelt did all he could to make life less hard for those under him. The game that was brought to him he sent to the hospital, that the wounded might have proper nourishment; and he either went himself or sent somebody to the seacoast, to purchase food which the commissary department possessed, but which, through lack of organization, it was slow in distributing. When no shelter was to be had, he slept on the ground with his men, and when they had to work on the trenches at night, he was up and around superintending the labor.

"He was one of us, and he let us know it," was said by one of the Rough Riders. "He ate the same food we did, and he was mighty good to the sick and the wounded. He paid for lots of things out of his own pocket, and I don't believe he has ever asked Uncle Sam to pay him back."

There was no telling how soon the truce would come to an end and fighting would begin again, and night after night the Rough Riders were kept on guard. There was a standing order that each fourth man should keep awake while the others slept, and no matter how dark or rainy the night, Theodore Roosevelt tramped around from one trench to another, seeing to it that this order was obeyed. He also visited the intrenchments of other commands, to compare them and make certain that the grade of service was equally high among the Rough Riders. This shows distinctly that he was a natural-born military commander.

The truce lasted a week, and while all operations were supposed to have come to an end, both the Americans and the Spaniards spent the time in strengthening their positions. At one time the Americans constructed a fairly good defence, in which they placed two Gatling guns and two automatic Colt guns, and this was named Fort Roosevelt, in honor of the Rough Rider commander.

On the tenth of July the fighting began once more, and again the batteries on both sides sent shot and shell into the camps of the enemy. It was largely fighting at long range, and the only Rough Riders who took part were those who manned the Colt's guns, and a small body of sharpshooters stationed in a trench well to the front.

On the next day the Rough Riders were ordered northward, to guard the road running from Santiago to El Caney. Here some fighting was in progress, and the troopers expected to get into battle once more. But the skirmish came to an end before they arrived, very much to their disappointment.

Hardly had the Rough Riders settled in their new position than a storm came up which proved to be the heaviest yet experienced during the campaign. While Theodore Roosevelt was sleeping in his tent, the shelter was blown down and away, and all of his personal effects were scattered in the mud and wet. As best he could, he donned his clothing, saw to it that his men were safe, and then betook himself to a kitchen tent, where he finished the sleep of that night on a rude table recently taken from an abandoned Spanish home in that vicinity.

"On that night it rained cats and dogs and hammer-handles," said one of the soldiers afterward. "It was inky dark -- darker than I have ever known it to be anywhere on the plains. The water made a muddy pond of the whole camp, and the trenches were half filled in no time. Everything was blown helter-skelter by the furious wind, and some of our outfits we never recovered. In the midst of the confusion some fellows reported that the Spaniards were trying to break through our lines, but the report was false, -- the outsiders were starving Cubans who had come in looking for shelter and something to eat. We gave them what we could -- which was precious little, for we had next to nothing ourselves -- and then got them to help us get things together again. One of the Cubans was an old man, who could speak a little English. He said he had lost two daughters and three grandchildren by starvation since the war between Spain and Cuba had started. He himself was little more than a skeleton."

That Theodore Roosevelt was warmhearted enough to look out for other soldiers besides those of his own command is proven by what took place on the day following the big storm. Next to the Rough Riders were located a regiment of Illinois Volunteers. Because of the muddy roads and swollen streams, they could get no rations, and scant as were their own supplies, Colonel Roosevelt had the Rough Riders furnish them with beans, coffee, and a few cases of hardtack, for which they were extremely grateful. Later in the day the commander of the Rough Riders also got to them part of a mule train of provisions.

The American position had been greatly strengthened, and many additional troops were now at the front. It was felt that an advance upon Santiago would surely result in victory, although the losses might be large. But the Spaniards were no longer in a position to continue the struggle, and on July 17 the city formally surrendered. The surrendered territory covered many miles, and the Spanish soldiers to lay down their arms numbered upward of twenty thousand.

There was great cheering in the American trenches when the glad news was brought in, and soon Old Glory was planted on every height, while the trumpets sounded out triumphantly. Possession of Santiago was immediate, and in a few hours the Stars and Stripes floated from the flagstaff of the civil government buildings. Our gallant army had won on the land just as our gallant navy had won on the sea. The war had been, for us, one of triumph from start to finish.

In foreign countries the news was received with an astonishment that can scarcely be described. After Dewey's wonderful victory in Manila Bay, many naval experts said that such a fight could not be duplicated, yet it was duplicated two months later off Santiago Bay in a manner that left no doubt of American supremacy on the sea. Then when it came to fighting on land, our army was designated as "paper" soldiers, that is, soldiers on paper or in name only, and it was said that their guns would be found of little use against the Mausers of Spain. But this was likewise false; and to-day the army and navy of the United States are respected everywhere. And more than this, foreign powers have come to our country for many of their war-ships, asking us to build and equip them, and also asking us to make cannon and rifles for them.

While the war was on in Cuba, a part of the United States army under General Miles was sent to Porto Rico, another island belonging to Spain. Here the inhabitants hailed the Americans with delight, and the resistance by the Spanish soldiers was only half-hearted.

With the downfall of the navy and Santiago, Spain knew not what to do next, and gladly received the terms of peace offered by President McKinley and his advisers. The terms were accepted on August 9, and thus the short but sharp war came to a termination. By the treaty of peace Cuba was given her liberty, and Porto Rico and the Philippines passed into the possession of the United States.



Chapter XVIII

Last Days In Cuba -- The Departure For Home -- Arrival At Montauk -- Caring For The Sick And Wounded -- Presentation To Theodore Roosevelt By His Men -- Mustering-Out Of The Rough Riders


Four days after the surrender of Santiago the Rough Riders found themselves in the hills four or five miles back from the intrenchments they had occupied during the last fight. Other commands were scattered in various directions, for to let them go into the wretched city would have been out of the question. Santiago was dirty in the extreme; the fever was there, and hundreds were on the verge of starvation.

It was a trying time for everybody, and equally so for Theodore Roosevelt, who did all in his power, as before, to make his men comfortable. When it did not rain, the sun came out fiercely, causing a rapid evaporation that was thoroughly exhausting to the soldiers. The locality was not a healthy one, and soon scores of Rough Riders and others were down with malaria or fever. Doctors and surgeons were scarce, and hospital accommodations were scanty, and again and again did Colonel Roosevelt send down on his own account to the seacoast and to Santiago for food and medicines of which his command were in dire need. He was now colonel of the Rough Riders in reality, his promotion having been granted to him just one week after the heroic charge up San Juan Hill. His old colonel, Wood, was installed at Santiago as military governor. This, for the time being, left Colonel Roosevelt in command of the cavalry brigade, no small honor to one who had been, but a few months before, a stranger to military duties.

During this time in camp, Theodore Roosevelt visited Santiago and the forts at the entrance to the harbor, and with the pen of a skilled author he has, in one of his books, given us vivid pictures of the sights to be seen there at that time -- the crooked streets with their queer shops, the wretched inhabitants, the grim and frowning forts, all hemmed in by the towering mountains and the sea. He likewise tells of his trips to the mountains, and how his companions were usually exhausted by the climbing done. For one who in his youth had been so delicate, he stood the exposure remarkably well, for which he was thankful.

For some time the authorities at Washington did not know what to do with the troops in Cuba. It was suggested that they move up to higher ground, or to another neighborhood. But General Shafter knew, and so did all of the officers under him, that to keep the army in the island would only mean more sickness and death.

"I will go to the general with a protest," said Colonel Roosevelt. And he did so. Meanwhile the other head officers drew up a letter of protest, and this was signed by all, including the commander of the Rough Riders. In his own letter Roosevelt protested against the treatment of his men in the matter of rations, clothing, and hospital accommodations, and in the other letter, called by the officers a Round Robin, there was a protest about remaining in Cuba longer, with the fever getting worse every day. These letters were made public through the press of the United States, with the result that the troops were ordered home without further delay.

The Rough Riders left Cuba on August 7, just six weeks and a half after landing. The time spent in the island had been short, but to many it seemed an age. None were sorry to depart, although sad to think that some of the sick had to be left behind.

The transport used this time was the Miami, and Mr. Roosevelt tells us that, taken as a whole, the accommodations were better than they had been on the Yucatan. But on the trip much trouble was had with some of the stokers and engineers, who insisted upon drinking some liquor smuggled aboard.

"I will not permit this," said Colonel Roosevelt. And he read the disorderly ones a strong lecture and made them give up their liquor. After that, as there was much grumbling, he set a guard; and that was the end of that trouble.

The destination of the transport was Montauk, on the extreme eastern shore of Long Island. The trip took nine days, -- rather a dreary time to those anxious to see their native land once more. When an anchorage was gained, a gunboat came out to the transport with the welcome news that Spain had agreed to our terms.

The sick had still to be cared for; yet, taken as a whole, the month spent at the camp at Montauk was pleasant enough. Here Colonel Roosevelt met that part of the regiment that had been left behind in Florida, and all the stories of the fights had to be told over and over again.

"It was good to meet the rest of the regiment," says Mr. Roosevelt, in his book. "They all felt dreadfully at not having been in Cuba. Of course those who stayed had done their duty precisely as did those who went." Which was true; yet, as he adds, those who had been left behind could not be comforted.

Colonel Roosevelt was still in charge of the brigade while at Montauk, and much of his time was taken up in getting out necessary reports, and seeing to it that the entire camp was kept in first-class sanitary condition.

"And he was up to the mark," said one of those who were there. "He didn't allow the least bit of dirt, and everything had to be as shipshape as if we were at West Point. And it was a good thing, too, for it kept the sickness from spreading."

The sea-breeze is strong at Montauk, and this soon began to tell upon all who were sick, putting in them new life and vigor. Here every possible attention was given to those who were down, so that ere long many were up again and as well as ever.

When he had a little time to himself, Theodore Roosevelt would gather a few friends around him, and either go to the beach to bathe or go off on a long horseback ride. War was to him a thing of the past, and he was once more willing to become a private citizen as of old.

In those days the camp at Montauk was constantly crowded with visitors from New York City and elsewhere, who poured in upon every train. All of the soldiers who had been to Cuba were hailed as heroes, and had to tell their stories many times.

"Every soldier had a crowd following him," said one private. "The visitors wanted to know how we had fought, how we had been treated by the government, how things looked in Cuba, and a hundred and one other things. Most of the visitors, especially the ladies, wanted our autographs, and I had to write mine as many as forty times a day. I remember one of the men, a cowboy from Oklahoma, couldn't write, and he got so upset over this that every time somebody asked him for his autograph he would run away, saying he had forgotten to do something that he had been ordered to do. When I and some chums went down to New York to look around, all the folks stared at us, and many insisted on shaking hands and treating."

COLONEL ROOSEVELT AT MONTAUK POINT. (Photograph by Pach Bros., New York.)

The uniforms the Rough Riders had worn in Cuba were in rags, and many had boarded the transport barefooted. The rags were saved as trophies of the occasion, and many are still in existence.

At Camp Wykoff, as the place was called, there was a large hospital for the sick, and to this many came to do what they could for the sufferers, who were now given every possible attention. Among the visitors was Miss Helen Gould, who had used her ample means for the benefit of the sick all through the war, and who now continued to play the good Samaritan. President McKinley and many of his cabinet likewise visited the camp, and saw to it that everything in the hospital and out of it was as it should be. The sick were presented with the best of fruits and other things, and many ladies assisted the nurses by reading to the patients and by writing letters for them.

Now that they had nothing to do in the shape of fighting, many of the Rough Riders were anxious to get back to the wild West. Life in an ordinary camp did not suit them, and at every available opportunity they indulged in "horse play," working off many practical jokes upon each other.

One day a report went the rounds that a member of another cavalry organization could not master a certain horse that had been assigned to him. The report was true, for the horse was what is called by ranchmen a "bad bucker."

"I think Sergeant Darnell can master him," said Colonel Roosevelt.

He referred to one of the best "bronco busters" among the Rough Riders, a man who had never yet allowed a steed to get the best of him.

"All right, let Darnell try him," said others. And a test was arranged for the day following.

At that time Secretary of War Alger was in camp, and a great crowd of visitors, military men and others, gathered before Colonel Roosevelt's quarters to watch the contest. At the proper time the vicious horse was brought forth, and watching his chance, Sergeant Darnell leaped upon his back. Then came such a bucking, leaping, and prancing as many had never witnessed before.

"He'll be killed!" cried many of the ladies. "The horse will have him under in another moment." But such fears were groundless. Darnell knew exactly what he was doing, and in the end the fiery steed had to give in, completely conquered.

On the last Sunday in camp, Chaplain Brown delivered an impressive sermon, to which all listened with grave attention. After he had finished, Theodore Roosevelt spoke to the men in a feeling way.

"I told them how proud I was of them," he says. "But warned them not to think that they could go back and rest on their laurels, bidding them remember that though for ten days or so the world would be willing to treat them as heroes, yet after that time they would find they would have to get down to hard work just like anybody else, unless they were willing to be regarded as worthless do-nothings." This was the best possible advice, and it is believed that many of the soldiers profited by it.

Before the men were mustered out, they treated their beloved commander to a genuine surprise. They had had a fine bronze of a "Bronco Buster" made, and this was presented to Colonel Roosevelt on behalf of the whole regiment. It touched him deeply, and to-day this bronze is one of his most highly prized gifts.

At last came news that the Rough Riders would be mustered out of the United States service the next day. That evening a great celebration took place, in which all of the men joined, each according to his own notion of what a celebration should be. Large bonfires were lit, and here some delivered speeches, the soldiers from the colleges sang, those with Indian blood in them gave a characteristic dance, and cowboys and ranchmen did "double-shuffles" and "cut up" as suited them.

On the morning of September 15, four months after the Rough Riders had been organized, the colors were lowered in camp, the men were mustered out, and officers and privates shook hands and said good-by.

"It was the greatest sight I ever saw," says one of the number. "Not until that moment came did we realize what it meant to part with those who had fought with us in battle and suffered the hardships of life in the trenches. Strange friendships had been formed, some between those who were very rich and very poor, and others between those who were well educated and very ignorant. One man who was studying for a professional life had as his particular chum a rough cowboy who had never spent six months over his books. But the two had stood by each other and suffered, and I really believe they were willing to lay down their lives for each other.

"Many of the men could hardly bear to part with Colonel Roosevelt. He had stuck by them through thick and thin, and they worshipped him. Some shook hands half a dozen times, and some hardly dared to speak for fear of breaking down. I never expect to see the match of that scene again."



Chapter XIX

Nominated For Governor Of New York -- A Rough Rider Way Of Campaigning -- Elected Governor -- Important Work At Albany -- The Homestead At Oyster Bay -- Chopping Down A Tree For Exercise


The war with Spain was at an end, and Uncle Sam had now to turn his attention to the Philippines, where for many months to come military disturbances of a more or less serious nature were to take place.

Theodore Roosevelt might have remained in the army, and had he done so there is no doubt but that he would have swiftly risen to a rank of importance.

But the people of the State of New York willed otherwise.

"He is a great military man," they said. "But he was likewise a fine Police Commissioner and a Civil Service Commissioner, fighting continually for what was right and good. Let us make him our next governor."

The convention that nominated Theodore Roosevelt for the highest office in the Empire State met at Saratoga, September 27, 1898, just twelve days after the Rough Riders were mustered out. At that time Frank S. Black was governor of the state, having been elected two years before by a large majority. The governor had many friends, and they said he deserved another term.

"Roosevelt is not a citizen of this state," said they. "He gave up his residence here when he went to Washington to become Assistant Secretary of the Navy."

"We don't want him anyway," said other politicians, who had not forgotten how the Rough Rider had acted when in the Assembly. "If he gets into office, it will be impossible to manage him." And they worked night and day to defeat the hero of San Juan Hill.

On the day of the convention, the hall where it was held was jammed with people. The people were also crowded in the street outside, and on every hand were seen Rough Rider badges.

"It was a Roosevelt crowd from top to bottom," says one who was there. "You heard his name everywhere -- in the hotels, on the streets, no matter where you went. Every once in a while somebody would shout, 'Three cheers for Teddy!' and the cheers would be given with a will."

As soon as the convention had settled down to business, Governor Black was put up for nomination, and then the Hon. Chauncey M. Depew presented the name of Theodore Roosevelt. He spoke of what had been done in Cuba, and added: -- 

"The Rough Riders endured no hardships nor dangers which were not shared by their Colonel. He helped them dig their ditches; he stood beside them in the deadly dampness of the trenches. No floored tent for him if his comrades must sleep on the ground and under the sky. In that world-famed charge of the Rough Riders up the hill of San Juan, their Colonel was a hundred feet in advance."

There was a prolonged cheering when Theodore Roosevelt's name was mentioned, and hundreds waved their handkerchiefs and flags. Other speeches followed, and at last came the voting. Out of the total number cast Theodore Roosevelt received seven hundred and fifty-three and Governor Black two hundred and eighteen.

"I move we make the nomination of Theodore Roosevelt unanimous!" cried Judge Cady, who had previously presented the name of Governor Black. And amid continued cheering this was done.

Theodore Roosevelt had been nominated on the regular Republican ticket. In opposition, the Democrats nominated Augustus Van Wyck, also well known, and likewise of as old Dutch stock as Roosevelt himself.

The campaign was a decidedly strenuous one. The Democrats made every effort to win, while on the other hand the Republicans who had wanted Governor Black for another term did not give to Mr. Roosevelt the support promised when his nomination had been made unanimous.

"We shall be defeated," said more than one friend to Roosevelt. "It seems a shame, but we cannot arouse the party as it should be aroused."

"I will see what I can do myself," answered the former leader of the Rough Riders. And he arranged to make a complete tour of the State, taking in almost every city and town of importance. When some of the old campaign managers heard of this, they came to Roosevelt in great alarm.

"You mustn't do it," they said. "It will ruin you."

"I will risk it," was the answer of the candidate. And forthwith he started on his tour, taking a handful of his Rough Rider friends with him.

It was a brilliant stroke on the part of Theodore Roosevelt, and it told tremendously in his favor. Wherever he went, the people turned out in large crowds to see him and to listen to what he or his Rough Rider companions had to say. Citizens by the hundred came up to shake him by the hand and wish him success. Parades were organized to do him honor, and at night there would be brilliant illuminations and fireworks.

"We have aroused the party," said he, when the tour was at an end. And so it proved. Although Van Wyck was popular, Theodore Roosevelt was elected to the high office of governor by seventeen thousand plurality.

It was certainly a high position for such a young man to occupy. He was barely forty years of age, yet as governor of New York he ruled twice as many people as did George Washington when first President of the United States.

He entered on his new duties with as much zeal as he had displayed when organizing the Rough Riders, and in a few weeks had the reins of government well in hand. It is said that while he was governor he was never surprised by those who opposed him. When they wanted facts and figures he was able to produce them, and he never supported or vetoed a measure unless he was morally certain he was on the right side. He was open-faced to the last degree, and what he said he meant.

During his term of office many measures of importance were considered, but in a work of this kind it is not necessary to go into details. For several important offices he nominated men of his own selection, despite the protests of some older politicians, and these selections proved first-class.

During his term as governor, Mr. Roosevelt did a great work for many poor people in New York City, who worked in what are called "sweat shops," -- small, close quarters, not fit for working purposes, in which men, women, and children make clothing and other articles. He enforced what was known as the Factory Law, and the owners of the "sweat-shops" had to seek larger and more sanitary quarters for their employees. He also took a strong hand in reforming the administration of the canals, which had been one-sided and unfair.

But perhaps his greatest work was in behalf of a measure meant to make the great corporations of New York State pay their fair share of the general taxes. In the past these corporations had had great rights conferred upon them, and they had paid little or nothing in return.

"This is unjust," said Governor Roosevelt. "They should pay their taxes just as the poorest citizen is compelled to pay his tax."

When the corporations heard this, many of the men in control were furious, and they threatened the governor in all sorts of ways. They would defeat him if he ever again came up for election, and defeat him so badly that he would never again be heard of.

"Do as you please, gentlemen," said the governor. "I am here to do my duty, and I intend to do it." And he called an extra session of the legislature for that purpose. It is said that much money was used by some corporations to defeat Governor Roosevelt's will, but in the end a modified form of the bill was passed. Since that time other bills along similar lines have become laws; so that the great corporations have to pay millions of dollars which in the past they had escaped paying. Such measures are of immense benefit to the ordinary citizen, and for his share in this work Theodore Roosevelt deserves great credit.

It was while governor of New York that Mr. Roosevelt gave to the public his book entitled "The Rough Riders." It contains a history of that organization from his personal point of view, and makes the most fascinating kind of reading from beginning to end. It was well received, and added not a little to the laurels of the writer as an author.

Although much of his time was spent at Albany as Executive, Theodore Roosevelt had not given up the old homestead at Oyster Bay on Long Island, and thither he went for rest and recreation, taking his entire family, which, as has been said, consisted of his wife and six children, with him.

The old Roosevelt homestead is on a hill about three miles distant from the village. The road to the house winds upward through a wilderness of trees and brushwood. At the top of the hill, where the house stands, is a cleared space, free to the strong breezes of Long Island Sound. It is on the north shore, about twenty-five miles from City Hall, New York.

The house is a large, three-story affair, with crossed gables, and a large semicircular veranda at one end. Inside there is a wide hall, and all the rooms are of good size, with broad windows and inviting open fireplaces. One room is fitted up as Mr. Roosevelt's "den," with many bookcases filled with books, and with rare prints of Washington, Lincoln, and other celebrities on the walls, and with not a few trophies of the hunt added. In this room Mr. Roosevelt has done much of his work as an author.

It is said that Abraham Lincoln not only chopped wood for a living, but that he rather enjoyed the outdoor exercise. Be that as it may, it remains a fact that Mr. Roosevelt frequently goes forth into the woods on his estate to fell a tree, or split one up, just for the exercise thus afforded. This he did while he was governor of New York, and once astonished some newspaper men who had come to see him on business by the dexterity with which he cut a large tree trunk in two. He even invited his visitors to "take a hack at it" themselves, but they respectfully declined.

He still kept up his athletic exercise, and one of his favorite amusements was to go on long horseback rides, either alone, or with some relative or friend. At other times he would go deep into the woods with his young sons, showing them how to bring down the nuts from the trees, or how to use their guns on any small game that chanced to show itself. His family life was then, as it has always been, a happy one; but of this let us speak later.



Chapter XX

Great Reception To Admiral Dewey -- Governor Roosevelt's Increased Popularity -- Last Annual Message As Governor -- Visit To Chicago -- Remarkable Speech On The Strenuous Life


Although the war with Spain was over, the people of the United States had not forgotten the wonderful work accomplished by Admiral Dewey and his men at Manila, and when the dauntless naval fighter returned to this country, people everywhere arose to do him honor.

"He well deserves it," said Governor Roosevelt. And he appointed September 29 and 30, 1899, as public holidays, to be observed throughout the entire State as days of general thanksgiving. These days were commonly called "Dewey Days."

The reception to the Admiral and to the other naval heroes was to take place in New York and vicinity, and for many days the citizens were busy decorating their homes and places of business with flags and bunting and pictures, and immense signs of "Welcome," some in letters several feet long. At the junction of Broadway, Fifth Avenue, and Twenty-Third Street, an immense triumphal arch was erected, and reviewing stands stretched along the line of parade for many miles.

On the day before the grand reception, Governor Roosevelt, with some members of his staff, called upon Admiral Dewey on board of the Olympia, and offered the State's greeting. A pleasant time was had by all, and the governor assured the sea hero that the people of New York and vicinity were more than anxious to do him honor.

It had been arranged that a naval parade should be held on the first day of the reception, and a land parade on the day following. The course of the naval parade was up the Hudson River past Grant's Tomb, and the grand procession on the water included the Olympia, the Admiral's flag-ship, and the New York, Indiana, Massachusetts, Texas, Brooklyn, and a large number of other war-ships of lesser importance, besides an immense number of private steam-yachts and other craft.

The day dawned clear and bright, and the banks of the Hudson were lined from end to end with people. When the procession of war-ships swept up the stream, loud was the applause, while flags waved everywhere, and whistles blew constantly. When passing Grant's Tomb every war-ship fired a salute, and the mass of sound echoing across the water was positively deafening.

As the Olympia swept up the river, fired her salute, and then came to anchor a short distance below the last resting-place of General Grant, Admiral Dewey stood on the bridge of his flag-ship, a small, trim figure, with a smile and a wave of the hand for everybody. The surging people could see him but indistinctly, yet there was much hand clapping, and throats grew sore with cheering.

But there was another figure in that naval parade, the person of one also dear to the hearts of the people. It was the figure of Theodore Roosevelt, dressed, not as a Rough Rider, but as a civilian, standing at the rail of a steamer used by the New York State officials. When the people saw and recognized that figure, the cheering was as wild as ever.

"It is Roosevelt!" ran from mouth to mouth. "The hero of San Juan Hill!"

"Hurrah for the Rough Riders and their gallant leader!" came from others. And the cheering was renewed.

In the evening there was a grand display of fireworks and illuminated floats. The immense span of the Brooklyn Bridge was a mass of lights, and contained the words "Welcome, Dewey" in lettering which covered several hundred feet. All of the war-ships had their search-lights in operation, and it can truthfully be said that for once the metropolis was as light as day.

But all of this was as nothing compared with the land parade which followed. Never before had the streets of New York been so jammed with people. At many points it was impossible to move, yet the crowds were good-natured and patriotic to the core. The parade started at Grant's Tomb and ended at Washington Square, and was between five and six hours in passing. Admiral Dewey rode in a carriage with Mayor Van Wyck, and received another ovation. At the Triumphal Arch the Admiral reviewed the parade, and here he was accorded additional honors.

In this parade Governor Roosevelt rode on horseback, in civilian dress. As he came down the street, the immense crowds recognized him from afar, and the hand clapping and cheering was tremendous, and lasted long after he was out of sight.

"It's our own Teddy Roosevelt!" cried the more enthusiastic.

"Hurrah for the governor! Hurrah for the colonel of the Rough Riders!"

"Hurrah for the coming President!" said another. And he spoke better than he knew.

This demonstration came straight from the people's heart, and it could not help but affect Theodore Roosevelt. Sitting astride of his dark-colored horse like a veteran, he bowed right and left. Next to Dewey, he was easily the greatest figure in the parade.

On January 3, 1900, Governor Roosevelt sent his last annual message to the State legislature. It was an able document, and as it was now recognized everywhere that he was a truly national figure, it was given careful attention. It treated of the corruption in canal management, of the franchise tax, of taxation in general, and a large portion was devoted to the trusts. At that time the trusts were receiving great attention everywhere, and it was felt that what the governor had to say about them, that they were largely over-capitalized, that they misrepresented the condition of their affairs, that they promoted unfair competition, and that they wielded increased power over the wage-earner, was strictly true.

In Chicago there is a wealthy organization known as the Hamilton Club, and the members were very anxious to have Governor Roosevelt as their guest on Appomattox Day, April 10, 1899. A delegation went to New York to invite the governor, and he accepted the invitation with pleasure.

"The middle West is very dear to me," said he. "It will be a pleasure to meet my many friends there."

Of course he was expected to speak, and said the subject of his address would be "The Strenuous Life," -- certainly a subject close to his own heart, considering the life he himself had led.

When Mr. Roosevelt reached the metropolis of the Great Lakes, he found a large crowd waiting at the railroad station to receive him. The reception committee was on hand, with the necessary coaches, and people were crowded everywhere, anxious to catch a sight of the man who had made himself famous by the advance up San Juan Hill.

But for the moment Governor Roosevelt did not see the reception committee, nor did he see the great mass of people. In a far corner of the platform he caught sight of six men, dressed in the faded and tattered uniform of the Rough Riders. They were not men of wealth or position, but they were men of his old command, and he had not forgotten them.

"Glad to see you, boys, glad to see you!" he shouted, as he elbowed his way toward them. "Come up here and shake hands."

"Glad to see you, Colonel," was the ready answer, and the faces of the men broke into broad smiles. They shook hands readily, and willingly answered all of the questions the governor put to them. He asked how each of them was doing, calling them by their names, and concluded by requesting them to come up to the Auditorium later, "for an all-round chat."

"It was a great meeting," said one who was there. "Before the train came in, those old Rough Riders were nervous and showed it. They knew that Roosevelt had become a great man, and they were just a little afraid he would pass them by. When the meeting was over, they went off as happy as a lot of children, and one of them said, 'Say, fellows, Teddy's just all right yet, ain't he?' And another answered: 'Told you he would be. He's a white man through and through, none whiter anywhere.'"

The banquet was held in the Auditorium Theatre building, and was said to be the largest ever given in Chicago. Many distinguished guests were present, both from the North and the South, and the place was a mass of flowers and brilliantly illuminated, while a fine orchestra discoursed music during the meal. When Theodore Roosevelt arose to speak, there was cheering that lasted fully a quarter of an hour.

The speech made upon this occasion is one not likely to be forgotten. Previous to that time the word "strenuous" had been heard but seldom, but ever since it has stood for something definite, and is much in use. In part Mr. Roosevelt spoke as follows: -- 

"I wish to preach, not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life; the life of toil and effort; of labor and strife; to preach that highest form of success which comes, not to the man who desires mere easy peace, but to the man who does not shirk from danger, from hardship, or from bitter toil, and who out of these wins the splendid ultimate triumph."

Another paragraph is equally interesting and elevating: -- 

"We do not admire the man of timid peace. We admire the man who embodies victorious effort; the man who never wrongs his neighbor, who is prompt to help a friend; but who has those virile qualities necessary to win in the stern strife of actual life. It is hard to fail; but it is worse never to have tried to succeed."

And to this he adds: -- 

"As it is with the individual so it is with the nation. It is a base untruth to say that happy is the nation that has no history. Thrice happy is the nation that has a glorious history. Far better is it to dare mighty things to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat."[1]

[Footnote 1: For other extracts from this speech, see Appendix A, p. 297.]

Theodore Roosevelt



Chapter XXI

The Convention At Philadelphia -- Theodore Roosevelt Seconds The Nomination Of President Mckinley -- Becomes Candidate For The Vice-Presidency -- Remarkable Tours Through Many States


As the time came on to nominate parties for the office of President and Vice-President of the United States, in 1900, there was considerable speculation in the Republican party regarding who should be chosen for the second name on the ticket.

It was felt by everybody that President McKinley had honestly earned a second term, not alone by his management of the war with Spain, but also because of his stand touching the rebellion in the Philippines, and on other matters of equal importance.

About the Vice-Presidency the political managers were not so sure, and they mentioned several names. But in the hearts of the people there was but one name, and that was Theodore Roosevelt.

"We must have him," was heard upon every side. "He will be just the right man in the right place. He will give to the office an importance never before attached to it, and an importance which it deserves."

Personally, Governor Roosevelt did not wish this added honor. As the Executive of the greatest State in our Union, he had started great reforms, and he wanted to finish them.

"My work is here," he said to many. "Let me do what I have been called to do, and then I will again be at the service of the whole nation once more."

The National Republican Convention met in Philadelphia, June 19, in Exposition Hall, beautifully decorated with flags and banners. Senator Mark Hanna, President McKinley's warmest personal friend, was chairman, and the delegates, numbering over seven hundred, came, as usual at such conventions, from every State in the Union. Governor Roosevelt himself was a delegate, and sat near the middle aisle, five or six seats from the front. He was recognized by everybody, and it is safe to say that he was the most conspicuous figure at the convention.

Up to the last minute many of the political leaders were, in a measure, afraid of Theodore Roosevelt. They understood his immense popularity, and were afraid that the convention might be "stampeded" in his favor.

"If they once start to yell for Roosevelt, it will be good-by to everybody else," said one old politician. "They are just crazy after the leader of the Rough Riders."

But this man did not understand the stern moral honesty of the man under consideration. Roosevelt believed in upholding William McKinley, and had said so, and it was no more possible for him to seek the Presidential nomination by an underhanded trick than it was for President McKinley to do an equally base thing when he was asked to allow his name to be mentioned at the time he had pledged himself to support John Sherman.[2] Both men were of equal loyalty, and the word of each was as good as his bond.

[Footnote 2: See "American Boys' Life of William McKinley," p. 191.]

It was Senator Foraker who put up President McKinley for nomination, and the vigorous cheering at that time will never be forgotten. Fifteen thousand throats yelled themselves hoarse, and then broke into the ringing words and music of "The Union Forever!" in a manner that made the very convention hall tremble. Then came cries for Roosevelt, "For our own Teddy of the Rough Riders!" and, written speech in hand, he arose amid that vast multitude to second the candidacy of William McKinley. Not once did he look at the paper he held in his hand, but with a force that could not be misunderstood he addressed the assemblage.

"I rise to second the nomination of William McKinley, because with him as a leader this people has trod the path of national greatness and prosperity with the strides of a giant," said he, "and because under him we can and will succeed in the election. Exactly as in the past we have remedied the evils which we undertook to remedy, so now when we say that a wrong shall be righted, it most assuredly will be righted.

"We stand on the threshold of a new century, a century big with the fate of the great nations of the earth. It rests with us to decide now whether in the opening years of that century we shall march forward to fresh triumphs, or whether at the outset we shall deliberately cripple ourselves for the contest."

His speech was the signal for another burst of applause, and when finally Theodore Roosevelt was named as the candidate for Vice-President, the crowd yelled until it could yell no longer, while many sang "Yankee Doodle" and other more or less patriotic airs, keeping time with canes and flag-sticks. When the vote was cast, only one delegate failed to vote for Theodore Roosevelt, and that was Theodore Roosevelt himself.

The platform of the party was largely a repetition of the platform of four years before. Again the cry was for "sound money," and for the continuance of President McKinley's policy in the Philippines.

The campaign which followed was truly a strenuous one -- to use a favorite word of the candidate. President McKinley decided not to make many speeches, and thus the hard work previous to election day fell upon Theodore Roosevelt.

He did not shirk the task. As with everything he undertook, he entered into the campaign with vigor, resolved to deserve success even if he did not win it.

"I will do my best in the interests of our party, and for the benefit of the people at large," said Theodore Roosevelt. "No man can do more than that."

In the few short months between the time when he was nominated and when the election was held, Governor Roosevelt travelled over 20,000 miles by rail, visiting nearly 600 towns, and addressing, on a rough estimate, fully 3,000,000 of people! In that time he delivered 673 speeches, some of them half an hour and some an hour in length.

In his thousands of miles of travel the candidate for the Vice-Presidency visited many States, particularly those lying between New York and Colorado. At nearly every town he was greeted by an immense crowd, all anxious to do the leader of the Rough Riders honor. In the large cities great banquets were held, and he was shown much respect and consideration. In many places those who had fought under him came to see and listen to him, and these meetings were of especial pleasure. Often he would see an old Rough Rider hanging back in the crowd, and would call him to the front or do his best to reach the ex-soldier and shake him by the hand.

One occurrence is worthy of special mention. The Democratic party had nominated William Jennings Bryan as their candidate for President. There was a great labor picnic and demonstration at Chicago, and both Governor Roosevelt and Mr. Bryan were invited to speak.

"You had better not accept, governor," said some friends to Theodore Roosevelt. "There may be trouble."

"I am not afraid," answered the former leader of the Rough Riders.

"But Mr. Bryan and yourself are to be there at practically the same time."

"That does not matter," said the governor. And he went to Chicago on September 3, to attend the Labor Day celebrations. The picnic was held at Electric Park, and in the presence of fifteen thousand people Governor Roosevelt and Mr. Bryan "buried the hatchet" for the time being, and spoke to those surrounding them on the dignity of labor and the duties of the laboring man to better himself and his social conditions. In that motley collection of people there were frequent cries of "Hurrah for Teddy!" and "What's the matter with Bryan? He's all right!" but there was no disturbance, and each speaker was listened to with respectful attention from start to finish. It was without a doubt a meeting to show true American liberty and free speech at its best.

But all of the stops on his tours were not so pleasant to Governor Roosevelt. In every community there are those who are low-bred and bound to make an exhibition of their baseness. At Waverly, New York, a stone was flung at him through the car window, breaking the glass but missing the candidate for whom it was intended. At once there was excitement.

"Are you hurt, Governor?" was the question asked.

"No," returned Theodore Roosevelt. And then he added, with a faint smile, "It's only a bouquet, but I wish, after this, they wouldn't make them quite so hard."

There was also a demonstration against the candidate at Haverstraw, New York, which threatened for a while to break up an intended meeting. But the worst rowdyism was encountered at Victor, a small town in Colorado, near the well-known mining centre of Cripple Creek. Victor was full of miners who wanted not "sound money," but "free silver," for free silver, so styled, meant a great booming of silver mining.

"We don't want him here," said these miners. "We have heard enough about him and his gold standard. He had better keep away, or he'll regret it."

When Theodore Roosevelt was told he might have trouble in the mining camps, he merely shrugged his shoulders.

"I know these men," he said. "The most of them are as honest and respectable as the citizens of New York. I am not afraid of the vicious element. The better class are bound to see fair play."

The governor spoke at a place called Armory Hall, and the auditorium was packed. He had just begun his speech when there was a wild yelling and cat-calling, all calculated to drown him out. He waited for a minute, and then, as the noise subsided, tried to go on once more, when a voice cried out: -- 

"What about rotten beef?" referring to the beef furnished during the Santiago campaign, which had, of course, come through a Republican Commissary Department.

"I ate that beef," answered the governor, quickly. And then he added to the fellow who had thus questioned him: "You will never get near enough to be hit with a bullet, or within five miles of it." At this many burst into applause, and the man, who was a coward at heart, sneaked from the hall in a hurry. He was no soldier and had never suffered the hardships of any campaign, and many hooted him as he deserved.

But the trouble was not yet over. Theodore Roosevelt finished his address, and then started to leave the hall in company with a number of his friends. On the way to the train a crowd of rowdies followed the candidate's party, and threw all sorts of things at them. One man made a personal attack on the governor and hit him on the chest with a stick. He tried to leap away, but was knocked down by a personal friend of Theodore Roosevelt.

"Down with the gold bugs!" was the cry, and the violence of the mob increased. The friends of Governor Roosevelt rallied to his support, and blows were given and taken freely. But with it all the candidate reached his train in safety, and in a few minutes more had left the town far behind. He was not much disturbed, and the very next day went on with his speech-making as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The better classes of citizens of Victor were much disturbed over the happening, and they sent many regrets to Governor Roosevelt, assuring him that such a demonstration would never again be permitted to occur.



Chapter XXII

Elected Vice-President Of The United States -- Presides Over The Senate -- Tax Upon Theodore Roosevelt's Strength -- Start On Another Grand Hunting Tour


But the campaign, sharp and bitter as it had been, was not yet at an end. In New York City there followed a "Sound Money Parade," which was perhaps the largest of its kind ever witnessed in the United States. It was composed of all sorts and conditions of men, from bankers and brokers of Wall Street to the humble factory and mill hands from up the river and beyond. The parade took several hours to pass, and was witnessed by crowds almost as great as had witnessed the Dewey demonstration.

In New York City, as the time drew closer for the election, there was every intimation that the contest would be an unusually "hot" one, and that there would be much bribery and corruption. It was said by some that police methods were very lax at that time, and that the saloons, which ought to be closed on election day, would be almost if not quite wide open.

"We must have an honest election," said Governor Roosevelt. And without loss of time he sent letters to Mayor Van Wyck, and to the sheriff and the district attorney of the county of New York, calling their attention to the facts in the case, and telling them that he would hold them strictly responsible if they did not do their full duty. As a consequence the election was far more orderly than it might otherwise have been in the metropolitan district.

The results of the long contest were speedily known. McKinley and Roosevelt had been elected by a large plurality, and both they and their numerous friends and supporters were correspondingly happy. Great parades were had in their honor, and it was predicted, and rightly, that the prosperity which our country had enjoyed for several years in the past would continue for many years to come.

During those days the United States had but one outside difficulty, which was in China. There a certain set of people called the Boxers arose in rebellion and threatened the lives of all foreigners, including American citizens. An International Army was organized, including American, English, French, German, Japanese, and other troops, and a quick attack was made upon Tien-Tsin and Pekin, and the suffering foreigners in China were rescued. In this campaign the American soldiers did their full share of the work and added fresh laurels to the name of Old Glory.

The tax upon the strength of the newly elected Vice-President had been very great, and he was glad to surrender the duties of governor into the hands of his successor. But as Vice-President, Theodore Roosevelt became the presiding officer of the United States Senate, a position of equal if not greater importance.

As President of the Senate it is said that Mr. Roosevelt was kind yet firm, and ever on the alert to see that affairs ran smoothly. He occupied the position only for one short winter session, and during that time nothing came under discussion that was of prime importance, although my young readers must remember that all the work accomplished in our Senate is of more or less magnitude.

"He was very earnest in his work," says one who was in the Senate at that time. "As was his usual habit, he took little for granted, but usually started to investigate for himself. He knew the rules thoroughly, and rarely made an error."

For a long time the newly elected Vice-President had been wanting to get back to his favorite recreation, hunting. Despite the excitement of political life, he could not overcome his fondness for his rifle and the wilderness. He felt that an outing would do his system much good, and accordingly arranged for a five weeks' hunting trip in northwestern Colorado.

In this trip, which he has himself described in one of his admirable hunting papers, he had with him two companions, Dr. Gerald Webb of Colorado Springs, and Mr. Philip K. Stewart, an old friend who in former years had been captain of the Yale base-ball team.

The party went as far as the railroad would carry them, and then started for a settlement called Meeker, forty miles distant. The weather was extremely cold, with the thermometer from ten to twenty degrees below zero, but the journey to Meeker was made in safety, and here the hunters met their guide, a well-known hunter of that region named Goff, and started with him for his ranch, several miles away.

Theodore Roosevelt would have liked to bring down a bear on this trip, but the grizzlies were all in winter quarters and sleeping soundly, so the hunt was confined to bob-cats and cougars. The hunting began early, for on the way to the ranch the hounds treed a bob-cat, commonly known as a lynx, which was secured without much trouble, and a second bob-cat was secured the next day.

The territory surrounding Goff's ranch, called the Keystone, was an ideal one for hunting, with clumps of cottonwoods and pines scattered here and there, and numerous cliffs and ravines, the hiding-places of game unnumbered. The ranch home stood at the foot of several well-wooded hills, a long, low, one-story affair, built of rough logs, but clean and comfortable within.

The two days' ride in the nipping air had been a severe test of endurance, and all were glad, when the ranch was reached, to "thaw out" before the roaring fire, and sit down to the hot and hearty meal that had been prepared in anticipation of their coming.

The hunters had some excellent hounds, trained especially for bob-cats and cougars, animals that were never allowed to go after small game under any circumstances. Theodore Roosevelt was much taken with them from the start, and soon got to know each by name.

"In cougar hunting the success of the hunter depends absolutely upon his hounds," says Mr. Roosevelt. And he described each hound with great minuteness, showing that he allowed little to escape his trained eye while on this tour.

On the day after the arrival at the ranch the party went out for its first cougar, which, as my young readers perhaps know, is an animal inhabiting certain wild parts of our West and Southwest. The beast grows to a size of from six to nine feet in length, and weighs several hundred pounds. It is variously known as a puma and panther, the latter name sometimes being changed to "painter." When attacked, it is ofttimes exceedingly savage, and on certain occasions has been known to kill a man.

In Colorado the cougar is hunted almost exclusively with the aid of hounds, and this was the method adopted on the present occasion. With the pen of a true sportsman, Mr. Roosevelt tells us how the hounds were held back until a cougar trail less than thirty-six hours old was struck. Then off went the pack along the cliffs and ravines, with the hunters following on horseback. The trail led up the mountain side and then across the valley opposite, and soon the hounds were out of sight. Leading their steeds, the hunters went down the valley and followed the dogs, to find they had separated among the bare spots beyond. But soon came a welcome sound.

"The cougar's treed," announced the guide. And so it proved. But when the hunters came closer, the cougar, an old female, leaped from the tree, outdistanced the dogs, and leaped into another tree. Then, as the party again came up, the beast took another leap and started to run once more. But now the hounds were too quick, and in a trice they had the cougar surrounded. Slipping in, Theodore Roosevelt ended the struggles of the wild beast by a knife-thrust behind the shoulder.

The next day there was another hunt, and this had rather a tinge of sadness to it. The dogs tracked a mother cougar, who occupied her den with her three kittens. The hounds rushed into the hole, barking furiously, and presently one came out with a dead kitten in his mouth.

"I had supposed a cougar would defend her young to the last," says Mr. Roosevelt, "but such was not the case in this instance. For some minutes she kept the dogs at bay, but gradually gave ground, leaving her three kittens." The dogs killed the kittens without loss of time, and then followed the cougar as she fled from the other end of her hole. But the hounds were too quick for her, and soon had her on the ground. Theodore Roosevelt rushed up, knife in one hand and rifle in the other. With the firearm he struck the beast in the jaws, and then ended the struggle by a knife-thrust straight into the heart.

To many this may seem a cruel sport, and in a certain sense it assuredly is; but my young readers must remember that cougars and other wild beasts are a menace to civilization in the far West, and they have been shot down and killed at every available opportunity. More than this, as I have already mentioned, Theodore Roosevelt is more than a mere hunter delighting in bloodshed. He is a naturalist, and examines with care everything brought down and reports upon it, so that his hunting trips have added not a little to up-to-date natural history. The skulls of the various animals killed on this trip were forwarded to the Biological Survey, Department of Agriculture, Washington, and in return Mr. Roosevelt received a letter, part of which stated: -- 

"Your series of skulls from Colorado is incomparably the largest, most complete, and most valuable series ever brought together from any single locality, and will be of inestimable value in determining the amount of individual variation."



Chapter XXIII

The Roosevelt Family In The Adirondacks -- The Pan-American Exposition At Buffalo -- Shooting Of President Mckinley -- The Vice-President's Visit -- Death Of The President


Theodore Roosevelt's companions of the hunt remained with him for fourteen days, after which they departed, leaving him with Goff, the ranchman and hunter already mentioned.

When the pair were alone, they visited Juniper Mountain, said to be a great ground for cougars and bob-cats, and there hunted with great success. All together the trip of five weeks' hunting netted fourteen cougars, the largest of which was eight feet in length and weighed 227 pounds. Mr. Roosevelt also brought down five bob-cats, showing that he was just as skilful with his rifle as ever.

The hero of San Juan Hill fairly loved the outdoor exercise of the hunt, and spent three weeks in keen enjoyment after his companions had departed. During this time it snowed heavily, so that the hunters were often compelled to remain indoors. As luck would have it there were other ranches in that vicinity, with owners that were hospitable, so that they did not have to go into camp, as would otherwise have been the case.

On the last day of the hunt, Theodore Roosevelt was able to bring down the largest cougar yet encountered. The hounds were on the trail of one beast when they came across that of another and took it up with but little warning.

"We're going to get a big one now," said Goff. "Just you wait and see."

"Well, if we do, it will be a good ending to my outing," responded Theodore Roosevelt.

The cougar was at last located by the hounds in a large pinyon on the side of a hill. It had run a long distance and was evidently out of breath, but as the hunters drew closer, it leaped to the ground and trotted away through the snow. Away went the hounds on the new trail of the beast.

"He's game, and he'll get away if he can," said the guide.

At the top of another hill the cougar halted and one of the hounds leaped in, and was immediately sent sprawling by a savage blow of the wild animal's paw. Then on went the cougar as before, the hounds barking wildly as they went in pursuit.

When Theodore Roosevelt came up once more, the cougar was in another pinyon tree, with the hounds in a semicircle on the ground below.

"Now I think I've got him," whispered Theodore Roosevelt to his companion, and advanced on foot, with great cautiousness. At first he could see nothing, but at last made out the back and tail of the great beast, as it lay crouched among the branches. With great care he took aim and fired, and the cougar fell to the ground, shot through the back.

At once the hounds rushed in and seized the game. But the cougar was not yet dead, and snapping and snarling the beast slipped over the ground and down a hillside, with the dogs all around it. Theodore Roosevelt came up behind, working his way through the brush with all speed. Then, watching his chance, he jumped in, hunting-knife in hand, and despatched the game.

"A good haul," cried Goff. And later on he and his men came to the conclusion that it was the same cougar that had carried off a cow and a steer and killed a work horse belonging to one of the ranches near by.

The five weeks spent in the far West strengthened Theodore Roosevelt a great deal, and it was with renewed energy that he took up his duties as Vice-President of our nation.

In the meantime, however, matters were not going on so well at home. Among the children two had been very sick, and in the summer it was suggested that some pure mountain air would do them a great deal of good.

"Very well, we'll go to the mountains," said Mr. Roosevelt, and looked around to learn what place would be best to choose.

Among the Adirondack Mountains of New York State there is a reservation of ninety-six thousand acres leased by what is called the Adirondack Club, a wealthy organization of people who have numerous summer cottages built within the preserve.

Among the members was a Mr. McNaughten, an old friend of the Roosevelt family, and he suggested that they occupy his cottage until the close of the season. This invitation was accepted, and the whole Roosevelt family moved up to the spot, which was located at the foot of Mount Marcy, the largest of the mountains in that vicinity. Here Mr. Roosevelt spent much time in hunting and fishing, and also in writing. The family were not forgotten, and he frequently went out with the whole party, rowing and exploring. Sometimes they took baskets of lunch with them and had regular picnics in the woods, something the Roosevelt children enjoyed very much.

In the meantime the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo, New York, had been opened, and day after day it was thronged with visitors. Vice-President Roosevelt had assisted at the opening, and he was one of many who hoped the Exposition would be a great success.

At the Exposition our government had a large exhibit, and it was thought highly proper that President McKinley should visit the ground in his official capacity and deliver an address. Preparations were accordingly made, and the address was delivered on September 5 to a most enthusiastic throng.[3]

[Footnote 3: For this speech in full, and for what happened after it was delivered, see "American Boys' Life of McKinley."]

On the following day the President was driven to the Temple of Music, on the Exposition grounds, there to hold a public reception. The crowds were as great as ever, but perfectly orderly, and filed in at one side of the building and out at the other, each person in turn being permitted to grasp the Chief Magistrate's hand.

For a while all went well, and nobody noticed anything unusual about a somewhat weak-faced individual who joined the crowd, and who had one hand covered with a handkerchief. As this rascal came up to shake hands, he raised the hand with the handkerchief and, using a concealed pistol, fired two shots at President McKinley.

For an instant everybody was dazed. Then followed a commotion, and while some went to the wounded Executive's assistance, others leaped upon the dastardly assassin and made him a prisoner.

There was an excellent hospital upon the Exposition grounds, and to this President McKinley was carried. Here it was found that both bullets had entered his body, one having struck the breastbone and the other having entered the abdomen. The physicians present did all they possibly could for him, and then he was removed to the residence of Mr. Millburn, the President of the Exposition.

In the meantime, all unconscious of the awful happening that was to have such an influence upon his future, Mr. Roosevelt had been enjoying himself with his family, and helping to take care of the children that were not yet totally recovered from their illness. All seemed to be progressing finely, and he had gone off on a little tour to Vermont, to visit some points of interest and deliver a few addresses.

He was at Isle La Motte, not far from Burlington, when the news reached him that President McKinley had been shot. He had just finished an address, and for the moment he could not believe the sad news.

"Shot!" he said. "How dreadful!" And could scarcely say another word. He asked for the latest bulletin, and, forgetful of all else, took the first train he could get to Buffalo, and then hastened to the side of his Chief.

It was truly a sad meeting. For many years these two men had known each other, and they were warm friends. Their methods were somewhat different, but each stood for what was just and right and true, and each was ready to give his country his best service, no matter what the cost.

It was a sad time for the whole nation, and men and women watched the bulletins eagerly, hoping and praying that President McKinley might recover. Every hour there was some slight change, and people would talk it over in a whisper.

In a few days there were hopeful signs, and the physicians, deceived by them, said they thought the President would recover. This was glad news to Theodore Roosevelt. Yet he lingered on, fearful to go away, lest the news should prove untrue and he should be needed. But then there was a still brighter turn, and he thought of his own family, and of the fact that one of his children was again ill.

"I will return to my family," said he to two of his closest friends. "But if I am needed here, let me know at once." And his friends promised to keep him informed. Two days later he was back among the Adirondacks, in the bosom of his family.

The prayers of a whole nation were in vain. William McKinley's mission on earth was finished, and one week after he was shot he breathed his last. His wife came to bid him farewell, and so did his other relatives, and his friend of many years, Mark Hanna, and the members of his Cabinet.

"It is God's way," murmured the dying Executive. "His will be done, not ours." Then like a child going to sleep, he relapsed into unconsciousness, from which he did not recover. He died September 14, 1901, at a little after two o'clock in the morning.

It was the last of a truly great life. Illustrious men may come and go, but William McKinley will be remembered so long as our nation endures. As a soldier and a statesman he gave his best talents to better the conditions of his fellow-creatures, and to place the United States where we justly belong, among the truly great nations of the world.



Chapter XXIV

Theodore Roosevelt's Tramp Up Mount Marcy -- A Message Of Importance -- Wild Midnight Ride Through The Mountains -- On The Special Trains From North Creek To Buffalo


With a somewhat lighter heart, Theodore Roosevelt returned to the Adirondacks and joined his family on Wednesday, three days previous to President McKinley's death. The last report he had received from Buffalo was the most encouraging of any, and he now felt almost certain that the President would survive the outrageous attack that had been made upon his person.

"He will get well," said several who lived close by. "You need not worry about his condition any longer."

On the following day it was planned to go up to Colton Lake, five miles from where the family was stopping. Some friends went along, and in the party were Mrs. Roosevelt and several of the children. Two guides accompanied them, and it was decided to spend the night at a camp on the lake, returning home the following day.

The next morning it rained, but in spite of this drawback Theodore Roosevelt, leaving the ladies and children to return to the cottage, started to climb Mount Marcy. Such an undertaking was exactly to his liking, and he went up the rough and uneven trail with the vigor of a trained woodsman, the guide leading the way and the other gentlemen of the party following.

At last, high up on the side of Mount Marcy, the party reached a small body of water known as Tear of the Clouds, and here they rested for lunch.

"You are certainly a great walker, Mr. Roosevelt," remarked one of the gentlemen during the progress of the lunch.

"Oh, I have to be," answered Theodore Roosevelt, jokingly. "A Vice-President needs exercise to keep him alive. You see, when he is in the Senate, all of his work is done sitting down."

The words had scarcely been uttered when one of the party pointed to a man climbing up the mountain side toward them. The newcomer held some yellow telegram-slips in his hand, and Theodore Roosevelt quickly arose to receive them.

He had soon mastered the contents of the messages. President McKinley was much worse; it was likely that he would not live. For fully a minute Mr. Roosevelt did not speak. He realized the great responsibility which rested upon his shoulders. Then, in a voice filled with emotion, he read the messages aloud.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "I must return to the club-house at once." And without waiting, he turned and started down the mountain side along the trail by which he had come.

It was a long, hard walk, but it is doubtful if Theodore Roosevelt took note of it. A thousand thoughts must have flashed through his mind. If William McKinley should indeed breathe his last, the nation would look to him as their Chief Magistrate. He could not make himself believe that his President was to die.

It was not long before Theodore Roosevelt reached the club-house at the lake. He asked for further news, but none was forthcoming.

"We will send to the lower club-house at once," said his friends. "You had better take a short rest, in case you have a sudden call to make the trip to Buffalo."

A misty rain was falling, and the atmosphere of the mountains was raw and penetrating. Messengers were quickly despatched to the lower club-house, and by eleven o'clock that evening news came back that left no doubt of the true condition of affairs. President McKinley was sinking rapidly, and his death was now only a question of a few hours.

"I must go, and at once," said Theodore Roosevelt. And soon a light wagon drove up to the club-house, and he leaped in. There was a short good-by to his family and his friends, the whip cracked, and the drive of thirty-five miles to the nearest railroad station was begun.

It was a never-to-be-forgotten journey. For ten miles or more the road was fearfully rough and ran around the edges of overhanging cliffs, where a false turn might mean death. Then at times the road went down into deep hollows and over rocky hills. All was pitch black, save for the tiny yellow light hanging over the dashboard of the turnout. Crouched on the seat, Mr. Roosevelt urged the driver to go on, and go on they did, making better time during that rain and darkness than had before been made in broad daylight.

At last a place called Hunter's was reached, and Theodore Roosevelt alighted.

"What news have you for me?" he asked of a waiting messenger, and the latest message was handed to him. There was no new hope, -- President McKinley was sinking faster than ever. New horses were obtained, and the second part of the journey, from Hunter's to Aiden Lair, was begun.

And during that wild, swift ride of nine miles, when it seemed to Theodore Roosevelt as if he were racing against death, the angel of Life Everlasting claimed William McKinley, and the man crouched in the wagon, wet from the rain, hurrying to reach him, became the next President of the United States.

It was a little after three in the morning when Aiden Lair was reached. The sufferer at Buffalo had breathed his last, but Theodore Roosevelt did not know it, and he still hoped for the best. More fresh horses, and now the last sixteen miles of the rough journey were made on a buckboard. In spots the road was worse than it had previously been, and the driver was tempted to go slow.

"Go on!" cried Mr. Roosevelt, and held his watch in hand. "Go on!" And the driver obeyed, the buckboard dancing up and down over the rocks and swinging dangerously from side to side around the curves of ravines. But Theodore Roosevelt's mind was not on the road nor on the peril of that ride, but in that room in Buffalo where the great tragedy had just seen its completion.

At last, a little after five in the morning, the turnout came in sight of the railroad station at North Creek. A special train was in waiting for him. He gazed anxiously at the little knot of people assembled. Their very faces told him the sorrowful truth. President McKinley was dead.

With bowed head he entered a private car of the special train, and without delay the train started on its journey southward for Albany. No time was lost on this portion of the trip, and at seven o'clock Theodore Roosevelt reached the city in which but a short time before he had presided as Governor of the State.

At Albany he was met by Secretary of State Hay, who informed him officially that President McKinley was no more. He likewise informed the Vice-President that, considering the excitement, it might be best that Mr. Roosevelt be sworn in as President without delay.

Another special train was in waiting at Albany, and this was rushed westward with all possible speed, arriving in Buffalo at half-past one in the afternoon. In order to avoid the tremendous crowd at the Union railroad station, Mr. Roosevelt alighted at the Terrace station. Here he was met by several friends with a carriage and also a detachment of the Fourth Signal Corps and a squad of mounted police.

Without loss of time Theodore Roosevelt was driven to the Millburn house. Here he found a great many friends and relatives of the dead President assembled. All were too shocked over what had occurred to say much, and shook the hand of the coming President in silence.

Thousands of eyes were upon Theodore Roosevelt, but he noticed them not. Entering the Millburn house, he thought only of the one who had surrendered his life while doing his duty, and of that kind and patient woman now left to fight the battles of this world alone. He offered what consolation he could to Mrs. McKinley, heard the little that had not yet been told of that final struggle to fight off death, and then took his departure, to assume the high office thus suddenly and unexpectedly thrust upon him.



Chapter XXV

Takes The Oath As President -- The New Chief Magistrate At The Funeral Of President Mckinley -- At The White House -- How The First Real Working Day Was Spent


The new President took the oath of office at the residence of Mr. Ansley Wilcox in Buffalo. It is a fine, substantial mansion and has ever since been of historic interest to sight-seers.

When he arrived at the Wilcox home, he found a number of members of the McKinley Cabinet awaiting him, as well as Judge John R. Hazel, of the United States District Court, who administered the oath; and ten or a dozen others.

The scene was truly an affecting one. Secretary Root could scarcely control himself, for, twenty years before, he had been at a similar scene, when Vice-President Arthur became Chief Magistrate, after the assassination of President Garfield. In a voice filled with emotion he requested Vice-President Roosevelt, on behalf of the Cabinet as a whole, to take the prescribed oath.

It is recorded by an eye-witness that Theodore Roosevelt was pale, and that his eyes were dim with tears, as he stepped forward to do as bidden. His hand was uplifted, and then in a solemn voice the judge began the oath: -- 

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."

The words were repeated in a low but distinct voice by Theodore Roosevelt, and a moment of utter silence followed.

"Mr. President, please attach your signature," went on the judge. And in a firm hand the new Chief Executive wrote "Theodore Roosevelt" at the bottom of the all-important document which made him the President of our beloved country.

Standing in that room, the President felt the great responsibility which now rested on his shoulders, and turning to those before him, he spoke as follows: -- 

"In this hour of deep and terrible bereavement, I wish to state that it shall be my aim to continue absolutely unbroken the policy of President McKinley for the peace and prosperity and honor of our country."

These were no mere words, as his actions immediately afterward prove. On reaching Washington he assembled the Cabinet at the home of Commander Cowles, his brother-in-law, and there spoke to them somewhat in this strain: -- 

"I wish to make it clear to you, gentlemen, that what I said at Buffalo I meant. I want each of you to remain as a member of my Cabinet. I need your advice and counsel. I tender you the office in the same manner that I would tender it if I were entering upon the discharge of my duties as the result of an election by the people." Having thus declared himself, the newly made President asked each member personally to stay with him. It was a sincere request, and the Cabinet members all agreed to remain by Mr. Roosevelt and aid him exactly as they had been aiding Mr. McKinley. Thus was it shown to the world at large, and especially to the anarchists, of which the assassin of McKinley had been one, that though the President might be slain, the government still lived.

The entire country was prostrate over the sudden death of President McKinley, and one of the first acts of Theodore Roosevelt, after assuming the responsibilities of his office, was to issue the following proclamation: -- 

"A terrible bereavement has befallen our people. The President of the United States has been struck down; a crime committed not only against the Chief Magistrate, but against every law-abiding and liberty-loving citizen.

"President McKinley crowned a life of largest love for his fellow-men, of most earnest endeavor for their welfare, by a death of Christian fortitude; and both the way in which he lived his life and the way in which, in the supreme hour of trial, he met his death, will remain forever a precious heritage of our people.

"It is meet that we, as a nation, express our abiding love and reverence for his life, our deep sorrow for his untimely death.

"Now, therefore, I, Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States, do appoint Thursday next, September 19, the day in which the body of the dead President will be laid in its last earthly resting-place, a day of mourning and prayer throughout the United States.

"I earnestly recommend all the people to assemble on that day in their respective places of divine worship, there to bow down in submission to the will of Almighty God, and to pay out of full hearts their homage of love and reverence to the great and good President whose death has smitten the nation with bitter grief."

The funeral of President McKinley was a most imposing one. The body was at first laid in state in the City Hall at Buffalo, where President Roosevelt and fully a hundred and fifty thousand men, women, and children went to view the remains. From Buffalo the remains were taken by special funeral train to Washington, and there placed in the Rotunda of the Capitol. Here the crowd was equally great, and here the services were attended by representatives from almost every civilized nation on the globe. Outside a marine band was stationed, playing the dead President's favorite hymns, "Lead, Kindly Light" and "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and in the singing of these thousands of mourners joined, while the tears of sorrow streamed down their faces.

From Washington the body of the martyred President was taken to Canton, Ohio, where had been his private home. Here his friends and neighbors assembled to do him final honor, and great arches of green branches and flowers were erected, under which the funeral cortege passed. As the body was placed in the receiving vault, business throughout the entire United States was suspended. In spirit, eighty millions of people were surrounding the mortal clay left by the passing of a soul to the place whence it had come. It was truly a funeral of which the greatest of kings might well be proud.

The taking-off of President McKinley undoubtedly had a great effect upon President Roosevelt. During the Presidential campaign the Vice-Presidential nominee had made many speeches in behalf of his fellow candidate, showing the high personal character of McKinley, and what might be expected from the man in case he was elected once more to the office of Chief Magistrate. More than this, when Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Roosevelt had done his best to carry out the plans formulated by the President. The two were close friends, and in the one brief session of the Senate when he was Vice-President, Mr. Roosevelt gave to President McKinley many evidences of his high regard.

On returning to Washington, President Roosevelt did not at once take up his residence at the White House, preferring that the place should be left to Mrs. McKinley until she had sufficiently recovered from her terrible shock to arrange for the removal of the family's personal effects.

As it may interest some of my young readers to know how President Roosevelt's first day as an active President was spent, I append the following, taken down at the time by a reporter for a press association: -- 

"Reached the White House from Canton, on September 20, 1901, at 9.40 A.M. Went at once to the private office formerly occupied by President McKinley, and, as speedily as possible, settled down for the business of the day.

"Met Secretary Long of the navy in the cabinet room and held a discussion concerning naval matters; received Colonel Sanger to talk over some army appointments; signed appointments of General J. M. Bell and others; met Senators Cullom and Proctor.

"At 11 A.M. called for the first time formal meeting of the Cabinet and transacted business of that body until 12.30 P.M.

"Received his old friend, General Wood, and held conference with him and with Secretary Root in regard to Cuban election laws.

"President Roosevelt left the White House at 1.20 P.M. to take lunch with Secretary Hay at the latter's residence. He was alone, disregarding the services of a body-guard.

"Returned to the White House at 3.30 P.M. and transacted business with some officials and received a few personal friends.

"Engaged with Secretary Cortelyou from 4 P.M. to 6.30 P.M. in the transaction of public business, disposal of mail, etc.

"Left the White House unattended at 6.30 P.M. and walked through the semi-dark streets of Washington to 1733 N Street, N.W., the residence of his brother-in-law, Commander Cowles. Dined in private with the family.

"Late in the evening received a few close friends. Retired at 11 P.M."

It will be observed that special mention is made of the fact that President Roosevelt travelled around alone. Immediately after the terrible tragedy at Buffalo many citizens were of the opinion that the Chief Magistrate of our nation ought to be strongly protected, for fear of further violence, but to this Theodore Roosevelt would not listen.

"I am not afraid," he said calmly. "We are living in a peaceful country, and the great mass of our people are orderly, law-abiding citizens. I can trust them, and take care of myself." And to this he held, despite the protestations of his closest friends. Of course he is scarcely ever without some guard or secret service detective close at hand, but no outward display of such protection is permitted. And let it be added to the credit of our people that, though a few cranks and crazy persons have caused him a little annoyance, he has never, up to the present time, been molested in any way.



Chapter XXVI

Continuing The Work Begun By President Mckinley -- The Panama Canal Agitation -- Visit Of Prince Henry Of Prussia -- The President At The Charleston Exposition


President Roosevelt had said he would continue the policy inaugurated by President McKinley, and one of the important steps in this direction was to appoint many to office who had been expecting appointment at the hands of the martyred President. This gained him many friends, and soon some who had kept themselves at a distance flocked around, to aid him in every possible manner.

Late in September the last of the McKinley effects were taken from the White House, and some days later the newly made President moved in, with his family, who had come down from the Adirondacks some time previous. In Washington the family were joined by Mr. Roosevelt's two brothers-in-law, Commander Wm. Sheffield Cowles and Mr. Douglas Robinson, and their wives, and the relatives remained together for some days.

It was at first feared by some politicians that President Roosevelt would be what is termed a "sectional President," -- that is, that he would favor one section of our country to the exclusion of the others, but he soon proved that he was altogether too noble for such baseness.

"I am going to be President of the whole United States," he said. "I don't care for sections or sectional lines. I was born in the North, but my mother was from the South, and I have spent much of my time in the West, so I think I can fairly represent the whole country."

President Roosevelt sympathized deeply with the condition of the negroes in the South, and for the purpose of learning the true state of affairs sent for Mr. Booker T. Washington, one of the foremost colored men of this country and founder of the Tuskegee Industrial School for Colored People. They had a long conference at the White House, which Mr. Washington enjoyed very much. For this action many criticised the President severely, but to this he paid no attention, satisfied that he had done his duty as his conscience dictated.

President Roosevelt's first message to Congress was awaited with considerable interest. It was remembered that he was the youngest Executive our White House had ever known, and many were curious to know what he would say and what he proposed to do.

The Fifty-seventh Congress of the United States assembled at Washington, December 2, 1901, and on the day following, President Roosevelt's first annual message was read in both Senate and House of Representatives.

It proved to be a surprisingly long and strong state paper, and by many was considered one of the best messages sent to Congress in many years. It touched upon general conditions in our country, spoke for improvements in the army and the navy, called for closer attention to civil service reform, for a correction of the faults in the post-office system, and for a clean administration in the Philippines, Hawaii, and Porto Rico. It spoke of several great needs of the government, and added that the Gold Standard Act had been found timely and judicious.

"President Roosevelt is all right," was the general comment, after the message had been printed in the various papers of our country. "He is looking ahead, and he knows exactly what this country wants and needs. We are prosperous now, and if we want to continue so, we must keep our hands on the plough, and not look backward."

The first break in the old Cabinet occurred on December 17, when Postmaster General Charles E. Smith resigned. His place was immediately filled by the appointment of Henry C. Payne, of Wisconsin. Soon after this Secretary Gage of the Treasury resigned, and his place was filled by former governor Leslie M. Shaw, of Iowa.

For a long time there had been before the American people various suggestions to build a canal across Central America, to join the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans, so that the ships wanting to go from one body of water to the other would not have to take the long and expensive trip around Cape Horn.

In years gone by the French had also contemplated such a canal, and had even gone to work at the Isthmus of Panama, making an elaborate survey and doing not a little digging. But the work was beyond them, and the French Canal Company soon ran out of funds and went into the hands of a receiver.

"We ought to take hold and dig a canal," was heard on all sides in the United States. But where to dig the canal was a question. Some said the Isthmus of Panama was the best place, while others preferred a route through Nicaragua. The discussion waxed very warm, and at last a Commission was appointed to go over both routes and find out which would be the more satisfactory from every point of view.

The Commission was not very long in reaching a decision. The Panama Canal Company was willing to sell out all its interest in the work already done for forty millions of dollars, and it was recommended that the United States accept this offer. President Roosevelt received the report, and lost no time in submitting it to Congress.

At the beginning of the new year, 1902, there was a grand ball at the White House, attended by a large gathering of people, including many of the foreign representatives accredited to Washington. The occasion was the introduction into society of Miss Alice Roosevelt, and the affair was a most pleasing one from beginning to end.

One of the President's sons, Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., had been sent to a boarding school at Groton, Massachusetts. Early in February he was taken down with a cold that developed into pneumonia. It looked as if the youth might die, and both Mrs. Roosevelt and the President lost no time in leaving Washington and going to his bedside. The sympathy of the whole country was with the anxious parents, and when it was announced that the crisis had been passed in safety there was much relief in all quarters.

Before this illness occurred there came to the Roosevelts an invitation which pleased them, and especially Miss Alice, not a little. The German Emperor William was having a yacht built in this country, at Shooter's Island. He sent his brother, Prince Henry of Prussia, over to attend the launching, and requested Miss Roosevelt to christen the yacht, which was to be called the Meteor.

The arrival of Prince Henry was made a gala day by many who wished to see the friendship between the United States and Germany more firmly cemented than ever, and the royal visitor was treated with every consideration wherever he went. From New York he journeyed to Washington, where he dined with the President. He returned to New York with President Roosevelt and with Miss Roosevelt, and on February 25 the launching occurred, in the presence of thousands of people and a great many craft of all sorts. Miss Roosevelt performed the christening in appropriate style, and this was followed by music from a band and the blowing of hundreds of steam whistles. After these ceremonies were over, there followed an elaborate dinner given by the mayor of New York, and then the Prince started on a tour of the country lasting two weeks. His visit made a good impression wherever he went, and he was universally put down as a right good fellow.

It was about this time that President Roosevelt showed he was not to be led altogether by what his party did. So far he had not vetoed any measures sent to him for his signature. Now, however, a bill came to him touching the desertion of a sailor in the navy. Congress was willing to strike the black record of the sailor from the books, but President Roosevelt would not have it.

"The sailor did wrong," he said. "He knew what he was doing, too. The record against him must stand." And he vetoed the bill. On the other hand he was prompt to recognize real worth in those who had served the government, and when over two hundred private pension bills came before him for his approval, he signed them without a murmur.

The people of Charleston, South Carolina, had been arranging for a long time to hold an exposition which should set forth the real advance and worth of the leading southern industries. This exposition was now open to the public, and President Roosevelt and his wife were invited to attend the exhibit. With so much southern blood in his veins, the President could not think of refusing, and he and Mrs. Roosevelt visited the exposition early in April.

It was a gala day at Charleston, and the President and Mrs. Roosevelt were received with every honor due their rank, and with great personal consideration. Governor McSweeney of the state was assisted by Governor Aycock, of North Carolina, in receiving President Roosevelt.

A stirring patriotic speech was made by the President during his visit, and a feature of the trip was the presentation of a sword to Major Micah Jenkins of the Rough Riders. A great number of President Roosevelt's former troopers were present, and all were glad, as of old, to crowd around and take him by the hand.



Chapter XXVII

Destruction Of St. Pierre -- American Aid -- The Great Coal Strike -- President Roosevelt Ends The Difficulty -- Tour Through New England -- The Trolley Accident In The Berkshires -- A Providential Escape From Death


During the summer of 1902 two matters of great importance occurred in which the whole people of our nation were deeply interested.

Early in May occurred tremendous volcanic eruptions on the islands of Martinique and St. Vincent. At the former island, Mont Pelee threw such a rain of fire upon the town of St. Pierre that the entire place, with about thirty thousand people, was wiped out of existence in a minute. At other points the eruptions were not so bad, yet hundreds lost their lives, and all of the islands of the Lesser Antilles were thrown into a state bordering upon panic.

It was felt that something must be done, and at once, for the sufferers, and a large fund for relief was gathered, of which the Americans contributed their full share. The volcanic disturbances continued for some time, and as it was thought they might also cover certain portions of Central America, nothing was done further concerning a canal to unite the two oceans.

The other event of importance was the strike of thousands upon thousands of coal-miners, working in Pennsylvania and other states. The miners did not think they were being treated rightly and went out in a body, and for many weeks not a pound of coal of any kind was mined. This produced a double hardship, for people could get no coal either for the fall or winter, and the miners were, in some cases, reduced almost to the verge of starvation. Neither the workmen nor the operators of the mines would give in, and soon there was more or less violence, and some soldiers had to be called out in an effort to preserve order.

As matters went from bad to worse, and it looked as if the entire eastern section of our country would have to go without coal for the winter, there were loud demands that the government take hold of the difficulty and settle the matter, if not in one way, then in another.

At last, early in October, the whole country was aroused, for it was felt that with no coal a winter of untold suffering stared the people in the face. President Roosevelt held a conference at Washington with the mine operators and the representatives of the miners.

"We must get together, gentlemen," said he. "The country cannot do without coal, and you must supply it to us." And he laid down the law in a manner not to be misunderstood.

Another conference followed, and then a third, and at last the coal operators asked the President to appoint a Commission to decide upon the points in dispute. To this the representative of the mine workers agreed, and as a result a Commission was appointed by President Roosevelt, which was to settle all points in dispute, and by its decision each side was to abide. In the meantime, while the Commission was at work, the mine workers were to resume their labors. The mines were thereupon once more put in operation, after a strike lasting over five months. This is the greatest coal strike known in American history, and it is not likely that the people at large will ever again permit themselves to suffer for the want of coal as they did during that fall and the winter which followed.

Early in June occurred the centennial celebration of the founding of the United States Military Academy at West Point. The occasion was made one of great interest, and among the many distinguished visitors were President Roosevelt and General Miles, head of our army at that time. The President reviewed the cadets and made a speech to them, complimenting them on their truly excellent showing as soldiers.

Although very busy with matters of state, President Roosevelt received an urgent call to deliver a Fourth of July oration at Pittsburg. He consented, and spoke to a vast assemblage on the rights and duties of American citizens.

To remain in Washington during the hot summer months was out of the question with President Roosevelt and his family, and early in the season he removed to Oyster Bay, there to enjoy himself as best he might during the short time allowed him for recreation.

That the business of the administration might not be too seriously interrupted, he hired a few rooms over a bank building in the village of Oyster Bay, and these were fitted up for himself and his several secretaries and assistants. To the bank building he rode or drove every day, spending an hour or more over the routine work required. By this means undesirable visitors were kept away from his private residence, and he was permitted to enjoy himself as he pleased in company with his family.

While Mr. Roosevelt was summering at Oyster Bay, it was arranged that he should make a short tour through New England, to last from August 22 to September 3. The trip covered every New England State, and was one of great pleasure to the President until the last day. Everywhere he went he was greeted by enthusiastic crowds, and, of course, had to make one of his characteristic speeches, accompanied by a great deal of hand-shaking.

On the last day of the trip he was at Dalton, Massachusetts, the home of Governor Crane. It had been planned to drive from Dalton to Lenox, a beautiful spot, adjoining Laurel Lake, where are located the summer homes of many American millionnaires.

The trip was begun without a thought of what was to follow. In the party, besides President Roosevelt, were Governor Crane, Secretary Cortelyou (afterward made a member of the Cabinet), United States Secret Service officer William Craig, and the driver of the carriage. It may be mentioned here that William Craig was detailed as a special guard for the President, and had been with him since the tour was begun.

There are a number of trolley lines in this section of Massachusetts, all centring in Pittsfield. As the mass of the people were very anxious to see President Roosevelt, the trolleys going to the points where he would pass were crowded, and the cars were run with more than usual speed.

As the carriage containing the President and his companions attempted to cross the trolley tracks a car came bounding along at a rapid rate of speed. There seemed to be no time in which to stop the car, and in an instant the long and heavy affair crashed into the carriage with all force, hurling the occupants to the street in all directions. The Secret Service officer, William Craig, was instantly killed, and the driver of the carriage was seriously hurt.

There was immediate and great excitement, and for the time being it was feared that President Roosevelt had been seriously injured. He had been struck a sharp blow on the leg, and had fallen on his face, cutting it not a little. The shock was a severe one, but in a little while he was himself once more, although his face was much swollen. Later still a small abscess formed on the injured limb, but this was skilfully treated by his physician, and soon disappeared. The others in the carriage escaped with but a few bruises and a general shaking-up.

The result of this accident, small as it was to the President personally, showed well how firmly he was seated in the affection of his fellow-citizens. From all over the country, as well as from his friends in foreign climes, telegrams of congratulation came pouring in. Everybody was glad that he had escaped, and everybody wished to show how he felt over the affair.

"President Roosevelt was much affected by the messages received," said one who was in a position to know. "It showed him that his friends were in every walk of life, from the highest to the lowest. Had he met death, as did the Secret Service officer detailed to guard over him, the shock to the people, coming so soon after the assassination of President McKinley, would have been tremendous."

The President had already been persuaded to consent to a short trip to the South, from September 5 to 10, and then a trip to the West, lasting until September 19, or longer. The trips came to an end on September 23, in Indiana, because of the abscess on the lower limb already mentioned, yet on November 19 he was given a grand reception by the people of Memphis, Tennessee, who flocked around him and were glad to see him as well as ever.

"We are so glad you escaped from that trolley accident!" was heard a hundred times.

"We can't afford to lose you, Mr. President," said others. "Really good men are too scarce." And then a cheer would go up for "The hero of San Juan Hill!"

His speeches on these trips were largely about the trusts and monopolies that are trying to control various industries of our country. It is an intricate subject, yet it can be said that Mr. Roosevelt understands it as well as any one, and is laboring hard to do what is right and best, both for the consumer and the capitalist.

Congress had, some time before, voted a large sum for the extension and improvement of the White House, and while Mr. Roosevelt and his family were at Oyster Bay these improvements were begun. They continued during the fall, and the President made his temporary home at a private residence in the capital city. Here it was he was treated for his wounded limb, and here he ended the coal strike, as already chronicled.



Chapter XXVIII

New Offices At The White House -- Sends A Wireless Message To King Edward Of England -- End Of The Trouble In Venezuela -- The Canadian Boundary Dispute -- Beginning Of A Trip To The West -- In Yellowstone Park


The end of the year found President Roosevelt in the best of health, despite the accident some weeks previous. The improvements at the White House were now complete, and the family of the Chief Magistrate took possession. A separate set of offices for the President and his Cabinet had been built at the western end of the executive mansion, and the rooms formerly used for this purpose were turned into living apartments. The changes made have been approved by many who have seen them, and they have wondered why the alterations were not made a long time ago.

On December 1, Congress assembled for a new session, and on the day following the President's message was read. It was a masterly state paper, dealing with the trust question, our relations with the new government of Cuba (for the island was now free, just as we had meant it to be when the war with Spain started), the creation of a new department of Commerce and Labor, needs of the army and navy, and the all-important matter of how the Philippines should be governed. It may be added here that not long after this a Department of Commerce and Labor was created by Congress, and Mr. George B. Cortelyou, the secretary to the President, became its first official head. When Mr. Cortelyou left his post as secretary, Mr. William Loeb, Jr., who had been the President's private secretary for some time, became the regular first secretary to the Chief Magistrate, a place he occupies to-day.

Just about this time there was considerable trouble in Indianola, Mississippi. A colored young lady had been appointed postmistress, and the people in that vicinity refused to recognize her. The Post-Office Department did what it could in the matter, and then referred the case to the President.

"As she has been regularly appointed, the people will have to accept her," said Mr. Roosevelt. And when there was more trouble, he sent forward an order that the post-office be shut up entirely. This was done, and for a long time the people of that vicinity had to get their mail elsewhere, a great inconvenience to them.

On January 1, 1903, the new cable to the Hawaiian Islands was completed, and President Roosevelt received a message from Governor Dole, and sent a reply to the same. About two weeks later the President sent a wireless, or rather cableless, message to King Edward of England. This helped to mark the beginning of a new era in message-sending which may cause great changes in the transmission of messages in the future.

For some time past there had been a small-sized war going on in Venezuela, South America, between that nation on one hand and England, Germany, and Italy on the other. This war had caused much disturbance to American trade. Pressure was brought to bear upon the several nations through President Roosevelt, and at last it was agreed to leave matters to be settled by arbitration at The Hague. The agreements to this end were signed at Washington, much to the President's satisfaction. All trouble then ceased, and American commerce was resumed as before.

For many years there had been a dispute between the United States and Canada, regarding a certain boundary line. This country claimed a long strip of territory next to the sea, near the seaports of Dyea and Skagway, and Canada claimed that this strip, about thirty miles in width, belonged to her domain.

There had been endless disputes about the claim, and considerable local trouble, especially during the rush to the Klondike after gold.

Many Americans contended that we had absolute right to the territory, and when arbitration was spoken of, said we had nothing to arbitrate. This was, in the main, President Roosevelt's view of the matter, yet, as things grew more disturbed, he realized, as a good business man, that something must be done. We did not wish to fight Canada and England for the strip of land, and neither did they wish to fight, so at last a Board of Arbitration was agreed upon, and the claims of both parties were carefully investigated. In the end nearly every point claimed by the United States was granted to us. It was a great satisfaction to have this long-standing dispute settled; and how much better it was to do it by arbitration than by going to war.

The regular session of Congress came to an end on March 4, 1903, but President Roosevelt had already called an extra session, to consider a bill for reciprocity in our dealing with the new government of Cuba and to ratify a treaty with Colombia concerning the Panama Canal.

There was a great deal of debating at this session of Congress. The bill concerning Cuba caused but little trouble, but many wanted the canal placed in Nicaragua instead of Panama, and did not wish to pay the forty millions of dollars asked for the work already accomplished by the old French Canal Company. But in the end the bill passed the United States Senate by a vote of seventy-three to five, with the proviso that should we fail to make a satisfactory arrangement about the Panama Canal, then the government should build the canal through Nicaragua. President Roosevelt was enthusiastic over a canal at the isthmus, and lost no time in arranging to push the work further.

The people of the far West were very anxious to meet the chief ruler of our nation, and early in the year it was arranged that President Roosevelt should leave Washington on April 1 for a tour to last until June. In that time he was to visit more than twenty States, and make over one hundred stops. The people in the West awaited his coming with much pleasure.

The President was justly entitled to this outing, for the nation was now at peace with the entire world, and never had business been so prosperous. More than this, our affairs with other nations had been so handled that throughout the entire civilized world no ruler was more popular than was Theodore Roosevelt. In England he was spoken of with the highest praise, and the regards of the Germans had already been shown in the visit of Prince Henry to this country. He was known to be vigorous to the last degree, but it was likewise realized that he was thoroughly honest and straight-forward.

The first stop of the President in his trip West was made at Chicago, where during the day he laid the corner-stone of the new law building of the University of Chicago, which university conferred upon him the degree of LL.D. (Doctor of Laws). In the evening he addressed an unusually large crowd at the Auditorium building, speaking upon the Monroe Doctrine.

From Chicago the President journeyed to Milwaukee, and then to St. Paul and Minneapolis. At the first-named city he made a forceful address on the trusts, giving his hearers a clear idea of how the great corporations of to-day were brought into existence, and what may be done to control them, and in the last-named city he spoke on the ever-important question of tariff.

It was an eventful week, and when Sunday came the Chief Magistrate was glad enough to take a day of rest at Sioux Falls, South Dakota. From there he journeyed to Gardiner, Montana, one of the entrances to that greatest of all American wonderlands, Yellowstone Park.

It was understood that President Roosevelt wished to visit the Park without a great following of the general public, and this wish was carried out to the letter. Mr. Roosevelt had with him the well-known naturalist, Mr. John Burroughs, and for about two weeks he enjoyed himself to his heart's content, visiting many of the spots of interest and taking it easy whenever he felt so disposed. It was not a hunting trip, although big game is plentiful enough in the Park. It was just getting "near to nature's heart," and Mr. Roosevelt afterward declared it to be one of the best outings he had ever experienced.



Chapter XXIX

Dedication Of The Fair Buildings At St. Louis -- Continuation Of The Trip To San Francisco -- Up In The Far North-West -- Back In Washington -- The Post-Office Scandals -- The New Republic Of Panama -- A Canal At Last -- Proclamation Regarding The War Between Japan And Russia -- Opening Of The Great Fair


After the refreshing tour of Yellowstone Park, President Roosevelt journeyed across Nebraska to Omaha, then across Iowa to Keokuk, and from the latter city to St. Louis.

As before, he delivered a number of addresses, and wherever he spoke great crowds came to see and to hear him. In these crowds were people of all political tendencies, but it made no difference if they were Republicans, Democrats, or Populists, all were equally glad to greet the President of the United States and the hero of San Juan Hill.

On this trip he frequently met some of the Rough Riders, and they invariably did all in their power to make him feel at home. On the other hand he showed that he had not forgotten them.

"By George, I am glad to see you!" he would exclaim, catching an old comrade by the hand. And his tone of voice would show that he meant just what he said.

For a long time the people of St. Louis had been preparing for a grand fair, to be known as the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, to commemorate the purchasing from France of all that vast territory of the United States which lies between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains and the Gulf of Mexico and British America. The purchase was made in 1803 for fifteen millions of dollars, and it was hoped to hold the exposition on the one hundredth anniversary, in 1903, but matters were delayed, and so the fair was postponed until 1904.

The dedication of the fair buildings at the Exposition Grounds was held on April 30, 1903, and was made a gala occasion by those interested. President Roosevelt was invited to speak, and also Ex-President Cleveland, and both made addresses of remarkable interest. Following the dedication exercises a grand banquet was given at which the scene of good-fellowship was one not readily forgotten. The President wished the exposition well, and promised to do all in his power to make it a success.

Although the President had already travelled many miles, the greater part of his western trip still lay before him.

From St. Louis he went to Kansas City and to Topeka, where the citizens were as anxious to meet him as anywhere. He stopped at Sharon Springs over Sunday, and then went to Denver, and to various towns in Colorado and in New Mexico. While in New Mexico he became interested in the systems of irrigation there, and told the people what they might do if their systems of watering the ground were increased.

Having passed through the Grand Canon, the second week in May found him in southern California. He visited Los Angeles, reviewing the annual floral parade, and many other points, and at Claremont addressed a great gathering of school children in a beautiful park filled with shrubs and flowers. The children were decidedly enthusiastic over the meeting, and when Mr. Roosevelt went away, some pelted him with flowers, which bombardment he took in good part.

President Roosevelt's visit to Leland Stanford Jr. University in California came next, and here the students cheered him with vigor. He visited many of the more important buildings, and was entertained by members of the faculty.

His face was now set toward the Golden Gate, and San Francisco was all alive to give him an ovation. It was his first official visit to the Pacific coast, and all whom he met vied with each other to do him honor, while they listened with great attention to what he had to say.

Three days were spent in San Francisco and vicinity, and three days more in a tour of the Yosemite Valley. President Roosevelt was particularly anxious to see some of the big trees of the State, and was driven to several that are well known.

The steps of the Chief Magistrate were now turned northward, to Oregon, and a week was spent at Portland, and in the towns and cities of the Puget Sound territory, and beyond. Here he saw much that was new and novel in the lumber trade and in the salmon industry, and was received with a warmth that could not be mistaken.

"He is a President for the whole country, no mistake about that," said more than one.

"He makes you feel he is your friend the minute you lay eyes on him," would put in another. To many in this far corner of our country, this visit of the President will ever remain as a pleasant memory. They could never hope to get to Washington, more than three thousand miles away, and to have him come out to see them was worth remembering.

The journey eastward was made through Montana to Salt Lake City and then to Cheyenne, where additional addresses were delivered. From the latter point a fast train bore him homeward, and by the next Sunday he was back in the White House once more, as fresh and hearty as ever, and well prepared to undertake whatever important work might come to hand.

And work was there in plenty. Among the first things taken up by the President was a scandal in the Post-Office Department. Without loss of time President Roosevelt ordered Postmaster General Payne to make a thorough investigation, with the result that many contracts which were harmful to our post-office system were annulled, and some wrong-doers were brought to justice.

Toward the end of July there was considerable disturbance in the Government Printing Office at Washington because a certain assistant foreman, who had been discharged, was reinstated. All of the bookbinders were on the point of striking because they did not want the man returned, as he did not belong to their union. But President Roosevelt was firm in the matter; and in the end the man went back, and there was no strike. This affair caused an almost endless discussion in labor circles, some claiming that the union should have been upheld, while others thought differently.

During the summer, as was his usual habit, President Roosevelt, with his family, spent part of his time at his country home at Oyster Bay. This time the visit to the old homestead was of unusual interest, for, on August 17, the North Atlantic Fleet of the navy visited that vicinity, for review and inspection by the President.

It was a gala occasion, and the fleet presented a handsome appearance as it filed past and thundered out a Presidential salute. Many distinguished guests were present, and all without exception spoke of the steady improvement in our navy as a whole. President Roosevelt was equally enthusiastic, and well he might be, for he had used every means in his power to make our navy all it should be.

Late in September President Roosevelt returned to Washington, and on October 15 delivered the principal address at the unveiling of a statue of that grand military hero, General Sherman. Here once more he was listened to with tremendous interest, delivering a speech that was patriotic to the core and full of inspiration.

For some time past matters in Colombia had been in a very mixed-up condition. The United States were willing to take hold of the Panama Canal, as already mentioned, but although a treaty had been made to that effect, the Colombian government would not ratify the agreement.

On November 3, the trouble in Colombia reached its culminating point. On that day the State of Panama declared itself free and independent. The people of that State wanted the canal built by the United States, and were very angry when the rest of the Colombian States would not agree to the treaty which had been made.

At once there were strong rumors of war, and a few slight attacks were really made. The United States forbade the transportation of soldiers on the Panama railroad, and a few days later recognized Panama as an independent republic. The new republic was likewise recognized by France, and, later still, by England. On November 9, Panama appointed a commission to negotiate a canal treaty with our country, and this treaty was signed and sealed at Washington by Secretary of State Hay, acting for the United States, and M. Bunau-Varilla, acting for Panama.

The President's next message to Congress went at great length into the question of the Panama Canal, and in defence of the recognition of the new republic. It also told of what the new Department of Commerce and Labor had accomplished, especially the branch devoted to corporations.

"We need not be over-sensitive about the welfare of corporations which shrink from the light," wrote Mr. Roosevelt. And in this statement every one who had the best interests of our nation at heart agreed. To accomplish great works great corporations are often necessary, but they must conduct business in such a fashion that they are not ashamed to show their methods to the public at large.

At the opening of the year 1904 there were strong rumors of a war between Japan and Russia, over the occupation of Korea, and this war started early in February by a battle on the sea, wherein the Russian fleet lost several war-ships. This contest was followed by others of more or less importance, and it looked as if, sooner or later, other nations might become involved in the struggle.

"We must keep our hands off," said President Roosevelt, and at once issued a proclamation, calling on all good citizens to remain strictly neutral, and warning those who might take part that they could hope for no aid from the United States should they get into trouble personally or have any property confiscated. This proclamation was followed by some excellent work of our State Department, whereby it was agreed among the leading nations that the zone of fighting should be a limited one, -- that is, that neither Japan nor Russia should be allowed to carry it beyond a certain defined territory.

For many weeks Congress had debated the Panama Canal treaty and the action of President Roosevelt regarding the new republic of Panama. On February 23, 1904, a vote was taken in the Senate, and the Panama Canal treaty was ratified in all particulars. Without delay some United States troops were despatched to Panama, to guard the strip of land ten miles wide through which the canal is to run, and preparations were made to push the work on the waterway without further delay.

On Saturday, April 30, the great World's Fair at St. Louis was formally opened to the public. It had cost over fifty millions of dollars and was designed to eclipse any fair held in the past. The opening was attended by two hundred thousand visitors, all of whom were more than pleased with everything to be seen.

It had been arranged that President Roosevelt should formally open the Exposition by means of telegraphic communications from the White House to the fair grounds. A key of ivory and gold was used for the purpose, and as soon as it was touched a salute of twenty-one guns roared forth in the Exposition's honor. Around the President were assembled the members of his Cabinet and representatives of many foreign nations. Before touching the key which was to set the machinery of the wonderful fair in motion, President Roosevelt spoke as follows: -- 

"I have received from the Exposition grounds the statement that the management of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition awaits the pressing of the button which is to transmit the electric energy which is to unfurl the flag and start the machinery of the Exposition.

"I wish now to greet all present, and especially the representatives of the foreign nations here represented, in the name of the American people, and to thank these representatives for the parts their several countries have taken in being represented in this centennial anniversary of the greatest step in the movement which transformed the American Republic from a small confederacy of States lying along the Atlantic seaboard into a continental nation.

"This Exposition is one primarily intended to show the progress in the industry, the science, and the art, not only of the American nation, but of all other nations, in the great and wonderful century which has just closed. Every department of human activity will be represented there, and perhaps I may be allowed, as honorary president of the athletic association which, under European management, started to revive the memory of the Olympic games, to say that I am glad that, in addition to paying proper heed to the progress of industry, of science, of art, we have also paid proper heed to the development of the athletic pastimes which are useful in themselves as showing that it is wise for nations to be able to relax.

"I greet you all. I appreciate your having come here on this occasion, and in the presence of you, representing the American government and the governments of the foreign nations, I here open the Louisiana Exposition."



Chapter XXX

Personal Characteristics Of Theodore Roosevelt -- The President's Family -- Life At The White House -- Our Country And Its Future


In reading over the foregoing pages the question may occur to some of my young readers, How is it possible for President Roosevelt to accomplish so much and still have time in which to occasionally enjoy himself by travelling or by going on a hunting tour?

The answer is a very simple one. Mr. Roosevelt works systematically, as do all who want their labor to amount to something. Years ago, when he was physically weak, he determined to make himself strong. He persisted in vigorous exercise, especially in the open air, and in the end attained a bodily health which any ordinary man may well envy.

The President does each day's work as it comes before him. He does not borrow trouble or cross a bridge before he comes to it. Whatever there is to do he does to the very best of his ability, and he allows future complications to take care of themselves. If a mistake is made, he does not worry continually over it, but keeps it in mind, so that a like mistake shall not occur again. When once his hand is on the plough, he does not believe in turning back. He has unlimited faith in the future of our glorious country, and a like faith in the honor and courage of his fellow-citizens.

Any man to be an intelligent worker cannot be dissipated, and the President is a good illustration of this. He has a good appetite, but eats moderately, and does not depend upon stimulants or tobacco to "brace him up" when the work is extra heavy. He goes out nearly every day for a walk, a ride on horseback, or a drive with some members of his family, and as a result of this, when night comes, sleeps soundly and arises the next morning as bright and fresh as ever.

This is the first time that a President with a large family has occupied the White House. Other Presidents have had a few children, but Mr. Roosevelt took possession with six, a hearty, romping crowd, the younger members of which thought it great fun to explore the executive mansion when first they moved in. The President loves his children dearly, and is not above "playing bear" with the little ones when time permits and they want some fun.

Of Mrs. Roosevelt it can truthfully be said that she makes a splendid "first lady in the land." She takes a great interest in all social functions, and an equal interest in what is best for her boys and girls and their friends. She is very charitable, and each year contributes liberally to hundreds of bazaars and fairs held throughout our country.

The oldest child of the President is Miss Alice Lee Roosevelt, named after her mother, the first wife of the Chief Magistrate. Although but a step-daughter to the present Mrs. Roosevelt, the two are as intimate and loving as if of the same flesh and blood. Miss Roosevelt has already made her debut in Washington society, and assisted at several gatherings at the White House.

All of the other children were born after Mr. Roosevelt's second marriage. His oldest son is Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., commonly called by his chums, Teddy, Jr. He is a lad of sixteen, bright and clever, and has been attending a college preparatory school at Groton, Massachusetts, as already mentioned. He loves outdoor games, and is said to possess many tastes in common with his father.

The other members of the family are, Kermit, fourteen, Ethel Carew, twelve, Archibald Bullock, nine, and a lively little boy named Quentin, who is six.

Some time ago a distinguished member of the English Educational Commission visited this country and made an inspection of our school system. When asked what had impressed him most deeply, he answered: -- 

"The children of the President of the United States sitting side by side with the children of your workingmen in the public schools."

This simple little speech speaks volumes for the good, hard common sense of our President. He believes thoroughly in our public institutions, and knows the real value of sending out his boys to fight their own battles in the world at large. He does not believe in pampering children, but in making them self-reliant. All love to go out with him, and when at Oyster Bay he frequently takes the boys and their cousins for a day's tramp through the woods or along the beach, or else for a good hard row on the bay. The President prefers rowing to sailing, and frequently rows for several miles at a stretch. His enjoyment of bathing is as great as ever, and his boys love to go into the water with him.

Christmas time at the White House is just as full of joy there as it is anywhere. The younger children hang up their stockings, and scream with delight over every new toy received. For some days previous to Christmas one of the rooms is turned into a storeroom, and to this only Mrs. Roosevelt and one of the maids hold the key. Presents come in from everywhere, including many for the President, for his friends far and near insist upon remembering him. These presents are arranged on a large oval table near one of the broad windows, and on Christmas morning the distribution begins.

The President, in his trips to the woods, has seen the great harm done by cutting down promising evergreens, so he does not believe very much in having a Christmas tree. But a year ago a great surprise awaited him.

"I'm going to fix up a tree," said little Archie, and managed to smuggle a small evergreen into the house and place it in a large closet that was not being used. Here he and his younger brother Quentin worked for several days in arranging the tree just to suit them. On Christmas morning, after the presents were given out, both asked their father to come to where the closet was located.

"What is up now?" asked Mr. Roosevelt, curiously.

"Come and see!" they shouted. And he went, followed by all the others of the family. Then the closet door was thrown open, and there stood the tree, blazing with lights. It was certainly a great surprise, and Mr. Roosevelt enjoyed it as much as anybody.

The children of Washington, and especially those whose fathers occupy public positions, always look forward with anticipations of great pleasure to the children's parties given by Mrs. Roosevelt, and these parties are of equal interest to those living at the mansion.

Such a party was given during the last holidays, and was attended by several hundred children, all of whom, of course, came arrayed in their best. They were received by Mrs. Roosevelt, who had a hand-shake and a kind word for each, and then some of the Cabinet ladies, who were assisting, gave to each visitor a button, set in ribbon and tinsel and inscribed "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."

The big main dining-room of the White House had been prepared for the occasion. There was a Christmas tree at one side of the room, and the table was filled with fruit, cake, and candy. The President came in and helped to pass the ice-cream and cake, and Theodore, Jr. and some of the others passed the candy and other good things.

After this the visitors were asked to go to the East Room and dance. The Marine Band furnished the music, and while the children were dancing, the President came in to look at them. The entertainment lasted until the end of the afternoon, and when the visitors departed, President Roosevelt was at the door to shake hands and bid them good-by.

And here let us bid good-by ourselves, wishing Theodore Roosevelt and his family well. What the future holds in store for our President no man can tell. That he richly deserves the honors that have come to him, is beyond question. He has done his best to place and keep our United States in the front rank of the nations of the world. Under him, as under President McKinley, progress has been remarkably rapid. In the uttermost parts of the world our Flag is respected as it was never respected before. Perhaps some few mistakes have been made, but on the whole our advancement has been justified, and is eminently satisfactory. The future is large with possibilities, and it remains for the generation I am addressing to rise up and embrace those opportunities and make the most of them.



Appendix A

Brief Extracts From Famous Addresses Delivered By Theodore Roosevelt


"If we are to be a really great people, we must strive in good faith to play a great part in the world. We cannot avoid meeting great issues. All that we can determine for ourselves is whether we shall meet them well or ill."

"All honor must be paid to the architects of our material prosperity; to the captains of industry who have built our factories and our railroads; to the strong men who toil for wealth with brain or hand; for great is the debt of the nation to these and their kind. But our debt is still greater to the men whose highest type is to be found in a statesman like Lincoln, a soldier like Grant."

"A man's first duty is to his own home, but he is not thereby excused from doing his duty to the state; for if he fails in this second duty it is under the penalty of ceasing to be a freeman."

 -- Extracts from "The Strenuous Life."


"Is America a weakling to shrink from the work that must be done by the world's powers? No! The young giant of the West stands on a continent and clasps the crest of an ocean in either hand. Our nation, glorious in youth and strength, looks into the future with eager and fearless eyes, and rejoices, as a strong man to run the race."

 -- Extract from Speech seconding the Nomination of William McKinley for President.


"Poverty is a bitter thing, but it is not as bitter as the existence of restless vacuity and physical, moral, and intellectual flabbiness to which those doom themselves who elect to spend all their years in that vainest of all vain pursuits, the pursuit of mere pleasure."

"Our interests are at bottom common; in the long run we go up or go down together."

"The first essential of civilization is law. Anarchy is simply the hand-maiden and forerunner of tyranny and despotism. Law and order, enforced by justice and by strength, lie at the foundation of civilization."

 -- Extracts from a Speech delivered at Minneapolis, Minnesota, September 2, 1901.


"We hold work, not as a curse, but as a blessing, and we regard the idler with scornful pity."

"Each man must choose, so far as the conditions allow him, the path to which he is bidden by his own peculiar powers and inclinations. But if he is a man, he must in some way or shape do a man's work."

"It is not given to us all to succeed, but it is given to us all to strive manfully to deserve success."

"We cannot retain the full measure of our self-respect if we do not retain pride in our citizenship."

 -- Extracts from an Address on "Manhood and Statehood."


"The true welfare of the nation is indissolubly bound up in the welfare of the farmer and wage-worker; of the man who tills the soil, and of the mechanic, the handicraftsman, and the laborer. The poorest motto upon which an American can act is the motto of 'some men down,' and the safest to follow is that of 'all men up.'"

 -- Extract from Speech delivered at the Dedication of the Pan-American Fair Buildings.


"The men we need are the men of strong, earnest, solid character -- the men who possess the homely virtues, and who to these virtues add rugged courage, rugged honesty, and high resolve."

 -- Extract from Speech delivered upon the Life of General Grant.



Appendix B

List Of Theodore Roosevelt's Writings


Books:

The Naval War of 1812, 2 volumes. (1882.) The Winning of the West, 6 volumes. (1889-1896.) Hunting Trips of a Ranchman. (1885.) Hunting Trips on the Prairie. (Companion volume to that above. 1885.) The Wilderness Hunter. (1893.) Hunting the Grisly. (Companion volume to that above. 1893.) The Rough Riders. (1899.) Life of Oliver Cromwell. (1900.) The Strenuous Life -- Essays and Addresses. (1900.) American Ideals. (1897.) Administration -- Civil Service. (1898.) Life of Thomas Hart Benton. (1887.) New York. (Historic Towns Series. 1891.) Life of Gouverneur Morris. (1888.) Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail. (1888.) Essays on Practical Politics. (1888.)

Written by Theodore Roosevelt and Henry Cabot Lodge:

Hero Tales from American History. (1895.)

Written by Theodore Roosevelt and G.B. Grinnell:

Trail and Camp Fire. (1896.) Hunting in Many Lands. (1896.)


Principal Magazine Articles:

Admiral Dewey. (McClure's Magazine.) Military Preparedness and Unpreparedness. (Century Magazine.) Mad Anthony Wayne's Victory. (Harper's Magazine.) St. Clair's Defeat. (Harper's Magazine.) Fights between Iron Clads. (Century Magazine.) Need of a New Navy. (Review of Reviews.)



Appendix C

Chronology Of The Life Of Theodore Roosevelt From 1858 To 1904


1858. October 27. Theodore Roosevelt born in New York City, son of Theodore Roosevelt and Martha (Bullock) Roosevelt.

1864. Sent to public school, and also received some private instruction; spent summers at Oyster Bay, New York.

1873. Became a member of the Dutch Reformed Church; has been a member ever since.

1876. September. Entered Harvard College. Member of numerous clubs and societies.

1878. February 9. Death of Theodore Roosevelt, Sr.

1880. June. Graduated from Harvard College; a Phi Beta Kappa man. September 23. Married Miss Alice Lee, of Boston, Massachusetts. Travelled extensively in Europe; climbed the Alps; made a member of the Alpine Club of London.

1881. Elected a member of the New York Assembly, and served for three terms in succession.

1884. Birth of daughter, Alice Lee Roosevelt. Death of Mrs. Alice (Lee) Roosevelt, Mr. Roosevelt's first wife. Death of Mrs. Martha (Bullock) Roosevelt, Mr. Roosevelt's mother. Made Delegate-at-large to the Republican National Convention that nominated James G. Blaine for President.

1885. Became a ranchman and hunter.

1886. Ran for office of mayor of New York City, and was defeated by Abram Hewitt. Spent additional time in hunting. December 2. Married Edith Kermit Carew, of New York City.

1888. Birth of son, Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. September. Grand hunt in the Selkirk Mountains.

1889. May. Appointed by President Harrison a member of the Civil Service Commission; served for six years, four under President Harrison and two under President Cleveland.

1890. Birth of son, Kermit Roosevelt.

1891. September. Grand hunt at Two-Ocean Pass, Wyoming.

1892. Birth of daughter, Ethel Carew Roosevelt.

1895. May 24. Appointed Police Commissioner of New York City by Mayor William Strong. Served until April, 1897. Birth of son, Archibald Bullock Roosevelt.

1897. April. Made First Assistant Secretary of the Navy, under Secretary Long and President McKinley. Birth of son, Quentin Roosevelt.

1898. April 25. Congress declared war with Spain. Roosevelt resigned his position in the Navy Department. May. Helped to organize the Rough Riders, and was appointed Lieutenant-Colonel, May 6. May 29. The Rough Riders left San Antonio, Texas, for Tampa, Florida. June 2. In camp at Tampa. June 7. Move by coal cars to Port Tampa; four companies left behind; board transport Yucatan. June 13. Start for Cuba, without horses. June 22. Landing of the Rough Riders at Daiquiri. June 23. March to Siboney. June 24. Advance to La Guasima (Las Guasimas). First fight with the Spanish troops. July 1. Battles of San Juan and El Caney. Roosevelt leads the Rough Riders up San Juan Hill. July 2. Fighting in the trenches by the Rough Riders, Roosevelt in command. July 3. Sinking of the Spanish fleet off Santiago Bay. July 8. Roosevelt made Colonel of the Rough Riders. August 7. Departure of the Rough Riders from Cuba. August 9. Spain accepts terms of peace offered by the United States. August 16. Arrival of the Rough Riders at Montauk, Long Island. September 15. Mustering out of the Rough Riders. September 27. Nominated by the Republican party for governor of New York. October. Grand campaigning tour through the Empire State. November. Elected governor of New York by seventeen thousand plurality.

1899. January 1. Assumed office as governor of New York. April 10. Delivered famous address on "The Strenuous Life," at Chicago. September 29 and 30. Governor appointed these days as holidays in honor of a reception to Admiral Dewey; grand water and land processions.

1900. June 19. Republican Convention met at Philadelphia; Roosevelt seconded the nomination of McKinley for President (second term), and was nominated for the Vice-Presidency. July, August, and September. Governor Roosevelt travelled 20,000 miles, delivering 673 political speeches at nearly 600 cities and towns. November 6. McKinley and Roosevelt carried 28 states, Democratic opponents carried 17 states; Republican electoral votes, 292, Democratic and scattering combined, 155. December. Presided over one short session of the United States Senate.

1901. January 11. Started on a five weeks' hunting tour in Northwest Colorado; bringing down many cougars. April. Attended the dedication of the Pan-American Exposition buildings at Buffalo, New York, and delivered an address. September 6. Received word, while at Isle la Motte, Vermont, that President McKinley had been shot; hurried at once to Buffalo; assured that the President would recover, joined his family in the Adirondacks. September 14. Death of President McKinley. Roosevelt returned to Buffalo; took the oath of office as President of the United States at the house of Ansley Wilcox; retained the McKinley Cabinet. September 15 to 19. Funeral of President McKinley, at Buffalo, Washington, and Canton, Ohio. President Roosevelt attended. September 20. First regular working day of President Roosevelt at the White House. December 3. First annual message delivered to Congress. December 4. Senate received Hay-Pauncefote canal treaty from the President. December 17. First break in the McKinley Cabinet. Postmaster General Smith resigned; was succeeded by H.C. Payne.

1902. January 3. Grand ball at the White House, Miss Alice Roosevelt formally presented to Washington society. January 6. Secretary Gage of the Treasury resigned; was succeeded by Ex-Governor Leslie M. Shaw, of Iowa. January 20. The President transmitted to Congress report of Canal Commission, recommending buying of rights for $40,000,000. February 10. Serious sickness of Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. President in attendance at Groton, Massachusetts, several days. February 24. Reception to Prince Henry of Prussia. February 25. Launching of German Emperor's yacht, which was christened by Miss Alice Roosevelt. March 7. President signed a bill creating a permanent pension bureau. May 12. Beginning of the great coal strike; largest in the history of the United States. May 21. President unveiled a monument at Arlington Cemetery, erected in memory of those who fell in the Spanish-American War. June 9. President reviewed West Point cadets at the centennial celebration of that institution. July 4. Addressed a great gathering at Pittsburg. July 5. Removed his business offices to Oyster Bay for the summer. August 11. Retirement of Justice Gray of the Supreme Court; the President named Oliver Wendell Holmes as his successor. August 22. The President began a twelve days' tour of New England. September 3. Narrow escape from death near Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Trolley car ran down carriage, killing Secret Service attendant. September 6 and 7. President visited Chattanooga, Tennessee, and delivered addresses. October 3. President called conference at Washington concerning coal strike. October 21. As a result of several meetings between the President, the mine operators, and the mine workers the miners resumed work, and a commission was appointed by the President to adjust matters in dispute. November 19. Grand reception to the President at Memphis, Tennessee. December 2. President's message to Congress was read by both branches.

1903. January 15. President signed the free coal bill passed by Congress. January 21. President signed the bill for the reorganization of the military system. March 5. Special session of Congress called by the President to consider Cuban reciprocity bill and Panama Canal treaty with Colombia. March 12. President appointed a Commission to report on organization, needs, and conditions of government work. March 18. President received report of Coal Commission. April 2. President received degree of LL.D. from the University of Chicago. Beginning of long trip to the west. April 4. President addressed Minnesota legislature at St. Paul. April 30. President delivered address at dedication of buildings of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, at St. Louis. June 6. President ordered an investigation into the Post-office Department scandals. July 4. First message around the world, via new Pacific cable, received by President at Oyster Bay. July 23. The President refused to consider charges made by a bookbinders' union against a workman in the Government Printing Office, thereby declaring for an "open" shop. August 17. Grand naval review by the President, on Long Island Sound, near Oyster Bay. September 17. President delivered an address at the dedication of a monument to New Jersey soldiers, on the battle-field of Antietam. October 15. President delivered an address at unveiling of statue to General Sherman, at Washington. October 20. President called extra session of Congress to consider a commercial treaty with Cuba. November 3. Panama proclaimed independent of Colombia. November 6. The United States government formally recognized the independence of the state of Panama. November 10. Opening of extra session of Congress called by President to consider commercial treaty with Cuba. November 18. A new canal treaty was formally signed at Washington by Secretary Hay, of the United States, and M. Bunau-Varilla, acting for Panama. December 2. The canal treaty was ratified at Panama. December 7. The President sent regular message to Congress especially defending the administration policy regarding Panama and the canal.

1904. January 4. The President sent a special message to Congress regarding the recognition of the new republic of Panama. This was followed for weeks by debates, for and against the action of the administration. February. War broke out between Japan and Russia; the President issued a proclamation declaring the neutrality of the United States. February 22. The President and family assisted at a Washington's Birthday tree-planting at the White House grounds. February 23. The United States ratified all the provisions of the Panama Canal treaty; preparations were made, under the directions of the President, to begin work without delay. April 30. President, at Washington, delivered address and pressed telegraphic key opening World's Fair at St. Louis.

<eob>

The Abbot's Ghost

Or

Maurice Treherne's Temptation: A Christmas Story

By

A.M. Barnard



Chapter I


Dramatis Personae

"How goes it, Frank? Down first, as usual."

"The early bird gets the worm, Major."

"Deuced ungallant speech, considering that the lovely Octavia is the worm," and with a significant laugh the major assumed an Englishman's favorite attitude before the fire.

His companion shot a quick glance at him, and an expression of anxiety passed over his face as he replied, with a well-feigned air of indifference, "You are altogether too sharp, Major. I must be on my guard while you are in the house. Any new arrivals? I thought I heard a carriage drive up not long ago."

"It was General Snowdon and his charming wife. Maurice Treherne came while we were out, and I've not seen him yet, poor fellow!"

"Aye, you may well say that; his is a hard case, if what I heard is true. I'm not booked up in the matter, and I should be, lest I make some blunder here, so tell me how things stand, Major. We've a good half hour before dinner. Sir Jasper is never punctual."

"Yes, you've a right to know, if you are going to try your fortune with Octavia."

The major marched through the three drawing rooms to see that no inquisitive servant was eavesdropping, and, finding all deserted, he resumed his place, while young Annon lounged on a couch as he listened with intense interest to the major's story.

"You know it was supposed that old Sir Jasper, being a bachelor, would leave his fortune to his two nephews. But he was an oddity, and as the title must go to young Jasper by right, the old man said Maurice should have the money. He was poor, young Jasper rich, and it seemed but just, though Madame Mère was very angry when she learned how the will was made."

"But Maurice didn't get the fortune. How was that?"

"There was some mystery there which I shall discover in time. All went smoothly till that unlucky yachting trip, when the cousins were wrecked. Maurice saved Jasper's life, and almost lost his own in so doing. I fancy he wishes he had, rather than remain the poor cripple he is. Exposure, exertion, and neglect afterward brought on paralysis of the lower limbs, and there he is -- a fine, talented, spirited fellow tied to that cursed chair like a decrepit old man."

"How does he bear it?" asked Annon, as the major shook his gray head, with a traitorous huskiness in his last words.

"Like a philosopher or a hero. He is too proud to show his despair at such a sudden end to all his hopes, too generous to complain, for Jasper is desperately cut up about it, and too brave to be daunted by a misfortune which would drive many a man mad."

"Is it true that Sir Jasper, knowing all this, made a new will and left every cent to his namesake?"

"Yes, and there lies the mystery. Not only did he leave it away from poor Maurice, but so tied it up that Jasper cannot transfer it, and at his death it goes to Octavia."

"The old man must have been demented. What in heaven's name did he mean by leaving Maurice helpless and penniless after all his devotion to Jasper? Had he done anything to offend the old party?"

"No one knows; Maurice hasn't the least idea of the cause of this sudden whim, and the old man would give no reason for it. He died soon after, and the instant Jasper came to the title and estate he brought his cousin home, and treats him like a brother. Jasper is a noble fellow, with all his faults, and this act of justice increases my respect for him," said the major heartily.

"What will Maurice do, now that he can't enter the army as he intended?" asked Annon, who now sat erect, so full of interest was he.

"Marry Octavia, and come to his own, I hope."

"An excellent little arrangement, but Miss Treherne may object," said Annon, rising with sudden kindling of the eye.

"I think not, if no one interferes. Pity, with women, is akin to love, and she pities her cousin in the tenderest fashion. No sister could be more devoted, and as Maurice is a handsome, talented fellow, one can easily foresee the end, if, as I said before, no one interferes to disappoint the poor lad again."

"You espouse his cause, I see, and tell me this that I may stand aside. Thanks for the warning, Major; but as Maurice Treherne is a man of unusual power in many ways, I think we are equally matched, in spite of his misfortune. Nay, if anything, he has the advantage of me, for Miss Treherne pities him, and that is a strong ally for my rival. I'll be as generous as I can, but I'll not stand aside and relinquish the woman I love without a trial first."

With an air of determination Annon faced the major, whose keen eyes had read the truth which he had but newly confessed to himself. Major Royston smiled as he listened, and said briefly, as steps approached, "Do your best. Maurice will win."

"We shall see," returned Annon between his teeth.

Here their host entered, and the subject of course was dropped. But the major's words rankled in the young man's mind, and would have been doubly bitter had he known that their confidential conversation had been overheard. On either side of the great fireplace was a door leading to a suite of rooms which had been old Sir Jasper's. These apartments had been given to Maurice Treherne, and he had just returned from London, whither he had been to consult a certain famous physician. Entering quietly, he had taken possession of his rooms, and having rested and dressed for dinner, rolled himself into the library, to which led the curtained door on the right. Sitting idly in his light, wheeled chair, ready to enter when his cousin appeared, he had heard the chat of Annon and the major. As he listened, over his usually impassive face passed varying expressions of anger, pain, bitterness, and defiance, and when the young man uttered his almost fierce "We shall see," Treherne smiled a scornful smile and clenched his pale hand with a gesture which proved that a year of suffering had not conquered the man's spirit, though it had crippled his strong body.

A singular face was Maurice Treherne's; well-cut and somewhat haughty features; a fine brow under the dark locks that carelessly streaked it; and remarkably piercing eyes. Slight in figure and wasted by pain, he still retained the grace as native to him as the stern fortitude which enabled him to hide the deep despair of an ambitious nature from every eye, and bear his affliction with a cheerful philosophy more pathetic than the most entire abandonment to grief. Carefully dressed, and with no hint at invalidism but the chair, he bore himself as easily and calmly as if the doom of lifelong helplessness did not hang over him. A single motion of the hand sent him rolling noiselessly to the curtained door, but as he did so, a voice exclaimed behind him, "Wait for me, cousin." And as he turned, a young girl approached, smiling a glad welcome as she took his hand, adding in a tone of soft reproach, "Home again, and not let me know it, till I heard the good news by accident."

"Was it good news, Octavia?" and Maurice looked up at the frank face with a new expression in those penetrating eyes of his. His cousin's open glance never changed as she stroked the hair off his forehead with the caress one often gives a child, and answered eagerly, "The best to me; the house is dull when you are away, for Jasper always becomes absorbed in horses and hounds, and leaves Mamma and me to mope by ourselves. But tell me, Maurice, what they said to you, since you would not write."

"A little hope, with time and patience. Help me to wait, dear, help me to wait."

His tone was infinitely sad, and as he spoke, he leaned his cheek against the kind hand he held, as if to find support and comfort there. The girl's face brightened beautifully, though her eyes filled, for to her alone did he betray his pain, and in her alone did he seek consolation.

"I will, I will with heart and hand! Thank heaven for the hope, and trust me it shall be fulfilled. You look very tired, Maurice. Why go in to dinner with all those people? Let me make you cozy here," she added anxiously.

"Thanks, I'd rather go in, it does me good; and if I stay away, Jasper feels that he must stay with me. I dressed in haste, am I right, little nurse?"

She gave him a comprehensive glance, daintily settled his cravat, brushed back a truant lock, and, with a maternal air that was charming, said, "My boy is always elegant, and I'm proud of him. Now we'll go in." But with her hand on the curtain she paused, saying quickly, as a voice reached her, "Who is that?"

"Frank Annon. Didn't you know he was coming?" Maurice eyed her keenly.

"No, Jasper never told me. Why did he ask him?"

"To please you."

"Me! When he knows I detest the man. No matter, I've got on the color he hates, so he won't annoy me, and Mrs. Snowdon can amuse herself with him. The general has come, you know?"

Treherne smiled, well pleased, for no sign of maiden shame or pleasure did the girl's face betray, and as he watched her while she peeped, he thought with satisfaction, Annon is right, I have the advantage, and I'll keep it at all costs.

"Here is Mamma. We must go in," said Octavia, as a stately old lady made her appearance in the drawing room.

The cousins entered together and Annon watched them covertly, while seemingly intent on paying his respects to Madame Mère, as his hostess was called by her family.

"Handsomer than ever," he muttered, as his eye rested on the blooming girl, looking more like a rose than ever in the peach-colored silk which he had once condemned because a rival admired it. She turned to reply to the major, and Annon glanced at Treherne with an irrepressible frown, for sickness had not marred the charm of that peculiar face, so colorless and thin that it seemed cut in marble; but the keen eyes shone with a wonderful brilliancy, and the whole countenance was alive with a power of intellect and will which made the observer involuntarily exclaim, "That man must suffer a daily martyrdom, so crippled and confined; if it last long he will go mad or die."

"General and Mrs. Snowden," announced the servant, and a sudden pause ensued as everyone looked up to greet the newcomers.

A feeble, white-haired old man entered, leaning on the arm of an indescribably beautiful woman. Not thirty yet, tall and nobly molded, with straight black brows over magnificent eyes; rippling dark hair gathered up in a great knot, and ornamented with a single band of gold. A sweeping dress of wine-colored velvet, set off with a dazzling neck and arms decorated like her stately head with ornaments of Roman gold. At the first glance she seemed a cold, haughty creature, born to dazzle but not to win. A deeper scrutiny detected lines of suffering in that lovely face, and behind the veil of reserve, which pride forced her to wear, appeared the anguish of a strong-willed woman burdened by a heavy cross. No one would dare express pity or offer sympathy, for her whole air repelled it, and in her gloomy eyes sat scorn of herself mingled with defiance of the scorn of others. A strange, almost tragical-looking woman, in spite of beauty, grace, and the cold sweetness of her manner. A faint smile parted her lips as she greeted those about her, and as her husband seated himself beside Lady Treherne, she lifted her head with a long breath, and a singular expression of relief, as if a burden was removed, and for the time being she was free. Sir Jasper was at her side, and as she listened, her eye glanced from face to face.

"Who is with you now?" she asked, in a low, mellow voice that was full of music.

"My sister and my cousin are yonder. You may remember Tavia as a child, she is little more now. Maurice is an invalid, but the finest fellow breathing."

"I understand," and Mrs. Snowdon's eyes softened with a sudden glance of pity for one cousin and admiration for the other, for she knew the facts.

"Major Royston, my father's friend, and Frank Annon, my own. Do you know him?" asked Sir Jasper.

"No."

"Then allow me to make him happy by presenting him, may I?"

"Not now. I'd rather see your cousin."

"Thanks, you are very kind. I'll bring him over."

"Stay, let me go to him," began the lady, with more feeling in face and voice than one would believe her capable of showing.

"Pardon, it will offend him, he will not be pitied, or relinquish any of the duties or privileges of a gentleman which he can possibly perform. He is proud, we can understand the feeling, so let us humor the poor fellow."

Mrs. Snowdon bowed silently, and Sir Jasper called out in his hearty, blunt way, as if nothing was amiss with his cousin, "Maurice, I've an honor for you. Come and receive it."

Divining what it was, Treherne noiselessly crossed the room, and with no sign of self-consciousness or embarrassment, was presented to the handsome woman. Thinking his presence might be a restraint, Sir Jasper went away. The instant his back was turned, a change came over both: an almost grim expression replaced the suavity of Treherne's face, and Mrs. Snowdon's smile faded suddenly, while a deep flush rose to her brow, as her eyes questioned his beseechingly.

"How dared you come?" he asked below his breath.

"The general insisted."

"And you could not change his purpose; poor woman!"

"You will not be pitied, neither will I," and her eyes flashed; then the fire was quenched in tears, and her voice lost all its pride in a pleading tone.

"Forgive me, I longed to see you since your illness, and so I 'dared' to come."

"You shall be gratified; look, quite helpless, crippled for life, perhaps."

The chair was turned from the groups about the fire, and as he spoke, with a bitter laugh Treherne threw back the skin which covered his knees, and showed her the useless limbs once so strong and fleet. She shrank and paled, put out her hand to arrest him, and cried in an indignant whisper, "No, no, not that! You know I never meant such cruel curiosity, such useless pain to both -- "

"Be still, someone is coming," he returned inaudibly; adding aloud, as he adjusted the skin and smoothed the rich fur as if speaking of it, "Yes, it is a very fine one, Jasper gave it to me. He spoils me, like a dear, generous-hearted fellow as he is. Ah, Octavia, what can I do for you?"

"Nothing, thank you. I want to recall myself to Mrs. Snowdon's memory, if she will let me."

"No need of that; I never forget happy faces and pretty pictures. Two years ago I saw you at your first ball, and longed to be a girl again."

As she spoke, Mrs. Snowdon pressed the hand shyly offered, and smiled at the spirited face before her, though the shadow in her own eyes deepened as she met the bright glance of the girl.

"How kind you were that night! I remember you let me chatter away about my family, my cousin, and my foolish little affairs with the sweetest patience, and made me very happy by your interest. I was homesick, and Aunt could never bear to hear of those things. It was before your marriage, and all the kinder, for you were the queen of the night, yet had a word for poor little me."

Mrs. Snowdon was pale to the lips, and Maurice impatiently tapped the arm of his chair, while the girl innocently chatted on.

"I am sorry the general is such an invalid; yet I dare say you find great happiness in taking care of him. It is so pleasant to be of use to those we love." And as she spoke, Octavia leaned over her cousin to hand him the glove he had dropped.

The affectionate smile that accompanied the act made the color deepen again in Mrs. Snowdon's cheek, and lit a spark in her softened eyes. Her lips curled and her voice was sweetly sarcastic as she answered, "Yes, it is charming to devote one's life to these dear invalids, and find one's reward in their gratitude. Youth, beauty, health, and happiness are small sacrifices if one wins a little comfort for the poor sufferers."

The girl felt the sarcasm under the soft words and drew back with a troubled face.

Maurice smiled, and glanced from one to the other, saying significantly, "Well for me that my little nurse loves her labor, and finds no sacrifice in it. I am fortunate in my choice."

"I trust it may prove so -- " Mrs. Snowdon got no further, for at that moment dinner was announced, and Sir Jasper took her away. Annon approached with him and offered his arm to Miss Treherne, but with an air of surprise, and a little gesture of refusal, she said coldly:

"My cousin always takes me in to dinner. Be good enough to escort the major." And with her hand on the arm of the chair, she walked away with a mischievous glitter in her eyes.

Annon frowned and fell back, saying sharply, "Come, Major, what are you doing there?"

"Making discoveries."



Chapter II


Byplay

A right splendid old dowager was Lady Treherne, in her black velvet and point lace, as she sat erect and stately on a couch by the drawing-room fire, a couch which no one dare occupy in her absence, or share uninvited. The gentlemen were still over their wine, and the three ladies were alone. My lady never dozed in public, Mrs. Snowdon never gossiped, and Octavia never troubled herself to entertain any guests but those of her own age, so long pauses fell, and conversation languished, till Mrs. Snowdon roamed away into the library. As she disappeared, Lady Treherne beckoned to her daughter, who was idly making chords at the grand piano. Seating herself on the ottoman at her mother's feet, the girl took the still handsome hand in her own and amused herself with examining the old-fashioned jewels that covered it, a pretext for occupying her telltale eyes, as she suspected what was coming.

"My dear, I'm not pleased with you, and I tell you so at once, that you may amend your fault," began Madame Mère in a tender tone, for though a haughty, imperious woman, she idolized her children.

"What have I done, Mamma?" asked the girl.

"Say rather, what have you left undone. You have been very rude to Mr. Annon. It must not occur again; not only because he is a guest, but because he is your -- brother's friend."

My lady hesitated over the word "lover," and changed it, for to her Octavia still seemed a child, and though anxious for the alliance, she forbore to speak openly, lest the girl should turn willful, as she inherited her mother's high spirit.

"I'm sorry, Mamma. But how can I help it, when he teases me so that I detest him?" said Octavia, petulantly.

"How tease, my love?"

"Why, he follows me about like a dog, puts on a sentimental look when I appear; blushes, and beams, and bows at everything I say, if I am polite; frowns and sighs if I'm not; and glowers tragically at every man I speak to, even poor Maurice. Oh, Mamma, what foolish creatures men are!" And the girl laughed blithely, as she looked up for the first time into her mother's face.

My lady smiled, as she stroked the bright head at her knee, but asked quickly, "Why say 'even poor Maurice,' as if it were impossible for anyone to be jealous of him?"

"But isn't it, Mamma? I thought strong, well men regarded him as one set apart and done with, since his sad misfortune."

"Not entirely; while women pity and pet the poor fellow, his comrades will be jealous, absurd as it is."

"No one pets him but me, and I have a right to do it, for he is my cousin," said the girl, feeling a touch of jealousy herself.

"Rose and Blanche Talbot outdo you, my dear, and there is no cousinship to excuse them."

"Then let Frank Annon be jealous of them, and leave me in peace. They promised to come today; I'm afraid something has happened to prevent them." And Octavia gladly seized upon the new subject. But my lady was not to be eluded.

"They said they could not come till after dinner. They will soon arrive. Before they do so, I must say a few words, Tavia, and I beg you to give heed to them. I desire you to be courteous and amiable to Mr. Annon, and before strangers to be less attentive and affectionate to Maurice. You mean it kindly, but it looks ill, and causes disagreeable remarks."

"Who blames me for being devoted to my cousin? Can I ever do enough to repay him for his devotion? Mamma, you forget he saved your son's life."

Indignant tears filled the girl's eyes, and she spoke passionately, forgetting that Mrs. Snowdon was within earshot of her raised voice. With a frown my lady laid her hand on her daughter's lips, saying coldly, "I do not forget, and I religiously discharge my every obligation by every care and comfort it is in my power to bestow. You are young, romantic, and tender-hearted. You think you must give your time and health, must sacrifice your future happiness to this duty. You are wrong, and unless you learn wisdom in season, you will find that you have done harm, not good."

"God forbid! How can I do that? Tell me, and I will be wise in time."

Turning the earnest face up to her own, Lady Treherne whispered anxiously, "Has Maurice ever looked or hinted anything of love during this year he has been with us, and you his constant companion?"

"Never, Mamma; he is too honorable and too unhappy to speak or think of that. I am his little nurse, sister, and friend, no more, nor ever shall be. Do not suspect us, or put such fears into my mind, else all our comfort will be spoiled."

Flushed and eager was the girl, but her clear eyes betrayed no tender confusion as she spoke, and all her thought seemed to be to clear her cousin from the charge of loving her too well. Lady Treherne looked relieved, paused a moment, then said, seriously but gently, "This is well, but, child, I charge you tell me at once, if ever he forgets himself, for this thing cannot be. Once I hoped it might, now it is impossible; remember that he continue a friend and cousin, nothing more. I warn you in time, but if you neglect the warning, Maurice must go. No more of this; recollect my wish regarding Mr. Annon, and let your cousin amuse himself without you in public."

"Mamma, do you wish me to like Frank Annon?"

The abrupt question rather disturbed my lady, but knowing her daughter's frank, impetuous nature, she felt somewhat relieved by this candor, and answered decidedly, "I do. He is your equal in all respects; he loves you, Jasper desires it, I approve, and you, being heart-whole, can have no just objection to the alliance."

"Has he spoken to you?"

"No, to your brother."

"You wish this much, Mamma?"

"Very much, my child."

"I will try to please you, then." And stifling a sigh, the girl kissed her mother with unwonted meekness in tone and manner.

"Now I am well pleased. Be happy, my love. No one will urge or distress you. Let matters take their course, and if this hope of ours can be fulfilled, I shall be relieved of the chief care of my life."

A sound of girlish voices here broke on their ears, and springing up, Octavia hurried to meet her friends, exclaiming joyfully, "They have come! they have come!"

Two smiling, blooming girls met her at the door, and, being at an enthusiastic age, they gushed in girlish fashion for several minutes, making a pretty group as they stood in each other's arms, all talking at once, with frequent kisses and little bursts of laughter, as vents for their emotion. Madame Mère welcomed them and then went to join Mrs. Snowdon, leaving the trio to gossip unrestrained.

"My dearest creature, I thought we never should get here, for Papa had a tiresome dinner party, and we were obliged to stay, you know," cried Rose, the lively sister, shaking out the pretty dress and glancing at herself in the mirror as she fluttered about the room like a butterfly.

"We were dying to come, and so charmed when you asked us, for we haven't seen you this age, darling," added Blanche, the pensive one, smoothing her blond curls after a fresh embrace.

"I'm sorry the Ulsters couldn't come to keep Christmas with us, for we have no gentlemen but Jasper, Frank Annon, and the major. Sad, isn't it?" said Octavia, with a look of despair, which caused a fresh peal of laughter.

"One apiece, my dear, it might be worse." And Rose privately decided to appropriate Sir Jasper.

"Where is your cousin?" asked Blanche, with a sigh of sentimental interest.

"He is here, of course. I forget him, but he is not on the flirting list, you know. We must amuse him, and not expect him to amuse us, though really, all the capital suggestions and plans for merrymaking always come from him."

"He is better, I hope?" asked both sisters with real sympathy, making their young faces womanly and sweet.

"Yes, and has hopes of entire recovery. At least, they tell him so, though Dr. Ashley said there was no chance of it."

"Dear, dear, how sad! Shall we see him, Tavia?"

"Certainly; he is able to be with us now in the evening, and enjoys society as much as ever. But please take no notice of his infirmity, and make no inquiries beyond the usual 'How do you do.' He is sensitive, and hates to be considered an invalid more than ever."

"How charming it must be to take care of him, he is so accomplished and delightful. I quite envy you," said Blanche pensively.

"Sir Jasper told us that the General and Mrs. Snowdon were coming. I hope they will, for I've a most intense curiosity to see her -- " began Rose.

"Hush, she is here with Mamma! Why curious? What is the mystery? For you look as if there was one," questioned Octavia under her breath.

The three charming heads bent toward one another as Rose replied in a whisper, "If I knew, I shouldn't be inquisitive. There was a rumor that she married the old general in a fit of pique, and now repents. I asked Mamma once, but she said such matters were not for young girls to hear, and not a word more would she say. N'importe, I have wits of my own, and I can satisfy myself. The gentlemen are coming! Am I all right, dear?" And the three glanced at one another with a swift scrutiny that nothing could escape, then grouped themselves prettily, and waited, with a little flutter of expectation in each young heart.

In came the gentlemen, and instantly a new atmosphere seemed to pervade the drawing room, for with the first words uttered, several romances began. Sir Jasper was taken possession of by Rose, Blanche intended to devote herself to Maurice Treherne, but Annon intercepted her, and Octavia was spared any effort at politeness by this unexpected move on the part of her lover.

"He is angry, and wishes to pique me by devoting himself to Blanche. I wish he would, with all my heart, and leave me in peace. Poor Maurice, he expects me, and I long to go to him, but must obey Mamma." And Octavia went to join the group formed by my lady, Mrs. Snowdon, the general, and the major.

The two young couples flirted in different parts of the room, and Treherne sat alone, watching them all with eyes that pierced below the surface, reading the hidden wishes, hopes, and fears that ruled them. A singular expression sat on his face as he turned from Octavia's clear countenance to Mrs. Snowdon's gloomy one. He leaned his head upon his hand and fell into deep thought, for he was passing through one of those fateful moments which come to us all, and which may make or mar a life. Such moments come when least looked for: an unexpected meeting, a peculiar mood, some trivial circumstance, or careless word produces it, and often it is gone before we realize its presence, leaving aftereffects to show us what we have gained or lost. Treherne was conscious that the present hour, and the acts that filled it, possessed unusual interest, and would exert an unusual influence on his life. Before him was the good and evil genius of his nature in the guise of those two women. Edith Snowdon had already tried her power, and accident only had saved him. Octavia, all unconscious as she was, never failed to rouse and stimulate the noblest attributes of mind and heart. A year spent in her society had done much for him, and he loved her with a strange mingling of passion, reverence, and gratitude. He knew why Edith Snowdon came, he felt that the old fascination had not lost its charm, and though fear was unknown to him, he was ill pleased at the sight of the beautiful, dangerous woman. On the other hand, he saw that Lady Treherne desired her daughter to shun him and smile on Annon; he acknowledged that he had no right to win the young creature, crippled and poor as he was, and a pang of jealous pain wrung his heart as he watched her.

Then a sense of power came to him, for helpless, poor, and seemingly an object of pity, he yet felt that he held the honor, peace, and happiness of nearly every person present in his hands. It was a strong temptation to this man, so full of repressed passion and power, so set apart and shut out from the more stirring duties and pleasures of life. A few words from his lips, and the pity all felt for him would be turned to fear, respect, and admiration. Why not utter them, and enjoy all that was possible? He owed the Trehernes nothing; why suffer injustice, dependence, and the compassion that wounds a proud man deepest? Wealth, love, pleasure might be his with a breath. Why not secure them now?

His pale face flushed, his eye kindled, and his thin hand lay clenched like a vise as these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind. A look, a word at that moment would sway him; he felt it, and leaned forward, waiting in secret suspense for the glance, the speech which should decide him for good or ill. Who shall say what subtle instinct caused Octavia to turn and smile at him with a wistful, friendly look that warmed his heart? He met it with an answering glance, which thrilled her strangely, for love, gratitude, and some mysterious intelligence met and mingled in the brilliant yet soft expression which swiftly shone and faded in her face. What it was she could not tell; she only felt that it filled her with an indescribable emotion never experienced before. In an instant it all passed, Lady Treherne spoke to her, and Blanche Talbot addressed Maurice, wondering, as she did so, if the enchanting smile he wore was meant for her.

"Mr. Annon having mercifully set me free, I came to try to cheer your solitude; but you look as if solitude made you happier than society does the rest of us," she said without her usual affectation, for his manner impressed her.

"You are very kind and very welcome. I do find pleasures to beguile my loneliness, which gayer people would not enjoy, and it is well that I can, else I should turn morose and tyrannical, and doom some unfortunate to entertain me all day long." He answered with a gentle courtesy which was his chief attraction to womankind.

"Pray tell me some of your devices, I'm often alone in spirit, if not so in the flesh, for Rose, though a dear girl, is not congenial, and I find no kindred soul."

A humorous glimmer came to Treherne's eyes, as the sentimental damsel beamed a soft sigh and drooped her long lashes effectively. Ignoring the topic of "kindred souls," he answered coldly, "My favorite amusement is studying the people around me. It may be rude, but tied to my corner, I cannot help watching the figures around me, and discovering their little plots and plans. I'm getting very expert, and really surprise myself sometimes by the depth of my researches."

"I can believe it; your eyes look as if they possessed that gift. Pray don't study me." And the girl shrank away with an air of genuine alarm.

Treherne smiled involuntarily, for he had read the secret of that shallow heart long ago, and was too generous to use the knowledge, however flattering it might be to him. In a reassuring tone he said, turning away the keen eyes she feared, "I give you my word I never will, charming as it might be to study the white pages of a maidenly heart. I find plenty of others to read, so rest tranquil, Miss Blanche."

"Who interests you most just now?" asked the girl, coloring with pleasure at his words. "Mrs. Snowdon looks like one who has a romance to be read, if you have the skill."

"I have read it. My lady is my study just now. I thought I knew her well, but of late she puzzles me. Human minds are more full of mysteries than any written book and more changeable than the cloud shapes in the air."

"A fine old lady, but I fear her so intensely I should never dare to try to read her, as you say." Blanche looked toward the object of discussion as she spoke, and added, "Poor Tavia, how forlorn she seems. Let me ask her to join us, may I?"

"With all my heart" was the quick reply.

Blanche glided away but did not return, for my lady kept her as well as her daughter.

"That test satisfies me; well, I submit for a time, but I think I can conquer my aunt yet." And with a patient sigh Treherne turned to observe Mrs. Snowdon.

She now stood by the fire talking with Sir Jasper, a handsome, reckless, generous-hearted young gentleman, who very plainly showed his great admiration for the lady. When he came, she suddenly woke up from her listless mood and became as brilliantly gay as she had been unmistakably melancholy before. As she chatted, she absently pushed to and fro a small antique urn of bronze on the chimneypiece, and in doing so she more than once gave Treherne a quick, significant glance, which he answered at last by a somewhat haughty nod. Then, as if satisfied, she ceased toying with the ornament and became absorbed in Sir Jasper's gallant badinage.

The instant her son approached Mrs. Snowdon, Madame Mère grew anxious, and leaving Octavia to her friends and lover, she watched Jasper. But her surveillance availed little, for she could neither see nor hear anything amiss, yet could not rid herself of the feeling that some mutual understanding existed between them. When the party broke up for the night, she lingered till all were gone but her son and nephew.

"Well, Madame Ma Mère, what troubles you?" asked Sir Jasper, as she looked anxiously into his face before bestowing her good-night kiss.

"I cannot tell, yet I feel ill at ease. Remember, my son, that you are the pride of my heart, and any sin or shame of yours would kill me. Good night, Maurice." And with a stately bow she swept away.

Lounging with both elbows on the low chimneypiece, Sir Jasper smiled at his mother's fears, and said to his cousin, the instant they were alone, "She is worried about E.S. Odd, isn't it, what instinctive antipathies women take to one another?"

"Why did you ask E.S. here?" demanded Treherne.

"My dear fellow, how could I help it? My mother wanted the general, my father's friend, and of course his wife must be asked also. I couldn't tell my mother that the lady had been a most arrant coquette, to put it mildly, and had married the old man in a pet, because my cousin and I declined to be ruined by her."

"You could have told her what mischief she makes wherever she goes, and for Octavia's sake have deferred the general's visit for a time. I warn you, Jasper, harm will come of it."

"To whom, you or me?"

"To both, perhaps, certainly to you. She was disappointed once when she lost us both by wavering between your title and my supposed fortune. She is miserable with the old man, and her only hope is in his death, for he is very feeble. You are free, and doubly attractive now, so beware, or she will entangle you before you know it."

"Thanks, Mentor. I've no fear, and shall merely amuse myself for a week -- they stay no longer." And with a careless laugh, Sir Jasper strolled away.

"Much mischief may be done in a week, and this is the beginning of it," muttered Treherne, as he raised himself to look under the bronze vase for the note. It was gone!



Chapter III


Who Was It?

Who had taken it? This question tormented Treherne all that sleepless night. He suspected three persons, for only these had approached the fire after the note was hidden. He had kept his eye on it, he thought, till the stir of breaking up. In that moment it must have been removed by the major, Frank Annon, or my lady; Sir Jasper was out of the question, for he never touched an ornament in the drawing room since he had awkwardly demolished a whole étagère of costly trifles, to his mother's and sister's great grief. The major evidently suspected something, Annon was jealous, and my lady would be glad of a pretext to remove her daughter from his reach. Trusting to his skill in reading faces, he waited impatiently for morning, resolving to say nothing to anyone but Mrs. Snowdon, and from her merely to inquire what the note contained.

Treherne usually was invisible till lunch, often till dinner; therefore, fearing to excite suspicion by unwonted activity, he did not appear till noon. The mailbag had just been opened, and everyone was busy over their letters, but all looked up to exchange a word with the newcomer, and Octavia impulsively turned to meet him, then checked herself and hid her suddenly crimsoned face behind a newspaper. Treherne's eye took in everything, and saw at once in the unusually late arrival of the mail a pretext for discovering the pilferer of the note.

"All have letters but me, yet I expected one last night. Major, have you got it among yours?" And as he spoke, Treherne fixed his penetrating eyes full on the person he addressed.

With no sign of consciousness, no trace of confusion, the major carefully turned over his pile, and replied in the most natural manner, "Not a trace of it; I wish there was, for nothing annoys me more than any delay or mistake about my letters."

He knows nothing of it, thought Treherne, and turned to Annon, who was deep in a long epistle from some intimate friend, with a talent for imparting news, to judge from the reader's interest.

"Annon, I appeal to you, for I must discover who has robbed me of my letter."

"I have but one, read it, if you will, and satisfy yourself" was the brief reply.

"No, thank you. I merely asked in joke; it is doubtless among my lady's. Jasper's letters and mine often get mixed, and my lady takes care of his for him. I think you must have it, Aunt."

Lady Treherne looked up impatiently. "My dear Maurice, what a coil about a letter! We none of us have it, so do not punish us for the sins of your correspondent or the carelessness of the post."

She was not the thief, for she is always intensely polite when she intends to thwart me, thought Treherne, and, apologizing for his rudeness in disturbing them, he rolled himself to his nook in a sunny window and became apparently absorbed in a new magazine.

Mrs. Snowdon was opening the general's letters for him, and, having finished her little task, she roamed away into the library, as if in search of a book. Presently returning with one, she approached Treherne, and, putting it into his hand, said, in her musically distinct voice, "Be so kind as to find for me the passage you spoke of last night. I am curious to see it."

Instantly comprehending her stratagem, he opened it with apparent carelessness, secured the tiny note laid among the leaves, and, selecting a passage at hazard, returned her book and resumed his own. Behind the cover of it he unfolded and read these words:

I understand, but do not be anxious; the line I left was merely this -- "I must see you alone, tell me when and where." No one can make much of it, and I will discover the thief before dinner. Do nothing, but watch to whom I speak first on entering, when we meet in the evening, and beware of that person.

Quietly transferring the note to the fire with the wrapper of the magazine, he dismissed the matter from his mind and left Mrs. Snowdon to play detective as she pleased, while he busied himself about his own affairs.

It was a clear, bright December day, and when the young people separated to prepare for a ride, while the general and the major sunned themselves on the terrace, Lady Treherne said to her nephew, "I am going for an airing in the pony carriage. Will you be my escort, Maurice?"

"With pleasure," replied the young man, well knowing what was in store for him.

My lady was unusually taciturn and grave, yet seemed anxious to say something which she found difficult to utter. Treherne saw this, and ended an awkward pause by dashing boldly into the subject which occupied both.

"I think you want to say something to me about Tavie, Aunt. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"Then let me spare you the pain of beginning, and prove my sincerity by openly stating the truth, as far as I am concerned. I love her very dearly, but I am not mad enough to dream of telling her so. I know that it is impossible, and I relinquish my hopes. Trust me. I will keep silent and see her marry Annon without a word of complaint, if you will it. I see by her altered manner that you have spoken to her, and that my little friend and nurse is to be mine no longer. Perhaps you are wise, but if you do this on my account, it is in vain -- the mischief is done, and while I live I shall love my cousin. If you do it to spare her, I am dumb, and will go away rather than cause her a care or pain."

"Do you really mean this, Maurice?" And Lady Treherne looked at him with a changed and softened face.

Turning upon her, Treherne showed her a countenance full of suffering and sincerity, of resignation and resolve, as he said earnestly, "I do mean it; prove me in any way you please. I am not a bad fellow, Aunt, and I desire to be better. Since my misfortune I've had time to test many things, myself among others, and in spite of many faults, I do cherish the wish to keep my soul honest and true, even though my body be a wreck. It is easy to say these things, but in spite of temptation, I think I can stand firm, if you trust me."

"My dear boy, I do trust you, and thank you gratefully for this frankness. I never forget that I owe Jasper's life to you, and never expect to repay that debt. Remember this when I seem cold or unkind, and remember also that I say now, had you been spared this affliction, I would gladly have given you my girl. But -- "

"But, Aunt, hear one thing," broke in Treherne. "They tell me that any sudden and violent shock of surprise, joy, or sorrow may do for me what they hope time will achieve. I said nothing of this, for it is but a chance; yet, while there is any hope, need I utterly renounce Octavia?"

"It is hard to refuse, and yet I cannot think it wise to build upon a chance so slight. Once let her have you, and both are made unhappy, if the hope fail. No, Maurice, it is better to be generous, and leave her free to make her own happiness elsewhere. Annon loves her, she is heart-whole, and will soon learn to love him, if you are silent. My poor boy, it seems cruel, but I must say it."

"Shall I go away, Aunt?" was all his answer, very firmly uttered, though his lips were white.

"Not yet, only leave them to themselves, and hide your trouble if you can. Yet, if you prefer, you shall go to town, and Benson shall see that you are comfortable. Your health will be a reason, and I will come, or write often, if you are homesick. It shall depend on you, for I want to be just and kind in this hard case. You shall decide."

"Then I will stay. I can hide my love; and to see them together will soon cease to wound me, if Octavia is happy."

"So let it rest then, for a time. You shall miss your companion as little as possible, for I will try to fill her place. Forgive me, Maurice, and pity a mother's solicitude, for these two are the last of many children, and I am a widow now."

Lady Treherne's voice faltered, and if any selfish hope or plan lingered in her nephew's mind, that appeal banished it and touched his better nature. Pressing her hand he said gently, "Dear Aunt, do not lament over me. I am one set apart for afflictions, yet I will not be conquered by them. Let us forget my youth and be friendly counselors together for the good of the two whom we both love. I must say a word about Jasper, and you will not press me to explain more than I can without breaking my promise."

"Thank you, thank you! It is regarding that woman, I know. Tell me all you can; I will not be importunate, but I disliked her the instant I saw her, beautiful and charming as she seems."

"When my cousin and I were in Paris, just before my illness, we met her. She was with her father then, a gay old man who led a life of pleasure, and was no fit guardian for a lovely daughter. She knew our story and, having fascinated both, paused to decide which she would accept: Jasper, for his title, or me, for my fortune. This was before my uncle changed his will, and I believed myself his heir; but, before she made her choice, something (don't ask me what, if you please) occurred to send us from Paris. On our return voyage we were wrecked, and then came my illness, disinheritance, and helplessness. Edith Dubarry heard the story, but rumor reported it falsely, and she believed both of us had lost the fortune. Her father died penniless, and in a moment of despair she married the general, whose wealth surrounds her with the luxury she loves, and whose failing health will soon restore her liberty -- "

"And then, Maurice?" interrupted my lady.

"She hopes to win Jasper, I think."

"Never! We must prevent that at all costs. I had rather see him dead before me, than the husband of such a woman. Why is she permitted to visit homes like mine? I should have been told this sooner," exclaimed my lady angrily.

"I should have told you had I known it, and I reproved Jasper for his neglect. Do not be needlessly troubled, Aunt. There is no blemish on Mrs. Snowdon's name, and, as the wife of a brave and honorable man, she is received without question; for beauty, grace, or tact like hers can make their way anywhere. She stays but a week, and I will devote myself to her; this will save Jasper, and, if necessary, convince Tavie of my indifference -- " Then he paused to stifle a sigh.

"But yourself, have you no fears for your own peace, Maurice? You must not sacrifice happiness or honor, for me or mine."

"I am safe; I love my cousin, and that is my shield. Whatever happens remember that I tried to serve you, and sincerely endeavored to forget myself."

"God bless you, my son! Let me call you so, and feel that, though I deny you my daughter, I give you heartily a mother's care and affection."

Lady Treherne was as generous as she was proud, and her nephew had conquered her by confidence and submission. He acted no part, yet, even in relinquishing all, he cherished a hope that he might yet win the heart he coveted. Silently they parted, but from that hour a new and closer bond existed between the two, and exerted an unsuspected influence over the whole household.

*    *    *    *    *

Maurice waited with some impatience for Mrs. Snowdon's entrance, not only because of his curiosity to see if she had discovered the thief, but because of the part he had taken upon himself to play. He was equal to it, and felt a certain pleasure in it for a threefold reason. It would serve his aunt and cousin, would divert his mind from its own cares, and, perhaps by making Octavia jealous, waken love; for, though he had chosen the right, he was but a man, and moreover a lover.

Mrs. Snowdon was late. She always was, for her toilet was elaborate, and she liked to enjoy its effects upon others. The moment she entered Treherne's eye was on her, and to his intense surprise and annoyance she addressed Octavia, saying blandly, "My dear Miss Treherne, I've been admiring your peacocks. Pray let me see you feed them tomorrow. Miss Talbot says it is a charming sight."

"If you are on the terrace just after lunch, you will find them there, and may feed them yourself, if you like" was the cool, civil reply.

"She looks like a peacock herself in that splendid green and gold dress, doesn't she?" whispered Rose to Sir Jasper, with a wicked laugh.

"Faith, so she does. I wish Tavie's birds had voices like Mrs. Snowdon's; their squalling annoys me intensely."

"I rather like it, for it is honest, and no malice or mischief is hidden behind it. I always distrust those smooth, sweet voices; they are insincere. I like a full, clear tone; sharp, if you please, but decided and true."

"Well said, Octavia. I agree with you, and your own is a perfect sample of the kind you describe." And Treherne smiled as he rolled by to join Mrs. Snowdon, who evidently waited for him, while Octavia turned to her brother to defend her pets.

"Are you sure? How did you discover?" said Maurice, affecting to admire the lady's bouquet, as he paused beside her.

"I suspected it the moment I saw her this morning. She is no actress; and dislike, distrust, and contempt were visible in her face when we met. Till you so cleverly told me my note was lost, I fancied she was disturbed about her brother -- or you."

A sudden pause and a keen glance followed the last softly uttered word, but Treherne met it with an inscrutable smile and a quiet "Well, what next?"

"The moment I learned that you did not get the note I was sure she had it, and, knowing that she must have seen me put it there, in spite of her apparent innocence, I quietly asked her for it. This surprised her, this robbed the affair of any mystery, and I finished her perplexity by sending it to the major the moment she returned it to me, as if it had been intended for him. She begged pardon, said her brother was thoughtless, and she watched over him lest he should get into mischief; professed to think I meant the line for him, and behaved like a charming simpleton, as she is."

"Quite a tumult about nothing. Poor little Tavie! You doubtlessly frightened her so that we may safely correspond hereafter."

"You may give me an answer, now and here."

"Very well, meet me on the terrace tomorrow morning; the peacocks will make the meeting natural enough. I usually loiter away an hour or two there, in the sunny part of the day."

"But the girl?"

"I'll send her away."

"You speak as if it would be an easy thing to do."

"It will, both easy and pleasant."

"Now you are mysterious or uncomplimentary. You either care nothing for a tête-à-tête with her, or you will gladly send her out of my way. Which is it?"

"You shall decide. Can I have this?"

She looked at him as he touched a rose with a warning glance, for the flower was both an emblem of love and of silence. Did he mean to hint that he recalled the past, or to warn her that someone was near? She leaned from the shadow of the curtain where she sat, and caught a glimpse of a shadow gliding away.

"Who was it?" she asked, below her breath.

"A Rose," he answered, laughing. Then, as if the danger was over, he said, "How will you account to the major for the message you sent him?"

"Easily, by fabricating some interesting perplexity in which I want sage counsel. He will be flattered, and by seeming to take him into my confidence, I can hoodwink the excellent man to my heart's content, for he annoys me by his odd way of mounting guard over me at all times. Now take me in to dinner, and be your former delightful self."

"That is impossible," he said, yet proved that it was not.



Chapter IV


Feeding The Peacocks

It was indeed a charming sight, the twelve stately birds perched on the broad stone balustrade, or prancing slowly along the terrace, with the sun gleaming on their green and golden necks and the glories of their gorgeous plumes, widespread, or sweeping like rich trains behind them. In pretty contrast to the splendid creatures was their young mistress, in her simple morning dress and fur-trimmed hood and mantle, as she stood feeding the tame pets from her hand, calling their fanciful names, laughing at their pranks, and heartily enjoying the winter sunshine, the fresh wind, and the girlish pastime. As Treherne slowly approached, he watched her with lover's eyes, and found her very sweet and blithe, and dearer in his sight than ever. She had shunned him carefully all the day before, had parted at night with a hasty handshake, and had not come as usual to bid him good-morning in the library. He had taken no notice of the change as yet, but now, remembering his promise to his aunt, he resolved to let the girl know that he fully understood the relation which henceforth was to exist between them.

"Good-morning, cousin. Shall I drive you away, if I take a turn or two here?" he said, in a cheerful tone, but with a half-reproachful glance.

She looked at him an instant, then went to him with extended hand and cheeks rosier than before, while her frank eyes filled, and her voice had a traitorous tremor in it, as she said, impetuously: "I will be myself for a moment, in spite of everything. Maurice, don't think me unkind, don't reproach me, or ask my leave to come where I am. There is a reason for the change you see in me; it's not caprice, it is obedience."

"My dear girl, I know it. I meant to speak of it, and show you that I understand. Annon is a good fellow, as worthy of you as any man can be, and I wish you all the happiness you deserve."

"Do you?" And her eyes searched his face keenly.

"Yes; do you doubt it?" And so well did he conceal his love, that neither face, voice, nor manner betrayed a hint of it.

Her eyes fell, a cloud passed over her clear countenance, and she withdrew her hand, as if to caress the hungry bird that gently pecked at the basket she held. As if to change the conversation, she said playfully, "Poor Argus, you have lost your fine feathers, and so all desert you, except kind little Juno, who never forgets her friends. There, take it all, and share between you."

Treherne smiled, and said quickly, "I am a human Argus, and you have been a kind little Juno to me since I lost my plumes. Continue to be so, and you will find me a very faithful friend."

"I will." And as she answered, her old smile came back and her eyes met his again.

"Thanks! Now we shall get on happily. I don't ask or expect the old life -- that is impossible. I knew that when lovers came, the friend would fall into the background; and I am content to be second, where I have so long been first. Do not think you neglect me; be happy with your lover, dear, and when you have no pleasanter amusement, come and see old Maurice."

She turned her head away, that he might not see the angry color in her cheeks, the trouble in her eyes, and when she spoke, it was to say petulantly, "I wish Jasper and Mamma would leave me in peace. I hate lovers and want none. If Frank teases, I'll go into a convent and so be rid of him."

Maurice laughed, and turned her face toward himself, saying, in his persuasive voice, "Give him a trial first, to please your mother. It can do no harm and may amuse you. Frank is already lost, and, as you are heart-whole, why not see what you can do for him? I shall have a new study, then, and not miss you so much."

"You are very kind; I'll do my best. I wish Mrs. Snowdon would come, if she is coming; I've an engagement at two, and Frank will look tragical if I'm not ready. He is teaching me billiards, and I really like the game, though I never thought I should."

"That looks well. I hope you'll learn a double lesson, and Annon find a docile pupil in both."

"You are very pale this morning; are you in pain, Maurice?" suddenly asked Octavia, dropping the tone of assumed ease and gaiety under which she had tried to hide her trouble.

"Yes, but it will soon pass. Mrs. Snowdon is coming. I saw her at the hall door a moment ago. I will show her the peacocks, if you want to go. She won't mind the change, I dare say, as you don't like her, and I do."

"No, I am sure of that. It was an arrangement, perhaps? I understand. I will not play Mademoiselle De Trop."

Sudden fire shone in the girl's eyes, sudden contempt curled her lip, and a glance full of meaning went from her cousin to the door, where Mrs. Snowdon appeared, waiting for her maid to bring her some additional wrappings.

"You allude to the note you stole. How came you to play that prank, Tavie?" asked Treherne tranquilly.

"I saw her put it under the urn. I thought it was for Jasper, and I took it," she said boldly.

"Why for Jasper?"

"I remembered his speaking of meeting her long ago, and describing her beauty enthusiastically -- and so did you."

"You have a good memory."

"I have for everything concerning those I love. I observed her manner of meeting my brother, his devotion to her, and, when they stood laughing together before the fire, I felt sure that she wished to charm him again."

"Again? Then she did charm him once?" asked Treherne, anxious to know how much Jasper had told his sister.

"He always denied it, and declared that you were the favorite."

"Then why not think the note for me?" he asked.

"I do now" was the sharp answer.

"But she told you it was for the major, and sent it."

"She deceived me; I am not surprised. I am glad Jasper is safe, and I wish you a pleasant tête-à-tête."

Bowing with unwonted dignity, Octavia set down her basket, and walked away in one direction as Mrs. Snowdon approached in another.

"I have done it now," sighed Treherne, turning from the girlish figure to watch the stately creature who came sweeping toward him with noiseless grace.

Brilliancy and splendor became Mrs. Snowdon; she enjoyed luxury, and her beauty made many things becoming which in a plainer woman would have been out of taste, and absurd. She had wrapped herself in a genuine Eastern burnous of scarlet, blue, and gold; the hood drawn over her head framed her fine face in rich hues, and the great gilt tassels shone against her rippling black hair. She wore it with grace, and the barbaric splendor of the garment became her well. The fresh air touched her cheeks with a delicate color; her usually gloomy eyes were brilliant now, and the smile that parted her lips was full of happiness.

"Welcome, Cleopatra!" cried Treherne, with difficulty repressing a laugh, as the peacocks screamed and fled before the rustling amplitude of her drapery.

"I might reply by calling you Thaddeus of Warsaw, for you look very romantic and Polish with your pale, pensive face, and your splendid furs," she answered, as she paused beside him with admiration very visibly expressed in her eyes.

Treherne disliked the look, and rather abruptly said, as he offered her the basket of bread, "I have disposed of my cousin, and offered to do the honors of the peacocks. Here they are -- will you feed them?"

"No, thank you -- I care nothing for the fowls, as you know; I came to speak to you," she said impatiently.

"I am at your service."

"I wish to ask you a question or two -- is it permitted?"

"What man ever refused Mrs. Snowdon a request?"

"Nay, no compliments; from you they are only satirical evasions. I was deceived when abroad, and rashly married that old man. Tell me truly how things stand."

"Jasper has all. I have nothing."

"I am glad of it."

"Many thanks for the hearty speech. You at least speak sincerely," he said bitterly.

"I do, Maurice -- I do; let me prove it."

Treherne's chair was close beside the balustrade. Mrs. Snowdon leaned on the carved railing, with her back to the house and her face screened by a tall urn. Looking steadily at him, she said rapidly and low, "You thought I wavered between you and Jasper, when we parted two years ago. I did; but it was not between title and fortune that I hesitated. It was between duty and love. My father, a fond, foolish old man, had set his heart on seeing me a lady. I was his all; my beauty was his delight, and no untitled man was deemed worthy of me. I loved him tenderly. You may doubt this, knowing how selfish, reckless, and vain I am, but I have a heart, and with better training had been a better woman. No matter, it is too late now. Next my father, I loved you. Nay, hear me -- I will clear myself in your eyes. I mean no wrong to the general. He is kind, indulgent, generous; I respect him -- I am grateful, and while he lives, I shall be true to him."

"Then be silent now. Do not recall the past, Edith; let it sleep, for both our sakes," began Treherne; but she checked him imperiously.

"It shall, when I am done. I loved you, Maurice; for, of all the gay, idle, pleasure-seeking men I saw about me, you were the only one who seemed to have a thought beyond the folly of the hour. Under the seeming frivolity of your life lay something noble, heroic, and true. I felt that you had a purpose, that your present mood was but transitory -- a young man's holiday, before the real work of his life began. This attracted, this won me; for even in the brief regard you then gave me, there was an earnestness no other man had shown. I wanted your respect; I longed to earn your love, to share your life, and prove that even in my neglected nature slept the power of canceling a frivolous past by a noble future. Oh, Maurice, had you lingered one week more, I never should have been the miserable thing I am!"

There her voice faltered and failed, for all the bitterness of lost love, peace, and happiness sounded in the pathetic passion of that exclamation. She did not weep, for tears seldom dimmed those tragical eyes of hers; but she wrung her hands in mute despair, and looked down into the frost-blighted gardens below, as if she saw there a true symbol of her own ruined life. Treherne uttered not a word, but set his teeth with an almost fierce glance toward the distant figure of Sir Jasper, who was riding gaily away, like one unburdened by a memory or a care.

Hurriedly Mrs. Snowdon went on, "My father begged and commanded me to choose your cousin. I could not break his heart, and asked for time, hoping to soften him. While I waited, that mysterious affair hurried you from Paris, and then came the wreck, the illness, and the rumor that old Sir Jasper had disinherited both nephews. They told me you were dying, and I became a passive instrument in my father's hands. I promised to recall and accept your cousin, but the old man died before it was done, and then I cared not what became of me.

"General Snowdon was my father's friend; he pitied me; he saw my desolate, destitute state, my despair and helplessness. He comforted, sustained, and saved me. I was grateful; and when he offered me his heart and home, I accepted them. He knew I had no love to give; but as a friend, a daughter, I would gladly serve him, and make his declining years as happy as I could. It was all over, when I heard that you were alive, afflicted, and poor. I longed to come and live for you. My new bonds became heavy fetters then, my wealth oppressed me, and I was doubly wretched -- for I dared not tell my trouble, and it nearly drove me mad. I have seen you now; I know that you are happy; I read your cousin's love and see a peaceful life in store for you. This must content me, and I must learn to bear it as I can."

She paused, breathless and pale, and walked rapidly along the terrace, as if to hide or control the agitation that possessed her.

Treherne still sat silent, but his heart leaped within him, as he thought, "She sees that Octavia loves me! A woman's eye is quick to detect love in another, and she asserts what I begin to hope. My cousin's manner just now, her dislike of Annon, her new shyness with me; it may be true, and if it is -- Heaven help me -- what am I saying! I must not hope, nor wish, nor dream; I must renounce and forget."

He leaned his head upon his hand, and sat so still Mrs. Snowdon rejoined him, pale, but calm and self-possessed. As she drew near, she marked his attitude, the bitter sadness of his face, and hope sprang up within her. Perhaps she was mistaken; perhaps he did not love his cousin; perhaps he still remembered the past, and still regretted the loss of the heart she had just laid bare before him. Her husband was failing, and might die any day. And then, free, rich, beautiful, and young, what might she not become to Treherne, helpless, poor, and ambitious? With all her faults, she was generous, and this picture charmed her fancy, warmed her heart, and comforted her pain.

"Maurice," she said softly, pausing again beside him, "if I mistake you and your hopes, it is because I dare ask nothing for myself; but if ever a time shall come when I have liberty to give or help, ask of me anything, and it is gladly yours."

He understood her, pitied her, and, seeing that she found consolation in a distant hope, he let her enjoy it while she might. Gravely, yet gratefully, he spoke, and pressed the hand extended to him with an impulsive gesture.

"Generous as ever, Edith, and impetuously frank. Thank you for your sincerity, your kindness, and the affection you once gave me. I say 'once,' for now duty, truth, and honor bar us from each other. My life must be solitary, yet I shall find work to do, and learn to be content. You owe all devotion to the good old man who loves you, and will not fail him, I am sure. Leave the future and the past, but let us make the present what it may be -- a time to forgive and forget, to take heart and begin anew. Christmas is a fitting time for such resolves, and the birth of friendship such as ours may be."

Something in his tone and manner struck her, and, eyeing him with soft wonder, she exclaimed, "How changed you are!"

"Need you tell me that?" And he glanced at his helpless limbs with a bitter yet pathetic look of patience.

"No, no -- not so! I mean in mind, not body. Once you were gay and careless, eager and fiery, like Jasper; now you are grave and quiet, or cheerful, and so very kind. Yet, in spite of illness and loss, you seem twice the man you were, and something wins respect, as well as admiration -- and love."

Her dark eyes filled as the last word left her lips, and the beauty of a touched heart shone in her face. Maurice looked up quickly, asking with sudden earnestness, "Do you see it? Then it is true. Yes, I am changed, thank God! And she has done it."

"Who?" demanded his companion jealously.

"Octavia. Unconsciously, yet surely, she has done much for me, and this year of seeming loss and misery has been the happiest, most profitable of my life. I have often heard that afflictions were the best teachers, and I believe it now."

Mrs. Snowdon shook her head sadly.

"Not always; they are tormentors to some. But don't preach, Maurice. I am still a sinner, though you incline to sainthood, and I have one question more to ask. What was it that took you and Jasper so suddenly away from Paris?"

"That I can never tell you."

"I shall discover it for myself, then."

"It is impossible."

"Nothing is impossible to a determined woman."

"You can neither wring, surprise, nor bribe this secret from the two persons who hold it. I beg of you to let it rest," said Treherne earnestly.

"I have a clue, and I shall follow it; for I am convinced that something is wrong, and you are -- "

"Dear Mrs. Snowdon, are you so charmed with the birds that you forget your fellow-beings, or so charmed with one fellow-being that you forget the birds?"

As the sudden question startled both, Rose Talbot came along the terrace, with hands full of holly and a face full of merry mischief, adding as she vanished, "I shall tell Tavie that feeding the peacocks is such congenial amusement for lovers, she and Mr. Annon had better try it."

"Saucy gypsy!" muttered Treherne.

But Mrs. Snowdon said, with a smile of double meaning, "Many a true word is spoken in jest."



Chapter V


Under The Mistletoe

Unusually gay and charming the three young friends looked, dressed alike in fleecy white with holly wreaths in their hair, as they slowly descended the wide oaken stairway arm in arm. A footman was lighting the hall lamps, for the winter dusk gathered early, and the girls were merrily chatting about the evening's festivity when suddenly a loud, long shriek echoed through the hall. A heavy glass shade fell from the man's hand with a crash, and the young ladies clung to one another aghast, for mortal terror was in the cry, and a dead silence followed it.

"What was it, John?" demanded Octavia, very pale, but steady in a moment.

"I'll go and see, miss." And the man hurried away.

"Where did the dreadful scream come from?" asked Rose, collecting her wits as rapidly as possible.

"Above us somewhere. Oh, let us go down among people; I am frightened to death," whispered Blanche, trembling and faint.

Hurrying into the parlor, they found only Annon and the major, both looking startled, and both staring out of the windows.

"Did you hear it? What could it be? Don't go and leave us!" cried the girls in a breath, as they rushed in.

The gentlemen had heard, couldn't explain the cry, and were quite ready to protect the pretty creatures who clustered about them like frightened fawns. John speedily appeared, looking rather wild, and as eager to tell his tale as they to listen.

"It's Patty, one of the maids, miss, in a fit. She went up to the north gallery to see that the fires was right, for it takes a power of wood to warm the gallery even enough for dancing, as you know, miss. Well, it was dark, for the fires was low and her candle went out as she whisked open the door, being flurried, as the maids always is when they go in there. Halfway down the gallery she says she heard a rustling, and stopped. She's the pluckiest of 'em all, and she called out, 'I see you!' thinking it was some of us trying to fright her. Nothing answered, and she went on a bit, when suddenly the fire flared up one flash, and there right before her was the ghost."

"Don't be foolish, John. Tell us what it was," said Octavia sharply, though her face whitened and her heart sank as the last word passed the man's lips.

"It was a tall, black figger, miss, with a dead-white face and a black hood. She see it plain, and turned to go away, but she hadn't gone a dozen steps when there it was again before her, the same tall, dark thing with the dead-white face looking out from the black hood. It lifted its arm as if to hold her, but she gave a spring and dreadful screech, and ran to Mrs. Benson's room, where she dropped in a fit."

"How absurd to be frightened by the shadows of the figures in armor that stand along the gallery!" said Rose, boldly enough, though she would have declined entering the gallery without a light.

"Nay, I don't wonder, it's a ghostly place at night. How is the poor thing?" asked Blanche, still hanging on the major's arm in her best attitude.

"If Mamma knows nothing of it, tell Mrs. Benson to keep it from her, please. She is not well, and such things annoy her very much," said Octavia, adding as the man turned away, "Did anyone look in the gallery after Patty told her tale?"

"No, miss. I'll go and do it myself; I'm not afraid of man, ghost, or devil, saving your presence, ladies," replied John.

"Where is Sir Jasper?" suddenly asked the major.

"Here I am. What a deuce of a noise someone has been making. It disturbed a capital dream. Why, Tavie, what is it?" And Sir Jasper came out of the library with a sleepy face and tumbled hair.

They told him the story, whereat he laughed heartily, and said the maids were a foolish set to be scared by a shadow. While he still laughed and joked, Mrs. Snowdon entered, looking alarmed, and anxious to know the cause of the confusion.

"How interesting! I never knew you kept a ghost. Tell me all about it, Sir Jasper, and soothe our nerves by satisfying our curiosity," she said in her half-persuasive, half-commanding way, as she seated herself on Lady Treherne's sacred sofa.

"There's not much to tell, except that this place used to be an abbey, in fact as well as in name. An ancestor founded it, and for years the monks led a jolly life here, as one may see, for the cellar is twice as large as the chapel, and much better preserved. But another ancestor, a gay and gallant baron, took a fancy to the site for his castle, and, in spite of prayers, anathemas, and excommunication, he turned the poor fellows out, pulled down the abbey, and built this fine old place. Abbot Boniface, as he left his abbey, uttered a heavy curse on all who should live here, and vowed to haunt us till the last Treherne vanished from the face of the earth. With this amiable threat the old party left Baron Roland to his doom, and died as soon as he could in order to begin his cheerful mission."

"Did he haunt the place?" asked Blanche eagerly.

"Yes, most faithfully from that time to this. Some say many of the monks still glide about the older parts of the abbey, for Roland spared the chapel and the north gallery which joined it to the modern building. Poor fellows, they are welcome, and once a year they shall have a chance to warm their ghostly selves by the great fires always kindled at Christmas in the gallery."

"Mrs. Benson once told me that when the ghost walked, it was a sure sign of a coming death in the family. Is that true?" asked Rose, whose curiosity was excited by the expression of Octavia's face, and a certain uneasiness in Sir Jasper's manner in spite of his merry mood.

"There is a stupid superstition of that sort in the family, but no one except the servants believes it, of course. In times of illness some silly maid or croaking old woman can easily fancy they see a phantom, and, if death comes, they are sure of the ghostly warning. Benson saw it before my father died, and old Roger, the night my uncle was seized with apoplexy. Patty will never be made to believe that this warning does not forebode the death of Maurice or myself, for the gallant spirit leaves the ladies of our house to depart in peace. How does it strike you, Cousin?"

Turning as he spoke, Sir Jasper glanced at Treherne, who had entered while he spoke.

"I am quite skeptical and indifferent to the whole affair, but I agree with Octavia that it is best to say nothing to my aunt if she is ignorant of the matter. Her rooms are a long way off, and perhaps she did not hear the confusion."

"You seem to hear everything; you were not with us when I said that." And Octavia looked up with an air of surprise.

Smiling significantly, Treherne answered, "I hear, see, and understand many things that escape others. Jasper, allow me to advise you to smooth the hair which your sleep has disarranged. Mrs. Snowdon, permit me. This rich velvet catches the least speck." And with his handkerchief he delicately brushed away several streaks of white dust which clung to the lady's skirt.

Sir Jasper turned hastily on his heel and went to remake his toilet; Mrs. Snowdon bit her lip, but thanked Treherne sweetly and begged him to fasten her glove. As he did so, she said softly, "Be more careful next time. Octavia has keen eyes, and the major may prove inconvenient."

"I have no fear that you will," he whispered back, with a malicious glance.

Here the entrance of my lady put an end to the ghostly episode, for it was evident that she knew nothing of it. Octavia slipped away to question John, and learn that no sign of a phantom was to be seen. Treherne devoted himself to Mrs. Snowdon, and the major entertained my lady, while Sir Jasper and the girls chatted apart.

It was Christmas Eve, and a dance in the great gallery was the yearly festival at the abbey. All had been eager for it, but the maid's story seemed to have lessened their enthusiasm, though no one would own it. This annoyed Sir Jasper, and he exerted himself to clear the atmosphere by affecting gaiety he did not feel. The moment the gentlemen came in after dinner he whispered to his mother, who rose, asked the general for his arm, and led the way to the north gallery, whence the sound of music now proceeded. The rest followed in a merry procession, even Treherne, for two footmen carried him up the great stairway, chair and all.

Nothing could look less ghostly now than the haunted gallery. Fires roared up a wide chimney at either end, long rows of figures clad in armor stood on each side, one mailed hand grasping a lance, the other bearing a lighted candle, a device of Sir Jasper's. Narrow windows pierced in the thick walls let in gleams of wintry moonlight; ivy, holly, and evergreen glistened in the ruddy glow of mingled firelight and candle shine. From the arched stone roof hung tattered banners, and in the midst depended a great bunch of mistletoe. Red-cushioned seats stood in recessed window nooks, and from behind a high-covered screen of oak sounded the blithe air of Sir Roger de Coverley.

With the utmost gravity and stateliness my lady and the general led off the dance, for, according to the good old fashion, the men and maids in their best array joined the gentlefolk and danced with their betters in a high state of pride and bashfulness. Sir Jasper twirled the old housekeeper till her head spun around and around and her decorous skirts rustled stormily; Mrs. Snowdon captivated the gray-haired butler by her condescension; and John was made a proud man by the hand of his young mistress. The major came out strong among the pretty maids, and Rose danced the footmen out of breath long before the music paused.

The merriment increased from that moment, and when the general surprised my lady by gallantly saluting her as she unconsciously stood under the mistletoe, the applause was immense. Everyone followed the old gentleman's example as fast as opportunities occurred, and the young ladies soon had as fine a color as the housemaids. More dancing, games, songs, and all manner of festival devices filled the evening, yet under cover of the gaiety more than one little scene was enacted that night, and in an hour of seeming frivolity the current of several lives was changed.

By a skillful maneuver Annon led Octavia to an isolated recess, as if to rest after a brisk game, and, taking advantage of the auspicious hour, pleaded his suit. She heard him patiently and, when he paused, said slowly, yet decidedly, and with no sign of maiden hesitation, "Thanks for the honor you do me, but I cannot accept it, for I do not love you. I think I never can."

"Have you tried?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, indeed I have. I like you as a friend, but no more. I know Mamma desires it, that Jasper hopes for it, and I try to please them, but love will not be forced, so what can I do?" And she smiled in spite of herself at her own blunt simplicity.

"No, but it can be cherished, strengthened, and in time won, with patience and devotion. Let me try, Octavia; it is but fair, unless you have already learned from another the lesson I hope to teach. Is it so?"

"No, I think not. I do not understand myself as yet, I am so young, and this so sudden. Give me time, Frank."

She blushed and fluttered now, looked half angry, half beseeching, and altogether lovely.

"How much time shall I give? It cannot take long to read a heart like yours, dear." And fancying her emotion a propitious omen, he assumed the lover in good earnest.

"Give me time till the New Year. I will answer then, and, meantime, leave me free to study both myself and you. We have known each other long, I own, but, still, this changes everything, and makes you seem another person. Be patient, Frank, and I will try to make my duty a pleasure."

"I will. God bless you for the kind hope, Octavia. It has been mine for years, and if I lose it, it will go hardly with me."

Later in the evening General Snowdon stood examining the antique screen. In many places carved oak was pierced quite through, so that voices were audible from behind it. The musicians had gone down to supper, the young folk were quietly busy at the other end of the hall, and as the old gentleman admired the quaint carving, the sound of his own name caught his ear. The housekeeper and butler still remained, though the other servants had gone, and sitting cosily behind the screen chatted in low tones believing themselves secure.

"It was Mrs. Snowdon, Adam, as I'm a living woman, though I wouldn't say it to anyone but you. She and Sir Jasper were here wrapped in cloaks, and up to mischief, I'll be bound. She is a beauty, but I don't envy her, and there'll be trouble in the house if she stays long."

"But how do you know, Mrs. Benson, she was here? Where's your proof, mum?" asked the pompous butler.

"Look at this, and then look at the outlandish trimming of the lady's dress. You men are so dull about such matters you'd never observe these little points. Well, I was here first after Patty, and my light shone on this jet ornament lying near where she saw the spirit. No one has any such tasty trifles but Mrs. Snowdon, and these are all over her gown. If that ain't proof, what is?"

"Well, admitting it, I then say what on earth should she and Master be up here for, at such a time?" asked the slow-witted butler.

"Adam, we are old servants of the family, and to you I'll say what tortures shouldn't draw from to another. Master has been wild, as you know, and it's my belief that he loved this lady abroad. There was a talk of some mystery, or misdeed, or misfortune, more than a year ago, and she was in it. I'm loath to say it, but I think Master loves her still, and she him. The general is an old man, she is but young, and so spirited and winsome she can't in reason care for him as for a fine, gallant gentleman like Sir Jasper. There's trouble brewing, Adam, mark my words. There's trouble brewing for the Trehernes."

So low had the voices fallen that the listener could not have caught the words had not his ear been strained to the utmost. He did hear all, and his wasted face flashed with the wrath of a young man, then grew pale and stern as he turned to watch his wife. She stood apart from the others talking to Sir Jasper, who looked unusually handsome and debonair as he fanned her with a devoted air.

Perhaps it is true, thought the old man bitterly. They are well matched, were lovers once, no doubt, and long to be so again. Poor Edith, I was very blind. And with his gray head bowed upon his breast the general stole away, carrying an arrow in his brave old heart.

*    *    *    *    *

"Blanche, come here and rest, you will be ill tomorrow; and I promised Mamma to take care of you." With which elder-sisterly command Rose led the girl to an immense old chair, which held them both. "Now listen to me and follow my advice, for I am wise in my generation, though not yet gray. They are all busy, so leave them alone and let me show you what is to be done."

Rose spoke softly, but with great resolution, and nodded her pretty head so energetically that the holly berries came rolling over her white shoulders.

"We are not as rich as we might be, and must establish ourselves as soon and as well as possible. I intend to be Lady Treherne. You can be the Honorable Mrs. Annon, if you give your mind to it."

"My dear child, are you mad?" whispered Blanche.

"Far from it, but you will be if you waste your time on Maurice. He is poor, and a cripple, though very charming, I admit. He loves Tavie, and she will marry him, I am sure. She can't endure Frank, but tries to because my lady commands it. Nothing will come of it, so try your fascinations and comfort the poor man; sympathy now will foster love hereafter."

"Don't talk so here, Rose, someone will hear us," began her sister, but the other broke in briskly.

"No fear, a crowd is the best place for secrets. Now remember what I say, and make your game while the ball is rolling. Other people are careful not to put their plans into words, but I'm no hypocrite, and say plainly what I mean. Bear my sage counsel in mind and act wisely. Now come and begin."

Treherne was sitting alone by one of the great fires, regarding the gay scene with serious air. For him there was neither dancing nor games; he could only roam about catching glimpses of forbidden pleasures, impossible delights, and youthful hopes forever lost to him. Sad but not morose was his face, and to Octavia it was a mute reproach which she could not long resist. Coming up as if to warm herself, she spoke to him in her usually frank and friendly way, and felt her heart beat fast when she saw how swift a change her cordial manner wrought in him.

"How pretty your holly is! Do you remember how we used to go and gather it for festivals like this, when we were happy children?" he asked, looking up at her with eyes full of tender admiration.

"Yes, I remember. Everyone wears it tonight as a badge, but you have none. Let me get you a bit, I like to have you one of us in all things."

She leaned forward to break a green sprig from the branch over the chimneypiece; the strong draft drew in her fleecy skirt, and in an instant she was enveloped in flames.

"Maurice, save me, help me!" cried a voice of fear and agony, and before anyone could reach her, before he himself knew how the deed was done, Treherne had thrown himself from his chair, wrapped the tiger skin tightly about her, and knelt there clasping her in his arms heedless of fire, pain, or the incoherent expressions of love that broke from his lips.



Chapter VI


Miracles

Great was the confusion and alarm which reigned for many minutes, but when the panic subsided two miracles appeared. Octavia was entirely uninjured, and Treherne was standing on his feet, a thing which for months he had not done without crutches. In the excitement of the moment, no one observed the wonder; all were crowding about the girl, who, pale and breathless but now self-possessed, was the first to exclaim, pointing to her cousin, who had drawn himself up, with the help of his chair, and leaned there smiling, with a face full of intense delight.

"Look at Maurice! Oh, Jasper, help him or he'll fall!"

Sir Jasper sprung to his side and put a strong arm about him, while a chorus of wonder, sympathy, and congratulations rose about them.

"Why, lad, what does it mean? Have you been deceiving us all this time?" cried Jasper, as Treherne leaned on him, looking exhausted but truly happy.

"It means that I am not to be a cripple all my life; that they did not deceive me when they said a sudden shock might electrify me with a more potent magnetism than any they could apply. It has, and if I am cured I owe it all to you, Octavia."

He stretched his hands to her with a gesture of such passionate gratitude that the girl covered her face to hide its traitorous tenderness, and my lady went to him, saying brokenly, as she embraced him with maternal warmth, "God bless you for this act, Maurice, and reward you with a perfect cure. To you I owe the lives of both my children; how can I thank you as I ought?"

"I dare not tell you yet," he whispered eagerly, then added, "I am growing faint, Aunt. Get me away before I make a scene."

This hint recalled my lady to her usual state of dignified self-possession. Bidding Jasper and the major help Treherne to his room without delay, she begged Rose to comfort her sister, who was sobbing hysterically, and as they all obeyed her, she led her daughter away to her own apartment, for the festivities of the evening were at an end.

At the same time Mrs. Snowdon and Annon bade my lady good-night, as if they also were about to retire, but as they reached the door of the gallery Mrs. Snowdon paused and beckoned Annon back. They were alone now, and, standing before the fire which had so nearly made that Christmas Eve a tragical one, she turned to him with a face full of interest and sympathy as she said, nodding toward the blackened shreds of Octavia's dress, and the scorched tiger skin which still lay at their feet, "That was both a fortunate and an unfortunate little affair, but I fear Maurice's gain will be your loss. Pardon my frankness for Octavia's sake; she is a fine creature, and I long to see her given to one worthy of her. I am a woman to read faces quickly; I know that your suit does not prosper as you would have it, and I desire to help you. May I?"

"Indeed you may, and command any service of me in return. But to what do I owe this unexpected friendliness?" cried Annon, both grateful and surprised.

"To my regard for the young lady, my wish to save her from an unworthy man."

"Do you mean Treherne?" asked Annon, more and more amazed.

"I do. Octavia must not marry a gambler!"

"My dear lady, you labor under some mistake; Treherne is by no means a gambler. I owe him no goodwill, but I cannot hear him slandered."

"You are generous, but I am not mistaken. Can you, on your honor, assure me that Maurice never played?"

Mrs. Snowdon's keen eyes were on him, and he looked embarrassed for a moment, but answered with some hesitation, "Why, no, I cannot say that, but I can assure you that he is not an habitual gambler. All young men of his rank play more or less, especially abroad. It is merely an amusement with most, and among men is not considered dishonorable or dangerous. Ladies think differently, I believe, at least in England."

At the word "abroad," Mrs. Snowdon's face brightened, and she suddenly dropped her eyes, as if afraid of betraying some secret purpose.

"Indeed we do, and well we may, many of us having suffered from this pernicious habit. I have had special cause to dread and condemn it, and the fear that Octavia should in time suffer what I have suffered as a girl urges me to interfere where otherwise I should be dumb. Mr. Annon, there was a rumor that Maurice was forced to quit Paris, owing to some dishonorable practices at the gaming table. Is this true?"

"Nay, don't ask me; upon my soul I cannot tell you. I only know that something was amiss, but what I never learned. Various tales were whispered at the clubs, and Sir Jasper indignantly denied them all. The bravery with which Maurice saved his cousin, and the sad affliction which fell upon him, silenced the gossip, and it was soon forgotten."

Mrs. Snowdon remained silent for a moment, with brows knit in deep thought, while Annon uneasily watched her. Suddenly she glanced over her shoulder, drew nearer, and whispered cautiously, "Did the rumors of which you speak charge him with -- " and the last word was breathed into Annon's ear almost inaudibily.

He started, as if some new light broke on him, and stared at the speaker with a troubled face for an instant, saying hastily, "No, but now you remind me that when an affair of that sort was discussed the other day Treherne looked very odd, and rolled himself away, as if it didn't interest him. I can't believe it, and yet it may be something of the kind. That would account for old Sir Jasper's whim, and Treherne's steady denial of any knowledge of the cause. How in heaven's name did you learn this?"

"My woman's wit suggested it, and my woman's will shall confirm or destroy the suspicion. My lady and Octavia evidently know nothing, but they shall if there is any danger of the girl's being won by him."

"You would not tell her!" exclaimed Annon.

"I will, unless you do it" was the firm answer.

"Never! To betray a friend, even to gain the woman I love, is a thing I cannot do; my honor forbids it."

Mrs. Snowdon smiled scornfully.

"Men's code of honor is a strong one, and we poor women suffer from it. Leave this to me; do your best, and if all other means fail, you may be glad to try my device to prevent Maurice from marrying his cousin. Gratitude and pity are strong allies, and if he recovers, his strong will will move heaven and earth to gain her. Good night." And leaving her last words to rankle in Annon's mind, Mrs. Snowdon departed to endure sleepless hours full of tormenting memories, newborn hopes, and alternations of determination and despair.

Treherne's prospect of recovery filled the whole house with delight, for his patient courage and unfailing cheerfulness had endeared him to all. It was no transient amendment, for day by day he steadily gained strength and power, passing rapidly from chair to crutches, from crutches to a cane and a friend's arm, which was always ready for him. Pain returned with returning vitality, but he bore it with a fortitude that touched all who witnessed it. At times motion was torture, yet motion was necessary lest the torpidity should return, and Treherne took his daily exercise with unfailing perseverance, saying with a smile, though great drops stood upon his forehead, "I have something dearer even than health to win. Hold me up, Jasper, and let me stagger on, in spite of everything, till my twelve turns are made."

He remembered Lady Treherne's words, "If you were well, I'd gladly give my girl to you." This inspired him with strength, endurance, and a happiness which could not be concealed. It overflowed in looks, words, and acts; it infected everyone, and made these holidays the blithest the old abbey had seen for many a day.

Annon devoted himself to Octavia, and in spite of her command to be left in peace till the New Year, she was very kind -- so kind that hope flamed up in his heart, though he saw that something like compassion often shone on him from her frank eyes, and her compliance had no touch of the tender docility which lovers long to see. She still avoided Treherne, but so skillfully that few observed the change but Annon and himself. In public Sir Jasper appeared to worship at the sprightly Rose's shrine, and she fancied her game was prospering well.

But had any one peeped behind the scenes it would have been discovered that during the half hour before dinner, when everyone was in their dressing rooms and the general taking his nap, a pair of ghostly black figures flitted about the haunted gallery, where no servant ventured without orders. The major fancied himself the only one who had made this discovery, for Mrs. Snowdon affected Treherne's society in public, and was assiduous in serving and amusing the "dear convalescent," as she called him. But the general did not sleep; he too watched and waited, longing yet dreading to speak, and hoping that this was but a harmless freak of Edith's, for her caprices were many, and till now he had indulged them freely. This hesitation disgusted the major, who, being a bachelor, knew little of women's ways, and less of their powers of persuasion. The day before New Year he took a sudden resolution, and demanded a private interview with the general.

"I have come on an unpleasant errand, sir," he abruptly began, as the old man received him with an expression which rather daunted the major. "My friendship for Lady Treherne, and my guardianship of her children, makes me jealous of the honor of the family. I fear it is in danger, sir; pardon me for saying it, but your wife is the cause."

"May I trouble you to explain, Major Royston" was all the general's reply, as his old face grew stern and haughty.

"I will, sir, briefly. I happen to know from Jasper that there were love passages between Miss Dubarry and himself a year or more ago in Paris. A whim parted them, and she married. So far no reproach rests upon either, but since she came here it has been evident to others as well as myself that Jasper's affection has revived, and that Mrs. Snowdon does not reject and reprove it as she should. They often meet, and from Jasper's manner I am convinced that mischief is afloat. He is ardent, headstrong, and utterly regardless of the world's opinion in some cases. I have watched them, and what I tell you is true."

"Prove it."

"I will. They meet in the north gallery, wrapped in dark cloaks, and play ghost if anyone comes. I concealed myself behind the screen last evening at dusk, and satisfied myself that my suspicions were correct. I heard little of their conversation, but that little was enough."

"Repeat it, if you please."

"Sir Jasper seemed pleading for some promise which she reluctantly gave, saying, 'While you live I will be true to my word with everyone but him. He will suspect, and it will be useless to keep it from him.'

"'He will shoot me for this if he knows I am the traitor,' expostulated Jasper.

"'He shall not know that; I can hoodwink him easily, and serve my purpose also.'

"'You are mysterious, but I leave all to you and wait for my reward. When shall I have it, Edith?' She laughed, and answered so low I could not hear, for they left the gallery as they spoke. Forgive me, General, for the pain I inflict. You are the only person to whom I have spoken, and you are the only person who can properly and promptly prevent this affair from bringing open shame and scandal on an honorable house. To you I leave it, and will do my part with this infatuated young man if you will withdraw the temptation which will ruin him."

"I will. Thank you, Major. Trust to me, and by tomorrow I will prove that I can act as becomes me."

The grief and misery in the general's face touched the major; he silently wrung his hand and went away, thanking heaven more fervently than ever that no cursed coquette of a woman had it in her power to break his heart.

While this scene was going on above, another was taking place in the library. Treherne sat there alone, thinking happy thoughts evidently, for his eyes shone and his lips smiled as he mused, while watching the splendors of a winter sunset. A soft rustle and the faint scent of violets warned him of Mrs. Snowdon's approach, and a sudden foreboding told him that danger was near. The instant he saw her face his fear was confirmed, for exultation, resolve, and love met and mingled in the expression it wore. Leaning in the window recess, where the red light shone full on her lovely face and queenly figure, she said, softly yet with a ruthless accent below the softness, "Dreaming dreams, Maurice, which will never come to pass, unless I will it. I know your secret, and I shall use it to prevent the fulfillment of the foolish hope you cherish."

"Who told you?" he demanded, with an almost fierce flash of the eye and an angry flush.

"I discovered it, as I warned you I should. My memory is good, I recall the gossip of long ago, I observe the faces, words, and acts of those whom I suspect, and unconscious hints from them give me the truth."

"I doubt it," and Treherne smiled securely.

She stooped and whispered one short sentence into his ear. Whatever it was it caused him to start up with a pale, panic-stricken face, and eye her as if she had pronounced his doom.

"Do you doubt it now?" she asked coldly.

"He told you! Even your skill and craft could not discover it alone," he muttered.

"Nay, I told you nothing was impossible to a determined woman. I needed no help, for I knew more than you think."

He sank down again in a despairing attitude and hid his face, saying mournfully, "I might have known you would hunt me down and dash my hopes when they were surest. How will you use this unhappy secret?"

"I will tell Octavia, and make her duty less hard. It will be kind to both of you, for even with her this memory would mar your happiness; and it saves her from the shame and grief of discovering, when too late, that she has given herself to a -- "

"Stop!" he cried, in a tone that made her start and pale, as he rose out of his chair white with a stern indignation which awed her for a moment. "You shall not utter that word -- you know but half the truth, and if you wrong me or trouble the girl I will turn traitor also, and tell the general the game you are playing with my cousin. You feign to love me as you feigned before, but his title is the bait now as then, and you fancy that by threatening to mar my hopes you will secure my silence, and gain your end."

"Wrong, quite wrong. Jasper is nothing to me; I use him as a tool, not you. If I threaten, it is to keep you from Octavia, who cannot forgive the past and love you for yourself, as I have done all these miserable months. You say I know but half the truth. Tell me the whole and I will spare you."

If ever a man was tempted to betray a trust it was Treherne then. A word, and Octavia might be his; silence, and she might be lost; for this woman was in earnest, and possessed the power to ruin his good name forever. The truth leaped to his lips and would have passed them, had not his eye fallen on the portrait of Jasper's father. This man had loved and sheltered the orphan all his life, had made of him a son, and, dying, urged him to guard and serve and save the rebellious youth he left, when most needing a father's care.

"I promised, and I will keep my promise at all costs," sighed Treherne, and with a gesture full of pathetic patience he waved the fair tempter from him, saying steadily, "I will never tell you, though you rob me of that which is dearer than my life. Go and work your will, but remember that when you might have won the deepest gratitude of the man you profess to love, you chose instead to earn his hatred and contempt."

Waiting for no word of hers, he took refuge in his room, and Edith Snowdon sank down upon the couch, struggling with contending emotions of love and jealousy, remorse and despair. How long she sat there she could not tell; an approaching step recalled her to herself, and looking up she saw Octavia. As the girl approached down the long vista of the drawing rooms, her youth and beauty, innocence and candor touched that fairer and more gifted woman with an envy she had never known before. Something in the girl's face struck her instantly: a look of peace and purity, a sweet serenity more winning than loveliness, more impressive than dignity or grace. With a smile on her lips, yet a half-sad, half-tender light in her eyes, and a cluster of pale winter roses in her hand, she came on till she stood before her rival and, offering the flowers, said, in words as simple as sincere, "Dear Mrs. Snowdon, I cannot let the last sun of the old year set on any misdeeds of mine for which I may atone. I have disliked, distrusted, and misjudged you, and now I come to you in all humility to say forgive me."

With the girlish abandon of her impulsive nature Octavia knelt down before the woman who was plotting to destroy her happiness, laid the roses like a little peace offering on her lap, and with eloquently pleading eyes waited for pardon. For a moment Mrs. Snowdon watched her, fancying it a well-acted ruse to disarm a dangerous rival; but in that sweet face there was no art; one glance showed her that. The words smote her to the heart and won her in spite of pride or passion, as she suddenly took the girl into her arms, weeping repentant tears. Neither spoke, but in the silence each felt the barrier which had stood between them vanishing, and each learned to know the other better in that moment than in a year of common life. Octavia rejoiced that the instinct which had prompted her to make this appeal had not misled her, but assured her that behind the veil of coldness, pride, and levity which this woman wore there was a heart aching for sympathy and help and love. Mrs. Snowdon felt her worser self slip from her, leaving all that was true and noble to make her worthy of the test applied. Art she could meet with equal art, but nature conquered her. For spite of her misspent life and faulty character, the germ of virtue, which lives in the worst, was there, only waiting for the fostering sun and dew of love to strengthen it, even though the harvest be a late one.

"Forgive you!" she cried, brokenly. "It is I who should ask forgiveness of you -- I who should atone, confess, and repent. Pardon me, pity me, love me, for I am more wretched than you know."

"Dear, I do with heart and soul. Believe it, and let me be your friend" was the soft answer.

"God knows I need one!" sighed the poor woman, still holding fast the only creature who had wholly won her. "Child, I am not good, but not so bad that I dare not look in your innocent face and call you friend. I never had one of my own sex. I never knew my mother; and no one ever saw in me the possibility of goodness, truth, and justice but you. Trust and love and help me, Octavia, and I will reward you with a better life, if I can do no more."

"I will, and the new year shall be happier than the old."

"God bless you for that prophecy; may I be worthy of it."

Then as a bell warned them away, the rivals kissed each other tenderly, and parted friends. As Mrs. Snowdon entered her room, she saw her husband sitting with his gray head in his hands, and heard him murmur despairingly to himself, "My life makes her miserable. But for the sin of it I'd die to free her."

"No, live for me, and teach me to be happy in your love." The clear voice startled him, but not so much as the beautiful changed face of the wife who laid the gray head on her bosom, saying tenderly, "My kind and patient husband, you have been deceived. From me you shall know all the truth, and when you have forgiven my faulty past, you shall see how happy I will try to make your future."



Chapter VII


A Ghostly Revel

"Bless me, how dull we are tonight!" exclaimed Rose, as the younger portion of the party wandered listlessly about the drawing rooms that evening, while my lady and the major played an absorbing game of piquet, and the general dozed peacefully at last.

"It is because Maurice is not here; he always keeps us going, for he is a fellow of infinite resources," replied Sir Jasper, suppressing a yawn.

"Have him out then," said Annon.

"He won't come. The poor lad is blue tonight, in spite of his improvement. Something is amiss, and there is no getting a word from him."

"Sad memories afflict him, perhaps," sighed Blanche.

"Don't be absurd, dear, sad memories are all nonsense; melancholy is always indigestion, and nothing is so sure a cure as fun," said Rose briskly. "I'm going to send in a polite invitation begging him to come and amuse us. He'll accept, I haven't a doubt."

The message was sent, but to Rose's chagrin a polite refusal was returned.

"He shall come. Sir Jasper, do you and Mr. Annon go as a deputation from us, and return without him at your peril" was her command.

They went, and while waiting their reappearance the sisters spoke of what all had observed.

"How lovely Mrs. Snowdon looks tonight. I always thought she owed half her charms to her skill in dress, but she never looked so beautiful as in that plain black silk, with those roses in her hair," said Rose.

"What has she done to herself?" replied Blanche. "I see a change, but can't account for it. She and Tavie have made some beautifying discovery, for both look altogether uplifted and angelic all of a sudden."

"Here come the gentlemen, and, as I'm a Talbot, they haven't got him!" cried Rose as the deputation appeared, looking very crestfallen. "Don't come near me," she added, irefully, "you are disloyal cowards, and I doom you to exile till I want you. I am infinite in resources as well as this recreant man, and come he shall. Mrs. Snowdon, would you mind asking Mr. Treherne to suggest something to wile away the rest of this evening? We are in despair, and can think of nothing, and you are all-powerful with him."

"I must decline, since he refuses you" was the decided answer, as Mrs. Snowdon moved away.

"Tavie, dear, do go; we must have him; he always obeys you, and you would be such a public benefactor, you know."

Without a word Octavia wrote a line and sent it by a servant. Several minutes passed, and the gentlemen began to lay wagers on the success of her trial. "He will not come for me, you may be sure," said Octavia. As the words passed her lips he appeared.

A general laugh greeted him, but, taking no notice of the jests at his expense, he turned to Octavia, saying quietly, "What can I do for you, Cousin?"

His colorless face and weary eyes reproached her for disturbing him, but it was too late for regret, and she answered hastily, "We are in want of some new and amusing occupation to wile away the evening. Can you suggest something appropriate?"

"Why not sit round the hall fire and tell stories, while we wait to see the old year out, as we used to do long ago?" he asked, after a moment's thought.

"I told you so! There it is, just what we want." And Sir Jasper looked triumphant.

"It's capital -- let us begin at once. It is after ten now, so we shall not have long to wait," cried Rose, and, taking Sir Jasper's arm, she led the way to the hall.

A great fire always burned there, and in wintertime thick carpets and curtains covered the stone floor and draped the tall windows. Plants blossomed in the warm atmosphere, and chairs and lounges stood about invitingly. The party was soon seated, and Treherne was desired to begin.

"We must have ghost stories, and in order to be properly thrilling and effective, the lights must be put out," said Rose, who sat next him, and spoke first, as usual.

This was soon done, and only a ruddy circle of firelight was left to oppose the rapt gloom that filled the hall, where shadows now seemed to lurk in every corner.

"Don't be very dreadful, or I shall faint away," pleaded Blanche, drawing nearer to Annon, for she had taken her sister's advice, and laid close siege to that gentleman's heart.

"I think your nerves will bear my little tale," replied Treherne. "When I was in India, four years ago, I had a very dear friend in my regiment -- a Scotchman; I'm half Scotch myself, you know, and clannish, of course. Gordon was sent up the country on a scouting expedition, and never returned. His men reported that he left them one evening to take a survey, and his horse came home bloody and riderless. We searched, but could not find a trace of him, and I was desperate to discover and avenge his murder. About a month after his disappearance, as I sat in my tent one fearfully hot day, suddenly the canvas door flap was raised and there stood Gordon. I saw him as plainly as I see you, Jasper, and should have sprung to meet him, but something held me back. He was deathly pale, dripping with water, and in his bonny blue eyes was a wild, woeful look that made my blood run cold. I stared dumbly, for it was awful to see my friend so changed and so unearthly. Stretching his arm to me he took my hand, saying solemnly, 'Come!' The touch was like ice; an ominous thrill ran through me; I started up to obey, and he was gone."

"A horrid dream, of course. Is that all?" asked Rose.

With his eyes on the fire and his left hand half extended, Treherne went on as if he had not heard her.

"I thought it was a fancy, and soon recovered myself, for no one had seen or heard anything of Gordon, and my native servant lay just outside my tent. A strange sensation remained in the hand the phantom touched. It was cold, damp, and white. I found it vain to try to forget this apparition; it took strong hold of me; I told Yermid, my man, and he bade me consider it a sign that I was to seek my friend. That night I dreamed I was riding up the country in hot haste; what led me I know not, but I pressed on and on, longing to reach the end. A half-dried river crossed my path, and, riding down the steep bank to ford it, I saw Gordon's body lying in the shallow water looking exactly as the vision looked. I woke in a strange mood, told the story to my commanding officer, and, as nothing was doing just then, easily got leave of absence for a week. Taking Yermid, I set out on my sad quest. I thought it folly, but I could not resist the impulse that drew me on. For seven days I searched, and the strangest part of the story is that all that time I went on exactly as in the dream, seeing what I saw then, and led by the touch of a cold hand on mine. On the seventh day I reached the river, and found my friend's body."

"How horrible! Is it really true?" cried Mrs. Snowdon.

"As true as I am a living man. Nor is that all: this left hand of mine never has been warm since that time. See and feel for yourselves."

He opened both hands, and all satisfied themselves that the left was smaller, paler, and colder than the right.

"Pray someone tell another story to put this out of my mind; it makes me nervous," said Blanche.

"I'll tell one, and you may laugh to quiet your nerves. I want to have mine done with, so that I can enjoy the rest with a free mind." With these words Rose began her tale in the good old fashion.

"Once upon a time, when we were paying a visit to my blessed grandmamma, I saw a ghost in this wise: The dear old lady was ill with a cold and kept her room, leaving us to mope, for it was very dull in the great lonely house. Blanche and I were both homesick, but didn't like to leave till she was better, so we ransacked the library and solaced ourselves with all manner of queer books. One day I found Grandmamma very low and nervous, and evidently with something on her mind. She would say nothing, but the next day was worse, and I insisted on knowing the cause, for the trouble was evidently mental. Charging me to keep it from Blanche, who was, and is, a sad coward, she told me that a spirit had appeared to her two successive nights. 'If it comes a third time, I shall prepare to die,' said the foolish old lady.

"'No, you won't, for I'll come and stay with you and lay your ghost,' I said. With some difficulty I made her yield, and after Blanche was asleep I slipped away to Grandmamma, with a book and candle for a long watch, as the spirit didn't appear till after midnight. She usually slept with her door unlocked, in case of fire or fright, and her maid was close by. That night I locked the door, telling her that spirits could come through the oak if they chose, and I preferred to have a fair trial. Well, I read and chatted and dozed till dawn and nothing appeared, so I laughed at the whole affair, and the old lady pretended to be convinced that it was all a fancy.

"Next night I slept in my own room, and in the morning was told that not only Grandmamma but Janet had seen the spirit. All in white, with streaming hair, a pale face, and a red streak at the throat. It came and parted the bed-curtains, looking in a moment, and then vanished. Janet had slept with Grandmamma and kept a lamp burning on the chimney, so both saw it.

"I was puzzled, but not frightened; I never am, and I insisted on trying again. The door was left unlocked, as on the previous night, and I lay with Grandmamma, a light burning as before. About two she clutched me as I was dropping off. I looked, and there, peeping in between the dark curtains, was a pale face with long hair all about it, and a red streak at the throat. It was very dim, the light being low, but I saw it, and after one breathless minute sprang up, caught my foot, fell down with a crash, and by the time I was around the bed, not a vestige of the thing appeared. I was angry, and vowed I'd succeed at all hazards, though I'll confess I was just a bit daunted.

"Next time Janet and I sat up in easy chairs, with bright lights burning, and both wide awake with the strongest coffee we could make. As the hour drew near we got nervous, and when the white shape came gliding in Janet hid her face. I didn't, and after one look was on the point of laughing, for the spirit was Blanche walking in her sleep. She wore a coral necklace in those days, and never took it off, and her long hair half hid her face, which had the unnatural, uncanny look somnambulists always wear. I had the sense to keep still and tell Janet what to do, so the poor child went back unwaked, and Grandmamma's spirit never walked again for I took care of that."

"Why did you haunt the old lady?" asked Annon, as the laughter ceased.

"I don't know, unless it was that I wanted to ask leave to go home, and was afraid to do it awake, so tried when asleep. I shall not tell any story, as I was the heroine of this, but will give my turn to you, Mr. Annon," said Blanche, with a soft glance, which was quite thrown away, for the gentleman's eyes were fixed on Octavia, who sat on a low ottoman at Mrs. Snowdon's feet in the full glow of the firelight.

"I've had very small experience in ghosts, and can only recall a little fright I once had when a boy at college. I'd been out to a party, got home tired, couldn't find my matches, and retired in the dark. Toward morning I woke, and glancing up to see if the dim light was dawn or moonshine I was horrified to see a coffin standing at the bed's foot. I rubbed my eyes to be sure I was awake, and looked with all my might. There it was, a long black coffin, and I saw the white plate in the dusk, for the moon was setting and my curtain was not drawn. 'It's some trick of the fellows,' I thought; 'I'll not betray myself, but keep cool.' Easy to say but hard to do, for it suddenly flashed into my mind that I might be in the wrong room. I glanced about, but there were the familiar objects as usual, as far as the indistinct light allowed me to see, and I made sure by feeling on the wall at the bed's head for my watchcase. It was there, and mine beyond a doubt, being peculiar in shape and fabric. Had I been to a college wine party I could have accounted for the vision, but a quiet evening in a grave professor's well-conducted family could produce no ill effects. 'It's an optical illusion, or a prank of my mates; I'll sleep and forget it,' I said, and for a time endeavored to do so, but curiosity overcame my resolve, and soon I peeped again. Judge of my horror when I saw the sharp white outline of a dead face, which seemed to be peeping up from the coffin. It gave me a terrible shock for I was but a lad and had been ill. I hid my face and quaked like a nervous girl, still thinking it some joke and too proud to betray fear lest I should be laughed at. How long I lay there I don't know, but when I looked again the face was farther out and the whole figure seemed rising slowly. The moon was nearly down, I had no lamp, and to be left in the dark with that awesome thing was more than I could bear. Joke or earnest, I must end the panic, and bolting out of my room I roused my neighbor. He told me I was mad or drunk, but lit a lamp and returned with me, to find my horror only a heap of clothes thrown on the table in such a way that, as the moon's pale light shot it, it struck upon my black student's gown, with a white card lying on it, and produced the effect of a coffin and plate. The face was a crumpled handkerchief, and what seemed hair a brown muffler. As the moon sank, these outlines changed and, incredible as it may seem, grew like a face. My friend not having had the fright enjoyed the joke, and 'Coffins' was my sobriquet for a long while."

"You get worse and worse. Sir Jasper, do vary the horrors by a touch of fun, or I shall run away," said Blanche, glancing over her shoulder nervously.

"I'll do my best, and tell a story my uncle used to relate of his young days. I forget the name of the place, but it was some little country town famous among anglers. My uncle often went to fish, and always regretted that a deserted house near the trout stream was not occupied, for the inn was inconveniently distant. Speaking of this one evening as he lounged in the landlady's parlor, he asked why no one took it and let the rooms to strangers in the fishing season. 'For fear of the ghostissess, your honor,' replied the woman, and proceeded to tell, him that three distinct spirits haunted the house. In the garret was heard the hum of a wheel and the tap of high-heeled shoes, as the ghostly spinner went to and fro. In a chamber sounded the sharpening of a knife, followed by groans and the drip of blood. The cellar was made awful by a skeleton sitting on a half-buried box and chuckling fiendishly. It seems a miser lived there once, and was believed to have starved his daughter in the garret, keeping her at work till she died. The second spirit was that of the girl's rejected lover, who cut his throat in the chamber, and the third of the miser who was found dead on the money chest he was too feeble to conceal. My uncle laughed at all this, and offered to lay the ghosts if anyone would take the house.

"This offer got abroad, and a crusty old fellow accepted it, hoping to turn a penny. He had a pretty girl, whose love had been thwarted by the old man, and whose lover was going to sea in despair. My uncle knew this and pitied the young people. He had made acquaintance with a wandering artist, and the two agreed to conquer the prejudices against the house by taking rooms there. They did so, and after satisfying themselves regarding the noises, consulted a wise old woman as to the best means of laying the ghosts. She told them if any young girl would pass a night in each haunted room, praying piously the while, that all would be well. Peggy was asked if she would do it, and being a stouthearted lass she consented, for a round sum, to try it. The first night was in the garret, and Peggy, in spite of the prophecies of the village gossips, came out alive, though listeners at the door heard the weird humming and tapping all night long. The next night all went well, and from that time no more sharpening, groaning, or dripping was heard. The third time she bade her friends good-bye and, wrapped in her red cloak, with a lamp and prayer book, went down into the cellar. Alas for pretty Peggy! When day came she was gone, and with her the miser's empty box, though his bones remained to prove how well she had done her work.

"The town was in an uproar, and the old man furious. Some said the devil had flown away with her, others that the bones were hers, and all agreed that henceforth another ghost would haunt the house. My uncle and the artist did their best to comfort the father, who sorely reproached himself for thwarting the girl's love, and declared that if Jack would find her he should have her. But Jack had sailed, and the old man 'was left lamenting.' The house was freed from its unearthly visitors, however, for no ghost appeared; and when my uncle left, old Martin found money and letter informing him that Peggy had spent her first two nights preparing for flight, and on the third had gone away to marry and sail with Jack. The noises had been produced by the artist, who was a ventriloquist, the skeleton had been smuggled from the surgeons, and the whole thing was a conspiracy to help Peggy and accommodate the fishermen."

"It is evident that roguery is hereditary," laughed Rose as the narrator paused.

"I strongly suspect that Sir Jasper the second was the true hero of that story," added Mrs. Snowdon.

"Think what you like, I've done my part, and leave the stage for you, madam."

"I will come last. It is your turn, dear." As Mrs. Snowdon softly uttered the last word, and Octavia leaned upon her knee with an affectionate glance, Treherne leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the two changed faces, and looked as if bewildered when both smiled at him, as they sat hand in hand while the girl told her story.

"Long ago a famous actress suddenly dropped dead at the close of a splendidly played tragedy. She was carried home, and preparations were made to bury her. The play had been gotten up with great care and expense, and a fine actor was the hero. The public demanded a repetition, and an inferior person was engaged to take the dead lady's part. A day's delay had been necessary, but when the night came the house was crowded. They waited both before and behind the curtain for the debut of the new actress, with much curiosity. She stood waiting for her cue, but as it was given, to the amazement of all, the great tragedienne glided upon the stage. Pale as marble, and with a strange fire in her eyes, strange pathos in her voice, strange power in her acting, she went through her part, and at the close vanished as mysteriously as she came. Great was the excitement that night, and intense the astonishment and horror next day when it was whispered abroad that the dead woman never had revived, but had lain in her coffin before the eyes of watchers all the evening, when hundreds fancied they were applauding her at the theater. The mystery never was cleared up, and Paris was divided by two opinions: one that some person marvelously like Madame Z. had personated her for the sake of a sensation; the other that the ghost of the dead actress, unable to free itself from the old duties so full of fascination to an ambitious and successful woman, had played for the last time the part which had made her famous."

"Where did you find that, Tavie? It's very French, and not bad if you invented it," said Sir Jasper.

"I read it in an old book, where it was much better told. Now, Edith, there is just time for your tale."

As the word "Edith" passed her lips, again Treherne started and eyed them both, and again they smiled, as Mrs. Snowdon caressed the smooth cheek leaning on her knee, and looking full at him began the last recital.

"You have been recounting the pranks of imaginary ghosts; let me show you the workings of some real spirits, evil and good, that haunt every heart and home, making its misery or joy. At Christmastime, in a country house, a party of friends met to keep the holidays, and very happily they might have done so had not one person marred the peace of several. Love, jealousy, deceit, and nobleness were the spirits that played their freaks with these people. The person of whom I speak was more haunted than the rest, and much tormented, being willful, proud, and jealous. Heaven help her, she had had no one to exorcise these ghosts for her, and they goaded her to do much harm. Among these friends there were more than one pair of lovers, and much tangling of plots and plans, for hearts are wayward and mysterious things, and cannot love as duty bids or prudence counsels. This woman held the key to all the secrets of the house, and, having a purpose to gain, she used her power selfishly, for a time. To satisfy a doubt, she feigned a fancy for a gentleman who once did her the honor of admiring her, and, to the great scandal of certain sage persons, permitted him to show his regard for her, knowing that it was but a transient amusement on his part as well as upon hers. In the hands of this woman lay a secret which could make or mar the happiness of the best and dearest of the party. The evil spirits which haunted her urged her to mar their peace and gratify a sinful hope. On the other side, honor, justice, and generosity prompted her to make them happy, and while she wavered there came to her a sweet enchantress who, with a word, banished the tormenting ghosts forever, and gave the haunted woman a talisman to keep her free henceforth."

There the earnest voice faltered, and with a sudden impulse Mrs. Snowdon bent her head and kissed the fair forehead which had bent lower and lower as she went on. Each listener understood the truth, lightly veiled in that hasty fable, and each found in it a different meaning. Sir Jasper frowned and bit his lips, Annon glanced anxiously from face to face, Octavia hid hers, and Treherne's flashed with sudden intelligence, while Rose laughed low to herself, enjoying the scene. Blanche, who was getting sleepy, said, with a stifled gape, "That is a very nice, moral little story, but I wish there had been some real ghosts in it."

"There was. Will you come and see them?"

As she put the question, Mrs. Snowdon rose abruptly, wishing to end the séance, and beckoning them to follow glided up the great stairway. All obeyed, wondering what whim possessed her, and quite ready for any jest in store for them.



Chapter VIII


Jasper

She led them to the north gallery and, pausing at the door, said merrily, "The ghost -- or ghosts rather, for there were two -- which frightened Patty were Sir Jasper and myself, meeting to discuss certain important matters which concerned Mr. Treherne. If you want to see spirits we will play phantom for you, and convince you of our power."

"Good, let us go and have a ghostly dance, as a proper finale of our revel," answered Rose as they flocked into the long hall.

At that moment the great clock struck twelve, and all paused to bid the old year adieu. Sir Jasper was the first to speak, for, angry with Mrs. Snowdon, yet thankful to her for making a jest to others of what had been earnest to him, he desired to hide his chagrin under a gay manner; and taking Rose around the waist was about to waltz away as she proposed, saying cheerily, "'Come one and all, and dance the new year in,'" when a cry from Octavia arrested him, and turning he saw her stand, pale and trembling, pointing to the far end of the hall.

Eight narrow Gothic windows pierced either wall of the north gallery. A full moon sent her silvery light strongly in upon the eastern side, making broad bars of brightness across the floor. No fires burned there now, and wherever the moonlight did not fall deep shadows lay. As Octavia cried out, all looked, and all distinctly saw a tall, dark figure moving noiselessly across the second bar of light far down the hall.

"Is it some jest of yours?" asked Sir Jasper of Mrs. Snowdon, as the form vanished in the shadow.

"No, upon my honor, I know nothing of it! I only meant to relieve Octavia's superstitious fears by showing her our pranks" was the whispered reply as Mrs. Snowdon's cheek paled, and she drew nearer to Jasper.

"Who is there?" called Treherne in a commanding tone.

No answer, but a faint, cold breath of air seemed to sigh along the arched roof and die away as the dark figure crossed the third streak of moonlight. A strange awe fell upon them all, and no one spoke, but stood watching for the appearance of the shape. Nearer and nearer it came, with soundless steps, and as it reached the sixth window its outlines were distinctly visible. A tall, wasted figure, all in black, with a rosary hanging from the girdle, and a dark beard half concealing the face.

"The Abbot's ghost, and very well got up," said Annon, trying to laugh but failing decidedly, for again the cold breath swept over them, causing a general shudder.

"Hush!" whispered Treherne, drawing Octavia to his side with a protecting gesture.

Once more the phantom appeared and disappeared, and as they waited for it to cross the last bar of light that lay between it and them, Mrs. Snowdon stepped forward to the edge of the shadow in which they stood, as if to confront the apparition alone. Out of the darkness it came, and in the full radiance of the light it paused. Mrs. Snowdon, being nearest, saw the face first, and uttering a faint cry dropped down upon the stone floor, covering up her eyes. Nothing human ever wore a look like that of the ghastly, hollow-eyed, pale-lipped countenance below the hood. All saw it and held their breath as it slowly raised a shadowy arm and pointed a shriveled finger at Sir Jasper.

"Speak, whatever you are, or I'll quickly prove whether you are man or spirit!" cried Jasper fiercely, stepping forward as if to grasp the extended arm that seemed to menace him alone.

An icy gust swept through the hall, and the phantom slowly receded into the shadow. Jasper sprang after it, but nothing crossed the second stream of light, and nothing remained in the shade. Like one possessed by a sudden fancy he rushed down the gallery to find all fast and empty, and to return looking very strangely. Blanche had fainted away and Annon was bearing her out of the hall. Rose was clinging to Mrs. Snowdon, and Octavia leaned against her cousin, saying in a fervent whisper, "Thank God it did not point at you!"

"Am I then dearer than your brother?" he whispered back.

There was no audible reply, but one little hand involuntarily pressed his, though the other was outstretched toward Jasper, who came up white and startled but firm and quiet. Affecting to make light of it, he said, forcing a smile as he raised Mrs. Snowdon, "It is some stupid joke of the servants. Let us think no more of it. Come, Edith, this is not like your usual self."

"It was nothing human, Jasper; you know it as well as I. Oh, why did I bring you here to meet the warning phantom that haunts your house!"

"Nay, if my time is near the spirit would have found me out wherever I might be. I have no faith in that absurd superstition -- I laugh at and defy it. Come down and drink my health in wine from the Abbot's own cellar."

But no one had heart for further gaiety, and, finding Lady Treherne already alarmed by Annon, they were forced to tell her all, and find their own bewilderment deepened by her unalterable belief in the evil omen.

At her command the house was searched, the servants cross-questioned, and every effort made to discover the identity of the apparition. All in vain; the house was as usual, and not a man or maid but turned pale at the idea of entering the gallery at midnight. At my lady's request, all promised to say no more upon the mystery, and separated at last to such sleep as they could enjoy.

Very grave were the faces gathered about the breakfast table next morning, and very anxious the glances cast on Sir Jasper as he came in, late as usual, looking uncommonly blithe and well. Nothing serious ever made a deep impression on his mercurial nature. Treherne had more the air of a doomed man, being very pale and worn, in spite of an occasional gleam of happiness as he looked at Octavia. He haunted Jasper like a shadow all the morning, much to that young gentleman's annoyance, for both his mother and sister hung about him with faces of ill-dissembled anxiety. By afternoon his patience gave out, and he openly rebelled against the tender guard kept over him. Ringing for his horse he said decidedly, "I'm bored to death with the solemnity which pervades the house today, so I'm off for a brisk gallop, before I lose my temper and spirits altogether."

"Come with me in the pony carriage, Jasper. I've not had a drive with you for a long while, and should enjoy it so much," said my lady, detaining him.

"Mrs. Snowdon looks as if she needed air to revive her roses, and the pony carriage is just the thing for her, so I will cheerfully resign my seat to her," he answered laughing, as he forced himself from his mother's hand.

"Take the girls in the clarence. We all want a breath of air, and you are the best whip we know. Be gallant and say yes, dear."

"No, thank you, Tavie, that won't do. Rose and Blanche are both asleep, and you are dying to go and do likewise, after your vigils last night. As a man and a brother I beg you'll do so, and let me ride as I like."

"Suppose you ask Annon to join you -- " began Treherne with well-assumed indifference; but Sir Jasper frowned and turned sharply on him, saying, half-petulantly, half-jocosely:

"Upon my life I should think I was a boy or a baby, by the manner in which you mount guard over me today. If you think I'm going to live in daily fear of some mishap, you are all much mistaken. Ghost or no ghost, I shall make merry while I can; a short life and a jolly one has always been my motto, you know, so fare you well till dinnertime."

They watched him gallop down the avenue, and then went their different ways, still burdened with a nameless foreboding. Octavia strolled into the conservatory, thinking to refresh herself with the balmy silence which pervaded the place, but Annon soon joined her, full of a lover's hopes and fears.

"Miss Treherne, I have ventured to come for my answer. Is my New Year to be a blissful or a sad one?" he asked eagerly.

"Forgive me if I give you an unwelcome reply, but I must be true, and so regretfully refuse the honor you do me," she said sorrowfully.

"May I ask why?"

"Because I do not love you."

"And you do love your cousin," he cried angrily, pausing to watch her half-averted face.

She turned it fully toward him and answered, with her native sincerity, "Yes, I do, with all my heart, and now my mother will not thwart me, for Maurice has saved my life, and I am free to devote it all to him."

"Happy man, I wish I had been a cripple!" sighed Annon. Then with a manful effort to be just and generous, he added heartily, "Say no more, he deserves you; I want no sacrifice to duty; I yield, and go away, praying heaven to bless you now and always."

He kissed her hand and left her to seek my lady and make his adieus, for no persuasion could keep him. Leaving a note for Sir Jasper, he hurried away, to the great relief of Treherne and the deep regret of Blanche, who, however, lived in hopes of another trial later in the season.

"Here comes Jasper, Mamma, safe and well," cried Octavia an hour or two later, as she joined her mother on the terrace, where my lady had been pacing restlessly to and fro nearly ever since her son rode away.

With a smile of intense relief she waved her handkerchief as he came clattering up the drive, and seeing her he answered with hat and hand. He usually dismounted at the great hall door, but a sudden whim made him ride along the wall that lay below the terrace, for he was a fine horseman, and Mrs. Snowdon was looking from her window. As he approached, the peacocks fled screaming, and one flew up just before the horse's eyes as his master was in the act of dismounting. The spirited creature was startled, sprang partway up the low, broad steps of the terrace, and, being sharply checked, slipped, fell, and man and horse rolled down together.

Never did those who heard it forget the cry that left Lady Treherne's lips as she saw the fall. It brought out both guests and servants, to find Octavia recklessly struggling with the frightened horse, and my lady down upon the stones with her son's bleeding head in her arms.

They bore in the senseless, shattered body, and for hours tried everything that skill and sciences could devise to save the young man's life. But every effort was in vain, and as the sun set Sir Jasper lay dying. Conscious at last, and able to speak, he looked about him with a troubled glance, and seemed struggling with some desire that overmastered pain and held death at bay.

"I want Maurice," he feebly said, at length.

"Dear lad, I'm here," answered his cousin's voice from a seat in the shadow of the half-drawn curtains.

"Always near when I need you. Many a scrape have you helped me out of, but this is beyond your power," and a faint smile passed over Jasper's lips as the past flitted before his mind. But the smile died, and a groan of pain escaped him as he cried suddenly, "Quick! Let me tell it before it is too late! Maurice never will, but bear the shame all his life that my dead name may be untarnished. Bring Edith; she must hear the truth."

She was soon there, and, lying in his mother's arms, one hand in his cousin's, and one on his sister's bent head, Jasper rapidly told the secret which had burdened him for a year.

"I did it; I forged my uncle's name when I had lost so heavily at play that I dared not tell my mother, or squander more of my own fortune. I deceived Maurice, and let him think the check a genuine one; I made him present it and get the money, and when all went well I fancied I was safe. But my uncle discovered it secretly, said nothing, and, believing Maurice the forger, disinherited him. I never knew this till the old man died, and then it was too late. I confessed to Maurice, and he forgave me. He said, 'I am helpless now, shut out from the world, with nothing to lose or gain, and soon to be forgotten by those who once knew me, so let the suspicion of shame, if any such there be, still cling to me, and do you go your way, rich, happy, honorable, and untouched by any shadow on your fame.' Mother, I let him do it, unconscious as he was that many knew the secret sin and fancied him the doer of it."

"Hush, Jasper, let it pass. I can bear it; I promised your dear father to be your staunch friend through life, and I have only kept my word."

"God knows you have, but now my life ends, and I cannot die till you are cleared. Edith, I told you half the truth, and you would have used it against him had not some angel sent this girl to touch your heart. You have done your part to atone for the past, now let me do mine. Mother, Tavie loves him, he has risked life and honor for me. Repay him generously and give him this."

With feeble touch Sir Jasper tried to lay his sister's hand in Treherne's as he spoke; Mrs. Snowdon helped him, and as my lady bowed her head in silent acquiescence, a joyful smile shone on the dying man's face.

"One more confession, and then I am ready," he said, looking up into the face of the woman whom he had loved with all the power of a shallow nature. "It was a jest to you, Edith, but it was bitter earnest to me, for I loved you, sinful as it was. Ask your husband to forgive me, and tell him it was better I should die than live to mar a good man's peace. Kiss me once, and make him happy for my sake."

She touched his cold lips with remorseful tenderness, and in the same breath registered a vow to obey that dying prayer.

"Tavie dear, Maurice, my brother, God bless you both. Good-bye, Mother. He will be a better son than I have been to you." Then, the reckless spirit of the man surviving to the last, Sir Jasper laughed faintly, as he seemed to beckon some invisible shape, and died saying gaily, "Now, Father Abbot, lead on, I'll follow you."

*    *    *    *    *

A year later three weddings were celebrated on the same day and in the same church. Maurice Treherne, a well man, led up his cousin. Frank Annon rewarded Blanche's patient siege by an unconditional surrender, and, to the infinite amusement of Mrs. Grundy, Major Royston publicly confessed himself outgeneraled by merry Rose. The triple wedding feast was celebrated at Treherne Abbey, and no uncanny visitor marred its festivities, for never again was the north gallery haunted by the ghostly Abbot.

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At The Point Of The Bayonet: A Tale Of The Mahratta War

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter 1: A Faithful Nurse.


On a swell of ground, in the wild country extending from Bombay to the foot of the Ghauts, stood a small camp. In the centre was a large pavilion; the residence, for the time, of Major Lindsay, an officer whose charge was to keep the peace in the district. It was no easy matter. The inhabitants, wild and lawless, lived in small villages scattered about the rough country, for the most part covered with forest, and subject to depredations by the robber bands who had their strongholds among the hills. Major Lindsay had with him a party of twenty troopers, not for defence -- there was little fear of attack by the natives of the Concan -- but to add to his authority, to aid in the collection of the small tax paid by each community, and to deter the mountain robbers from descending on to the plain. He generally spent the cool season in going his rounds while, during the hot weather, his headquarters were at Bombay.

He had with him his wife and infant child. The child was some three months old, and was looked after by an ayah, who had been in Major Lindsay's service ten years; for three elder children had been born to him -- all, however, dying from the effects of the climate before reaching the age of five. The ayah had nursed each, in succession, and had become greatly attached to the family, especially to her youngest charge. She had come to speak English well; but with the child she always talked in her native tongue, as the major saw the advantage it would prove to the boy, when he grew up, to be able to speak fluently one, at least, of the native languages.

The nurse was a Mahratta. She had been in the service of the British Resident at Poona and, when he was recalled, had entered that of Major Lindsay, at that time a captain who acted as secretary to the Resident.

A young officer from Bombay had just ridden out, to spend a day or two with the major, and was sitting with him at the entrance to the tent.

"The news from the army," he said, "is most unsatisfactory. As you know, to the astonishment of everyone Colonel Egerton was appointed to the command, in spite of the fact that he was so infirm as to be altogether unfit for active service; and Mostyn, our late Resident at Poona, and Carnac accompanied him as deputies of the Council."

"That is altogether a bad arrangement," the major said. "It has always been a great disadvantage for a general to be accompanied by civilians, with power to thwart his combinations. Against Mostyn's appointment no one could raise any objection as, having been for some years at Poona, he understands the Mahrattas, and indeed is much liked by them, so that in any negotiations he would have far more chance of success than a stranger; but Carnac is hot headed and obstinate, with a very high idea of his own importance, and it is certain that there will be difficulties between him and Egerton."

"I am sorry to say, Major, that these anticipations were very speedily verified. As you know, the advance party landed at Aptee, on November 23rd, and seized the roads over the gorge; and on the 25th the main body disembarked at Panwell. No sooner had they got there than there was a quarrel between Egerton and Carnac. Most unfortunately Mostyn, who would have acted as mediator, was taken ill on the very day after landing, and was obliged to return to Bombay; and I hear there is hardly any chance of his recovery. The army did not reach the top of the Ghauts till the 23rd of December -- instead of, at the latest, three days after landing -- and actually spent eleven days before it arrived at Karlee, only eight miles in advance of the Bhore Ghauts. Of course this encouraged the enemy, and gave plenty of time for them to assemble and make all their arrangements and, when we last heard, they were harassing our march. For the past two days no news has arrived, and there seems to be little doubt that the Mahrattas have closed in round their rear, and cut off all communications."

"It is monstrous that they should march so slowly. The whole thing has been a hideous blunder, and the idea of encumbering a force of four thousand men with something like thirty thousand camp followers, and with a train of no less than nineteen thousand bullocks, to say nothing of other draught animals, is the most preposterous thing I ever heard of. In fact, the whole thing has been grossly mismanaged.

"I don't say that the conduct of the Mahrattas has not for some time been doubtful, if not threatening. It is well known that the Governor General and the Council at Calcutta have most strongly disapproved of the whole conduct of the Council at Bombay. Indeed, no explanation has ever been given as to why they took up the cause of Rugoba, the scoundrel who grasped the crown; and who was privy to, if he did not instigate, the murder of his nephew, the young Peishwa.

"He was not unopposed, for Nana Furnuwees and Hurry Punt, two of the leading Mahratta ministers, formed a regency under Gunga Bye, the widow of the murdered Peishwa. While matters were undecided, the Bombay Council opened communications with Rugoba, who they thought was likely to be successful; and promised to assist him, if he would advance a considerable sum of money, and cede to the Company Salsette, the small islands contiguous to Bombay and Bassein, which had been captured from the Portuguese by the Mahrattas -- an altogether inexcusable arrangement, as the Mahrattas were at peace with us, and Rugoba was not in a position to hand the islands over. That matter, however, was settled by sending an expedition, which captured Salsette and Tannah in 1775, four years ago. Since then Rugoba has become a fugitive and, without a shadow of reason, is making war against the whole force of the Mahratta confederacy; who, although divided amongst themselves and frequently engaged in the struggles for supremacy, have united against us -- for they say that Scindia, Holkar, and Hurry Punt are in command of their army. To send four thousand men, of whom less than six hundred are Europeans, against the whole Mahratta power is a desperate step.

"I know we have fought and won against greater odds, many times in the history of India; but our forces have always been well led, marched with the smallest amount of baggage possible, and made up for inferiority in numbers by speed, activity, and dash. Here, on the contrary, we have a force hampered to an unheard-of degree by baggage and camp followers; with an invalid at its head, controlled by two civilians; and moving at a rate which, in itself, testifies to divided councils and utter incompetency on the part of its commander. It is almost impossible even to hope for success, under such conditions."

"The lookout is certainly bad," the younger officer agreed. "However, before now the fighting powers of the British soldier have made up for the blunders of his commanders; and we may hope that this will be the case, now."

"If a disaster happen," the major said, "we shall have the Mahrattas down at the gates of Bombay; and as soon as I hear a rumour of it -- and news travels wonderfully fast among the natives -- I shall return to the city."

"Oh, I don't think you need fear anything of that sort, Major! Besides, this is not on the direct line between the Ghauts and the city. And even if they find they cannot push on, I should say our force would be able to secure their retreat. The Mahratta horse will never be able to break our squares; but of course, in that case we should have to abandon all our baggage and baggage animals."

"I agree with you that the Mahrattas would doubtless hang on the skirts of our force, and follow them down the Bhore Ghaut, and so would not come anywhere near us; but they might detach flying parties to burn and plunder, as is their custom. Brave as they are, the Mahrattas do not fight for the love of fighting, but simply from the hope of plunder and of enlarging their territories.

"Well, we may hope, in a day or two, to hear that a battle has been fought, and that a victory has been won. Not that one victory would settle the matter, for the Mahratta force consists almost entirely of cavalry and, as we have only a handful, they would, if beaten, simply ride off and be ready to fight again, another day. If we had pushed on and occupied Poona, directly we landed -- which should have been easy enough, if the baggage train had been left behind, for it is but forty miles from Panwell to the Mahratta capital -- the position would have been altogether different. The Mahrattas would not have had time to collect their forces, and we should probably have met with no opposition and, once in Poona, could have held it against the whole Mahratta force. Besides, it is certain that some of the chiefs, seeing that Rugoba was likely to be made Peishwa, would have come to the conclusion that it would be best for them to side with him.

"Of course, the baggage should all have been left at Panwell and, in that case, the force could have entered Poona three days after landing, instead of delaying from the 25th of November until today, the 7th of January; and even now, at their present rate of advance, they may be another fortnight before they arrive at Poona. I don't think there has been so disgraceful a business since we first put foot in India.

"At any rate, I shall send Mary and the child down to Bombay, tomorrow. It is all very well to have her with me, when everything is peaceable; but although I do not think there is any actual risk, it is as well that, in turbulent times like these, with nothing but a force under such incompetent leading between us and a powerful and active enemy, she should be safe at Bombay."

Just before daybreak, next morning, there was a sudden shout from one of the sentries; who had for the first time been posted round the camp. The warning was followed by a fierce rush, and a large body of horse and foot charged into the camp. The escort were, for the most part, killed as they issued from their tents. The major and his friend were shot down as they sallied out, sword in hand. The same fate befell Mrs. Lindsay.

Then the Mahrattas proceeded to loot the camp. The ayah had thrust the child underneath the wall of the tent, at the first alarm. A Mahratta seized her, and would have cut her down, had she not recognized him by the light of the lamp which hung from the tent ridge.

"Why, cousin Sufder," she exclaimed, "do you not know me?"

He loosed his hold, and stood back and gazed at her.

"Why, Soyera," he exclaimed, "is it you? It is more than ten years since I saw you!

"It is my cousin," he said to some of his companions who were standing round, "my mother's sister's child."

"Don't be alarmed," he went on, to the woman, "no one will harm you. I am one of the captains of this party."

"I must speak to you alone, Sufder."

She went outside the tent with him.

"You have nothing to fear," he said. "You shall go back with us to Jooneer. I have a house there, and you can stay with my wife. Besides, there are many of your people still alive."

"But that is not all, Sufder. I was ayah to the major and his wife -- whom your people have just killed, and whom I loved dearly -- and in my charge is their child. He is but a few months old, and I must take him with me."

"It is impossible," Sufder replied. "No white man, woman, or child would be safe in the Deccan, at present."

"No one would see his face," the woman said. "I would wrap him up, and will give out that he is my own child. As soon as we get up the Ghauts I would stain his face and skin, and no one would know that he was white. If you will not let me do it, tell your men to cut me down. I should not care to live, if the child were gone as well as his father and mother. You cannot tell how kind they were to me. You would not have me ungrateful, would you, Sufder?"

"Well, well," the man said good naturedly, though somewhat impatiently, "do as you like; but if any harm comes of it, mind it is not my fault."

Thankful for the permission, Soyera hurried round to the back of the tent, picked up the child and wrapped it in her robe; and then when, after firing the place, the Mahrattas retired, she fell in behind them, and followed them in the toilsome climb up the mountains, keeping so far behind that none questioned her. Once or twice Sufder dropped back to speak to her.

"It is a foolish trick of yours," he said, "and I fear that trouble will come of it."

"I don't see why it should," she replied. "The child will come to speak Mahratta and, when he is stained, none will guess that he is English. In time, I may be able to restore him to his own people."

The other shook his head.

"That is not likely," he said, "for before many weeks, we shall have driven them into the sea."

"Then he must remain a Mahratta," she said, "until he is able to make his way to join the English in Madras or Calcutta."

"You are an obstinate woman, and always have been so; else you would not have left your people to go to be servant among the whites. However, I will do what I can for you, for the sake of my mother's sister and of our kinship."

On the way up the hills Soyera stopped, several times, to pick berries. When they halted she went aside and pounded them, and then boiled them in some water in a lota -- a copper vessel -- Sufder lent her for the purpose, and dyed the child's head and body with it, producing a colour corresponding to her own.

The party, which was composed of men from several towns and villages, broke up the next morning.

"Have you money?" Sufder asked her, as she was about to start alone on her journey.

"Yes; my savings were all lodged for me, by Major Lindsay, with some merchants at Bombay; but I have twenty rupees sewn up in my garments."

"As to your savings, Soyera, you are not likely to see them again, for we shall make a clean sweep of Bombay. However, twenty rupees will be useful to you, and would keep you for three or four months, if you needed but, as you are going to my wife, you will not want them.

"Take this dagger. When you show it to her, she will know that you come from me; but mind, she is, like most women, given to gossip; therefore I warn you not to let her into the secret of this child's birth, for if you did so, half the town would know it in the course of a day or two.

"Now, I must go back with my men to join a party who are on their way to fight the English. I should have gone there direct, but met the others starting on this marauding expedition, which was so much to the taste of my men that I could not restrain them from joining. I shall see you at Jooneer, as soon as matters are finished with the English; then I shall, after staying a few days there, rejoin Scindia, in whose service I am."

Soyera started on her way. At the villages through which she passed, she was questioned as to where she came from; and replied that she had been living down near Bombay but, now that the English were going to fight the Mahrattas, she was coming home, having lost her husband a few months before.

As the road to Jooneer diverged widely from that to Poona, she was asked no questions about the war. All were confident that the defeat of the English was certain, now that Scindia and Holkar and the government of the Peishwa had laid aside their mutual jealousies, and had joined for the purpose of crushing the whites.

On arriving, after two days' journey, at Jooneer, she went to the address that Sufder had given her; but was coldly received by his wife.

"As it is Sufder's order, of course I must take you in," she said, "but when he returns, I shall tell him that I do not want another woman and child in the house. Why do you not go to your own people? As you are Sufder's cousin, you must be the sister of Ramdass. Why should you not go to him?"

"I will gladly do so, if you will tell me where he lives."

"He has a small farm. You must have passed it, as you came along. It is about a mile from here."

"I will go to him at once," Soyera said.

"No, no," the woman exclaimed; "that will never do. You must stop a day or two here. Sufder would be angry, indeed, were he to find that you did not remain here; and would blame me for it. I should be willing enough for you to stay a week, or a month; that is a different thing from becoming an inmate of the house."

"I will wait till tomorrow, for I have made a long two days' journey from the top of the Ghauts and, as I am not accustomed to walking, my feet are sore. In the morning I will go and see my brother. I did not so much as know that he was alive. I feel sure he will take me in, willingly; for he is but two years older than myself, and was always kind to me."

Accordingly the next morning she retraced her steps, and had no difficulty in finding the farm of Ramdass. Choosing the time when he would be likely to be in for his dinner, Soyera walked up to the door of the house, which was standing open.

As she stood there, hesitating, Ramdass came out. He was a man of some forty years of age, with a pleasant and kindly face. He looked at her enquiringly.

"Do you not know me, Ramdass?" she asked.

"Why, 'tis Soyera!" he exclaimed. "And so you have come back, after all these years -- thirteen, is it not, since you went away?

"Welcome back, little sister!" and he raised his voice, and called, "Anundee!"

A young woman, two or three and twenty years of age, came to the door.

"Wife," he said, "this is my sister Soyera, of whom you have often heard me speak.

"Soyera, this is my wife. We have been married six years; but come in, and let us talk things over.

"You have come home for good, I hope," he said. "So you too have married and, as you come alone with your child, have, I suppose, had the misfortune to lose your husband?"

"Yes, I was alone in the world, and came hither not knowing whether you were alive or dead; but feeling sure of a welcome, if I found you."

"And you were not mistaken," he said heartily.

"Anundee, you will, I am sure, join me in the welcome; and willingly give my sister and her child a place in our home?"

"Assuredly. It will be pleasant for me, when you are in the fields, to have some one to talk to, and perhaps to help me about the house."

Soyera saw that she was speaking sincerely.

"Thank you, Anundee; you may be sure that I shall not be idle. I have been accustomed to work, and can take much off your hands; and will look after your two children;" for two boys, three or four years old, were standing before her, staring at the newcomer.

"That will be pleasant, Soyera; indeed, sometimes they hinder me much in my work."

"I am accustomed to children, Anundee, as I was for years nurse to English children, and know their ways."

"Well, now let us to dinner," Ramdass broke in. "I am hungry, and want to be off again. There is much to do in the fields."

The woman took a pot off the embers of a wood fire, and poured its contents into a dish. The meal consisted of a species of pulse boiled with ghee, with peppers and other condiments added.

"And how did you like being among the English, Soyera?"

"I liked it very well," the woman said. "They are very kind and considerate to nurses and, although they get angry when the gorrawallah or other men neglect their duty, they do not punish them as a Mahratta master would do. They are not double faced; when they say a thing they mean it, and their word can always be trusted. As a people, no doubt they are anxious to extend their dominion; but they do not wish to do so for personal gain. They are not like the princes here, who go to war to gain territory and revenue. It was reasonable that they should wish to increase their lands; for they are almost shut up in Bombay, with Salsette and the other islands occupied by us, who may, any day, be their enemies."

Her brother laughed.

"It seems to me, Soyera, that you have come to prefer these English people to your own countrymen."

"I say not that, Ramdass. You asked me how I liked them, and I have told you. You yourself know how the tax collectors grind down the people; how Scindia and Holkar and the Peishwa are always fighting each other. Do you know that, in Bombay, the meanest man could not be put to death, unless fairly tried; while among the Mahrattas men are executed on the merest excuse or, if not executed, are murdered?"

"That is true enough," Ramdass said; "none of the three princes would hesitate to put to death anyone who stood in his way, and it seems strange to me that even the Brahmins, who would not take the life even of a troublesome insect, yet support the men who have killed scores of other people. But it is no use grumbling; the thing has always been, and I suppose always will be. It is not only so in the Deccan, but in the Nizam's dominions, in Mysore and, so far as I know, in Oude and Delhi. It seems so natural to us that the powerful should oppress the weak, and that one prince should go to war with another, that we hardly give the matter a thought; but though, as you say, the English in Bombay may rule wisely, and dislike taking life, they are doing now just as our princes do -- they are making war with us."

"That is true but, from what I have heard when the English sahibs were speaking together, it is everything to them that a prince favourable to them should rule at Poonah for, were Holkar and Scindia to become all powerful, and place one of their people on the seat of the Peishwa, the next step might be that a great Mahratta force would descend the Ghauts, capture Bombay, and slay every white man in it."

"But they are a mere handful," Ramdass said. "How can they think of invading a nation like ours?"

"Because they know, at least they believe, that Scindia, Holkar, and the Peishwa are all so jealous of each other that they will never act together. Then you see what they have done round Madras and Bengal and, few as they are, they have won battles against the great princes; and lastly, my mistress has told me that, although there are but few here, there are many at home; and they could, if they chose, send out twenty soldiers for every one there is here.

"Besides, it is not these alone who fight. The natives enlist under them, and aid them in their conquests; and this shows, at least, that they are well treated, and have confidence in the good faith of the English."

"It is all very well, Soyera, to talk that way; but I would as willingly believe that the stars will fall from the sky as that these Englishmen, who simply live in Bombay because we suffer them to do so, should ever conquer the Mahrattas, as they have subdued other portions of India where, as everyone knows, the people are not warlike, and have always been conquered without difficulty.

"Look at our power! At Delhi the emperor is a puppet in our hands, and it is the same in all the districts on the plain of the great river. The Rajpoots fear us, and even the Pindaries would not dare carry their raids into our country. That a small body of merchants and soldiers should threaten us seems, to me, altogether absurd."

"Well, brother, we will not argue about it. Time will show. As a woman of the Mahrattas, I trust that day will never come; but as one who knows the English, I have my fears. Of one thing I am sure, that were they masters here, the cultivators would be vastly better off than they are at present."

Ramdass laughed.

"What do you think of my sister's opinions, Anundee?"

"I do not know what to think," the young woman said; "but Soyera has seen much, and is a wise woman, and what she says are no idle words. To us it seems impossible, when we know that the Mahrattas can place a hundred thousand horsemen in the field; but I own that, from what we know of the English, it might be better for people like us to have such masters."

"And now, Soyera," Ramdass said, when he returned from his work in the evening, "tell us more about yourself. First, how did you learn where I was living?"

"I learned it from the wife of our cousin Sufder."

"How did you fall in with him?"

"Well, I must tell you something. I had meant to keep it entirely to myself, but I know that you and Anundee will keep my secret."

"Assuredly we will. I am not a man to talk of other people's affairs and, as to Anundee, you can trust her with your life."

"Well, in the first place, I deceived you; or rather you deceived yourself, when you said, 'I see that you have been married;' but the children were here, and so I could not explain. The infant is not mine. It is the son of my dear master and mistress, both of whom were killed, three days ago, by bands -- of which Sufder commanded one -- who attacked them suddenly, by night."

"What! Is the child white?" Ramdass asked, in a tone of alarm.

"It is not white, because I have stained the skin; but it is the child of English parents. I will tell you how it happened."

And she related the instances of the attack upon the little camp, the death of her master and mistress, another white officer, and all their escort; told how she had hidden the child under the cover of the tent, how Sufder had saved her life, and her subsequent conversation with him regarding the child.

"Now, what do you intend to do with him, Soyera?"

"I intend to bring him up as my own. I shall keep his skin stained, and no one can suspect that he is not mine."

"Then you do not think of restoring him to his people?"

"Not until he grows up. He has neither father nor mother, and to whom could I hand him, now? Moreover if, as you say, our people intend to drive the English from Bombay, his fate would be certain. When I am by myself with him, I shall talk to him in English, as soon as he is old enough to understand that he must not speak in that language to others; then, when he joins his own people, he will be able to converse with them. In the ten years I have spent in English service I have come to speak their language well. Though I cannot teach him the knowledge of the English, I can do much to fit him to take his place as an Englishman, when the time comes."

"It is a risky business," her brother said, "but I do not say that it cannot be carried out; at any rate, since you have so decided to keep him, I can see no better plan."

Two days later, Sufder came in.

"So you got here safely, Soyera?"

"Yes, I had no trouble. But I did not expect you back so soon."

"The matter is all settled, though I think we were wrong to grant any terms to the English. We had them in our power, and should have finished the matter, straight off."

Delay and inactivity, the natural consequences of utter incompetence and of divided councillors, had occurred. Colonel Egerton, in consequence of sickness, had resigned the command; and had been succeeded by Lieutenant Colonel Cockburn. On the 9th of January they were within eighteen miles of Poona, and they had still three weeks' provisions with them. Two or three skirmishes had taken place, but without any result; yet Mr. Carnac, without having suffered any reverse, and now within a day's march of the capital, proposed that a retreat should be made, at once.

The proposal was combated by Captain Hartley, a gallant young officer, and Mr. Holmes of the Civil Service. Cockburn, being called upon for his opinion, said he had no doubt the army could penetrate to Poona; but that it would be impossible for it to protect its enormous baggage train. Mr. Carnac, however, persisted in his opinion, in spite of the prayers of Rugoba and, at eleven o'clock on the night of the 11th of January, the heavy guns were thrown into a large pool, a quantity of stores burnt, and the force began its retreat, in face of enemies estimated differently at from fifty to a hundred thousand men.

Against such vigilant foes there was but little hope, indeed, that the movement would be unnoticed and, at two o'clock in the morning, a party of horse attacked the advance guard. Cockburn sent forward two companies of Europeans to support them, but the Mahrattas had succeeded in plundering part of the baggage.

In a very short time the rear was also attacked. This was covered by some six companies of Sepoys, with two guns, commanded by Captain Hartley. These received the charge of the enemy's horse and foot with great steadiness and, several times, took the offensive and drove their assailants back.

When morning broke, the little force found themselves altogether surrounded by the whole army of the Mahrattas. Hartley's Sepoys were now sorely pressed, but still maintained their position, and were reinforced by five companies of Europeans and two more companies of Sepoys. With this support, Hartley beat off every attack. At ten o'clock he received orders from Colonel Cockburn to retreat, but the officer who carried the message returned, begging that he would allow Captain Hartley to await a more favourable opportunity. Cockburn agreed to this, but sent Major Frederick to take command of the rear, with orders to retire on the main body. This movement he effected without serious loss, and joined the rest of the force at the village of Wurgaom.

It was already crowded with camp followers, and the wildest confusion reigned. The enemy's horse took advantage of this and charged through the baggage, and the troops were unable to act with effect, being mixed up with the crowd of fugitives. However, they soon extricated themselves, drove off the enemy, and placed the guns in commanding positions round the village. At four o'clock the enemy retired.

Early the next morning the Mahratta artillery opened fire on the village. Some of the Sepoy troops now became dispirited; but Hartley's men stood firm, and the Mahrattas did not venture to attack. The loss on the previous day was found to amount to three hundred and fifty-two killed, wounded, or missing; including many who had deserted during the night. Among the killed and wounded were fifteen European officers, whose loss was a great misfortune for, although the Sepoys fight well under their European officers, they lose heart altogether if not so led.

Mr. Palmer, the secretary of the committee, was now sent to negotiate with the enemy. The first demand made was the surrender of Rugoba; which the committee would have agreed to, but Rugoba had privately arranged to surrender to Scindia. The next demand was that the committee should enter on a treaty, for the surrender of the greater part of the territory of the Bombay Government, together with the revenue of Broach and Surat. These terms were so hard that even the craven committee, who were entirely responsible for the disaster, hesitated to accept them.

Cockburn was asked whether a retreat was wholly impracticable, and he declared that it was so. Captain Hartley protested against this opinion, and showed how a retreat could be managed. His opinion was altogether overruled, and Mr. Holmes was sent with powers to conclude the treaty -- which, however, the committee never intended to observe.

Scindia took the principal part in arranging the details, superseding the authority of Nana Furnuwees, the Peishwa's minister. Scindia's favour was purchased by a private promise to bestow upon him the English share of Broach, besides a sum of forty-one thousand rupees as presents to his servants.

For their share in this miserable business Mr. Carnac, Colonel Egerton, and Colonel Cockburn were dismissed from the Company's service; and Captain Hartley was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel. The Governor of Bombay refused to ratify the treaty, on the ground that the officials with the expedition had no power whatever to enter into any arrangement, without the matter being previously submitted to, and approved by, the Government. Fortunately, at this moment a force that had been despatched from Bengal, under Colonel Goddard, to support Rugoba was nearing the scene of action; and that officer, learning the danger to which Bombay was exposed, took the responsibility and, marching from Hoosingabad, avoided a body of twenty-two thousand horse, which had been despatched from Poona to cut him off, and reached Surat without encountering any opposition.

This welcome reinforcement materially altered the situation, and Bombay lay no longer at the mercy of the Mahrattas. There was now Goddard's force, and the army that had fallen back from Poona and, what was still more important, Scindia had by his secret convention deserted the confederacy; and it was morally certain that neither the Peishwa nor Holkar would send his forces against Bombay, leaving to Scindia the power of grasping the supreme authority in the Deccan during their absence.

In 1779 General Goddard, who was now in command at Bombay, entered into negotiations with Nana Furnuwees. These were carried on for some months; but were brought to a conclusion by Nana declaring that the surrender of Salsette, and the person of Rugoba, who was again a fugitive in Bombay, were preliminaries to any treaty. Bombay received a reinforcement of a European regiment, a battalion of Sepoys, and a hundred artillerymen, from Madras; but before they arrived Goddard's force had captured Dubhoy, and a treaty had been effected.

The town of Ahmedabad was to be handed over to our ally, Futteh Sing; but it declined to surrender, and was taken by assault, the storming party being commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Hartley.

Scindia had as usual changed sides, and was now operating in conjunction with Nana; and he and Holkar, with twenty thousand horse, marched to Baroda. Goddard advanced to give battle; but Scindia, to gain time, opened negotiations.

Goddard, however, was not to be duped. The negotiations were broken off, and he advanced against the Mahrattas. Their horse, as usual, charged; but were driven back by the artillery fire, and routed by a regiment of Bengal cavalry. Scindia, however, encamped a short distance off but, when Goddard again advanced to the attack, retired.

Goddard, however, was not to be drawn into pursuit. He captured some small forts, and sent Colonel Hartley to relieve Kallan, which was being besieged by the Mahrattas. Hartley surprised their camp, pursued them for some miles, and killed a great number; while Lieutenant Welsh, who had been sent forward to relieve Surat -- which was threatened by a large Mahratta force -- defeated these, killed upwards of a hundred, and captured their guns; while one of Scindia's detachments, on the banks of the Nerbuddah, was routed by a detachment of Bengal Sepoys under Major Forbes.

On the other side of India, great successes had been gained by a Bengal force under the command of Captain Popham; who attacked and routed a body of plundering Mahrattas, captured by assault the strong fort of Lahar, and not only carried by surprise the fortress of Gwalior, regarded by the natives as impregnable, but took it without the loss of a single man.

In December, General Goddard laid siege to Bassein. He and Hartley, whose force was covering the siege, were attacked on the 11th of that month by twenty thousand cavalry and infantry. These, however, were defeated after making several desperate charges; and on the following day another battle took place, in which the Mahrattas were totally routed, and their general killed, after which Bassein surrendered.



Chapter 2: A Strange Bringing Up.


The war went on during the following year, but in 1782 peace was concluded. In 1784, the Mahrattas joined the Nizam and the British in an alliance, having for its object the overthrow of Mysore; which state, first under Hyder Ali, and afterwards under his son Tippoo, was a source of danger to all the allies.

In the meantime Harry Lindsay, who was now called Puntojee, had been living quietly on the farm of Ramdass; and no suspicion whatever had been excited in the minds of the neighbours, or of any of the people of Jooneer, that he was aught but what he seemed -- the son of Soyera. Once a week he was re-stained; and even his playmates, the two sons of Ramdass, believed that he was, like themselves, a young Mahratta. They knew that, sometimes, their aunt talked to the child for hours in a strange language; but she led them to believe it was the dialect of Bombay, which she thought it might be useful for him to learn.

The child was shrewd and intelligent, and strictly obeyed Soyera's instructions never, on any account, to talk in that language with her except when they were alone; for she said that, if he did so, some great misfortune would happen to him.

Thus, at six, he was able to speak English and Mahratta with equal facility. As soon as his hair began to grow, it had also been dyed; for its colour was fair, and would at once have excited attention. He was a sturdy boy, and had never known a day's illness.

Four more years passed, and Soyera then revealed to him the fact that she was not, as he supposed, his mother, but that he was of English parents; and related to him the manner in which they had come by their death, and how she had saved him.

"The language which you are speaking," she said, "is English. I spoke truly, when I said it was the language in use in Bombay; for it is the tongue of the white men there. Now you will understand why I wanted you not to speak in it, to anyone but myself; and why I have stained your skin, once a week. At present we are at peace with the English; but there may be war again, at any time, and in that case were it known that you are white, your life would not be safe for a moment; or you might be thrown into some dungeon, where you would perish miserably."

She then explained to him why she had not attempted to take him down to Bombay, and restore him to his countrymen. She had always hoped the time would come when she could do so but, until he grew up to manhood, it was necessary that he should stay with her; for, being without friends in Bombay he would, as a boy, be unable to earn his living.

The boy was greatly affected at the news. There were things that he had never been able to understand; especially why Soyera should consider it necessary to wash him with dye so often, when neither his cousins nor the other children of his acquaintance were so treated -- as far as he knew, for as he had been strictly charged never to speak of the process, which he considered an infliction, he had never asked questions of others. He had never, therefore, for a moment suspected that he was not like those around him. He knew that he was stronger than other boys of his own age; more fond of exercise, and leader in all their games; but he had accepted this as a natural accident. The fact that he belonged to the race that were masters of southern India, and had conquered and slain the Nabob of Bengal, was a gratification to him but, at present, the thought that he might some day have to join them, and leave all those he loved behind, far overpowered this feeling.

"I shall never become English, if you do not go with me," he said. "You saved my life, and have been a mother to me. Why should I go away from your side, to people that I know nothing of, whose ways would be all strange to me?"

"It is right that you should do so, Puntojee -- I will not call you by your proper name, Harry Lindsay, lest it should slip out before others. Your life should be spent among your own people; who, I think, will some day rule over all India. They are a great people, with learning of many things unknown here, from whom I always received the greatest kindness. They are not, like the Mahrattas, always quarrelling among themselves; they are not deceitful, and they are honourable. You should be proud to belong to them, and I have no doubt some day you will be so; though at present it is natural that, knowing no place but this, you should not like the thought of leaving."

Harry Lindsay, whose spirits had hitherto been almost inexhaustible, and who had never been happy when sitting quiet, was greatly impressed with what he had heard and, for some time, he withdrew himself almost entirely from the sports of his friends, hiding himself in the groves from their importunities, and thinking over the strange position in which he was placed.

Soyera at last remonstrated with him.

"If I had thought you would take this matter to heart, Puntojee, I should not have told you about it. I did so because I thought you could scarcely be stained, much longer, without demanding the reason for what must have seemed so strange a thing.

"I do not want you to withdraw yourself from your playmates, or to cease from your games. Your doing so will, if it continues, excite talk. Your friends will think that a spell has fallen upon you, and will shun you. I want you to grow up such as your father was -- strong and brave, and skilful in arms -- and to do this you must be alert and active. It may well be that you should not join your countrymen until you are able to play the part of a man, which will not be for ten years yet; but you know that my cousin Sufder has promised that, as soon as you are able to carry arms, he will procure a post for you under Scindia.

"There you will learn much, and see something of the world whereas, if you remain here, you would grow up like other cultivators, and would make but a bad impression among your countrymen, when you join them. Sufder himself has promised to teach you the use of arms and, as all say he is very skilful, you could have no better master.

"At any rate, I wish you to resume your former habits, to exercise your body in every way, so that you may grow up so strong and active that, when you join your countrymen, they will feel you are well worthy of them. They think much of such things, and it is by their love for exercise and sport that they so harden their frames that, in battle, our bravest peoples cannot stand against them."

"But the Mahrattas are strong, mother?"

"Yes, they can stand great fatigues; living, as they do, so constantly on horseback but, like all the people of India, they are not fond of exercise, save when at war. That is the difference between us and the English. These will get up at daybreak, go for long rides, hunt the wild boar or the tigers in the jungles of the Concan, or the bears among the Ghauts. Exercise to them is a pleasure; and we in the service of the English have often wondered at the way in which they willingly endure fatigues, when they might pass their time sitting quietly in their verandahs. But I came to understand that it was to this love of theirs, for outdoor exercise, that they owed their strength and the firmness of their courage. None can say that the Mahrattas are not brave but, although they will charge gallantly, they soon disperse if the day goes against them.

"So also with the soldiers of Tippoo. They overran Arcot and threatened Madras; Tanjore and the Carnatic were all in their hands; and yet the English never lost their firmness and, little by little, drove Tippoo's troops from the lands they had conquered; and it may be that, ere long, Tippoo will be a fugitive, and his dominions divided among those whom he has provoked.

"Is it not wonderful that, while not very many years ago the Whites were merely a handful, living on sufferance in Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay, they are now masters of southern India and half of Bengal; and even venture to engage a great empire like that of the Mahrattas, stretching from the sea on the west to Delhi, and holding the mastery over all central India? There must be something extraordinary about these men. Why, you would scarce believe it, but I have seen often, and wondered always; when they have an entertainment, instead of sitting quietly 'and having dancing girls to posture for their amusement, they dance themselves with their women -- not a mere movement of the body and hands, such as you see among our dancers, but violent dancing, exhausting themselves till the perspiration streams from their faces -- and this both men and women regard as amusement; so, Puntojee, if you are to take your place among your countrymen again, you must accustom yourself to fatigues, and strengthen your body in every way; or you will be regarded with contempt as one who, although of their blood, has grown degenerate and unworthy of them."

"I will do so," the boy said. "You shall not complain of me, again. Hitherto I have played for amusement, and because I liked to exercise my limbs, and to show the others that I could run faster and was stronger than they were; but in future I shall have a motive in doing so, and will strive to be worthy of my father."

From that time, Harry Lindsay devoted himself to exercises. He learnt from Sufder, when he visited his native town, and from old soldiers, when he was away, to use a sword and dagger, to hurl a light spear accurately, to shoot straight with a musket, that Sufder had picked up on the field of battle at Karlee, and also with the pistol. He rose at daybreak, and walked for miles before coming in to his morning meal; and exercised the muscles of his arms, not only by the use of the sword, but by holding heavy stones at arm's length.

Soyera, although still retaining her own religion, had carefully instructed him in that of the English; with which she had, during her service, become fully acquainted.

"I am only a servant, an ignorant woman, and it is not for me to decide which religion is the best, and I have never thought of giving up that of my people; but the religion of the Christians is much simpler than ours. They believe in one God, only; and in his Son who, like Buddha, was a great saint, and went about doing good. I will tell you all I know of Him, for my mistress frequently spoke to me of Him; and hoped, I think, that in time I should accept Him, as she did. When you join your people, it is as necessary that you should be of their religion, as of their race;" and so, in time, Harry learned at least the elements of Christianity.

As usual he had been, at the age of six, marked, like Soyera, with three perpendicular lines on the forehead -- the sign of the worshippers of Vishnu.

"You are twelve years old now, Harry," Soyera said to the boy, one day. "Now I must do what I have concluded, after a talk with Ramdass and Sufder, is the best thing for you. We have agreed that it will be better that you should not join your countrymen, and claim to be the son of Major Lindsay, until you are a man. I do not know what they would do with you. They might send you back to England, but I cannot say what would become of you there; but we have agreed that, when you do join them, you must be like other young English gentlemen, and not be looked down upon as one who, though he has a white skin, is but a Mahratta peasant.

"In the first place, you must learn to speak English."

"But I do speak English!" Harry said, in surprise.

"Yes, such English as I do; but that is not as the white sahibs speak it. We who have learned it speak the right word, but not in the right way. I have seen young white ladies, when they first came out here, and came to the house of your mother, sometimes smile and scarcely understand what I said to them. It is not like that that you must talk English -- good enough for an ayah, not good enough for a sahib -- so we have decided, Sufder, Ramdass and I, that you must go down to Bombay, and learn to talk proper English.

"We have thought much how this shall be done, and have settled that our thinking, here, is no good. I must wait till I get to Bombay, where I can get advice from people I know."

"Will you stay there with me, Soyera?"

"I cannot say what will be best," she answered, gravely; "I must wait till I get there. Ramdass will go down with me. It is a good time for him to go. The harvest work is done, he can be spared for a month. He would like to go. He has never seen Bombay. We shall go in the wagon."

The distance from Jooneer to Bombay was but about eighty miles, and the journey was performed in five days, and Ramdass took down a light load of maize, whose sale would pay the expenses of their journey. Soyera rode and slept on the maize, except in two villages, where she was able to procure a lodging for the night. Ramdass and Harry walked by the bullocks, and slept at night by the roadside, wrapped in their blankets.

On arriving at Bombay they put up at a khan, in the native town and, the next morning, leaving Ramdass and Harry to wander about and look at the wonders of the city, Soyera went to the shop of a Parsee merchant, who was in the habit of supplying the canteen of the troops, contracted for supplies of forage and other matters, and carried on the business of a native banker. She had often been to his place with Mrs. Lindsay; and had, from the time that she entered her service, deposited her savings with him. She had, in the first place, asked her master to keep them for her; but he had advised her to go to Jeemajee.

The Parsee was, himself, in his shop. She went up to him.

"You do not remember me, sahib?" she said. "I was the ayah of Major Lindsay. I was often here with the mem-sahib."

"I remember you, now," he said. "I do not often forget those I have known. Yes; your master and mistress were killed, at their little camp on the Concan. Nothing was heard of you, if I remember rightly. I have some money of yours in my hands. Have you the receipts?"

"I have them, sahib; but it is not for that that I come to see you. I wish to ask your advice on a private matter."

The Parsee looked a little surprised.

"Come in here with me," he said, leading the way to his private room, behind the shop.

"Now, what is it?" he asked, as he closed the door behind them.

"It was believed, sahib, that Major Lindsay's infant boy was killed, at that time, like all others in the camp. It was not so. I saved him. It is about him that I want to speak to you."

The Parsee thought for a moment.

"Yes, there was a child. Its body was not found, and was supposed to have been eaten by the jackals. Is it alive still?"

"Yes, sahib, I have brought him up as my own. His skin has been always stained; and none but my brother -- with whom I live -- his wife, and one other, know that he is English. I love him as my own child. I have taught him English, as I speak it; but I want him, in time, to be an English sahib, and for that he must learn proper English."

"But why have you not brought him down here?" the Parsee said.

"Who would have looked after him, and cared for him, sahib, as I, his nurse, have done? Who could have taken him? What would have become of him? I am a poor woman, and do not know how these things would be. I said to myself:

"'It will be better that he should live with me, till he is old enough to go down as a young man, and say to the Governor:

"'"I am the son of Major Lindsay. I can talk Mahratti like a native. I can ride and use my sword. I can speak English well. I can be useful."

"'Then, perhaps for his father's sake, the Governor will say:

"'"I will make you an officer. If there are troubles in the Deccan, you will be more useful than those sahibs who do not know the language."'

"I can do all that for him, but I cannot teach him to speak as English sahibs speak; and that is why I have come to you. You have twelve hundred rupees of mine, in your hands; for I laid out nothing while I was in the sahib's service, and my mistress was very kind, and often gave me presents. My brother, Ramdass, had five hundred rupees saved; and this he has given to me, for he, too, loves the boy. Thus there are seventeen hundred rupees, and this I would pay for him to be, for two years, with someone where he would learn to speak English as sahibs do, so that none can say this white boy is not English.

"Then he will go back, for two or three years, to Jooneer. He will learn to use his arms, and to ride, and to be a man, until he is of an age to come down and say:

"'I am the son of Major Lindsay.'"

"But if you were to tell this, at once," the Parsee said, "they would doubtless send him home, to England, to be educated."

"And what would he do there, sahib? He would have no friends, none to care for him; and while his Mahratti tongue would be of great service to him, here, it would be useless to him in his own country.

"Do not say that my plan cannot be carried out, sahib. For twelve years I have thought it over. I have taught him all that I could, so far; and convinced myself that it would be the best. The boy loves me, and is happy: he would be miserable among strangers, who would laugh at his English, and would make him unhappy."

Jeemajee sat for some time in thought.

"I am not sure that your plan is not the best," he said, "and after saving his life, and caring for him, at the risk of your own, for all these years, you have assuredly a better right than any other to say what shall be done now. I will think over what you have asked of me. It is not very easy to find just such a home as you want, but I should consider the sum you offer is sufficient to induce many Englishmen living here to take him; but it is not everyone from whom he would learn English, as you would wish him to do, or who could teach him the manners of white officers.

"Come to me tomorrow evening, but you must not expect that I shall be able to answer you then. I must think it over, and make enquiries."

It was three days, indeed, before anything came of Soyera's visits to the Parsee trader; then he said:

"I think that I have found out just the place of which you are in search. I spoke to a friend yesterday, and he at once mentioned one whom I wonder I had not thought of, at once. Some years ago a cadet, who came out here with a young wife, died shortly after his arrival. As he had only been four years in the service, the pension of his wife was but a small one. She did not go back to England, as widows generally do. I know not why, except that I once heard two officers speaking of her. They said that they believed her family had quarrelled with her, for her marriage, and that she was too proud to go back again. She had two girls, who must be about the age of this boy. Her pension was not sufficient for her to live upon comfortably, and she opened a little school for the children of officers here.

"There are not many, you know, for they are generally sent home to England, when they are quite young. But she has always had four or five, sometimes eight or ten. They come to her every morning, and go home in the middle of the day, and she sees no more of them.

"After I had heard this, I went to her. I supply her with many things, for she gets her books and other things from me. I said to her:

"'I have a white boy whose father and mother are dead. He is twelve years old. There are reasons why I cannot tell you who they were, but I can say that the boy's father was an English officer. He has been brought up by natives, and speaks English in the way that natives speak it. Those who have brought him up desire that he should learn to talk English well, and learn to have good manners, so that some day, when he goes to England, people should not say of him:

"'"This is not an English gentleman, or he would not speak like that."'

"I said that I had interested myself in the matter, and knew that it was right, and had come to her to ask her if she would take him into her house, which was very comfortable and well furnished, and everything as it should be.

"She asked questions. I told her enough to interest her; and said that, when the time came, it was hoped that he would be able to obtain employment under the Government -- perhaps in the army, as his father had been. I said that those who brought him up were ready to make great sacrifices for his sake, but that they could not pay for him for more than two years; and that, as the boy knew so much English, they hoped this would be enough. I asked how much, if she agreed to take him, she would charge. She said that she would think it over; and would call here, tomorrow, and tell me whether she would take him.

"She will be here at three. I think you had better come at that hour. I am sure that she would like to speak to you. I do not see why you should not say that you had been his ayah, and had saved his life, and brought him up. Many officers have been killed and, indeed, I do not see why you should not tell her the whole story. It will interest her more in the boy. But of course, before you tell her, you must ask her to promise not to repeat it."

Soyera went on the following day. She found that Jeemajee was already, with a lady, in his private room. She waited until the door was opened, and the merchant beckoned her in.

"This is the woman who has brought the child up, Mrs. Sankey," he said. "As I have told you, she was his ayah, and has behaved most nobly."

Turning to Soyera, he said:

"Naturally Mrs. Sankey asked why you had not come forward before. I told her your reasons, and she thinks that, perhaps, you have acted for the best for him. At any rate, she has consented to take the boy for two years; and I am to pay her, for you, the sum that you have named."

In reality, Mrs. Sankey asked a thousand rupees a year; but the Parsee, with the generosity for which his race is distinguished, had agreed to pay the extra three hundred rupees himself.

"Before it is quite settled," Mrs. Sankey said, "I should like to see the boy. As Mr. Jeemajee has told you, I have two daughters about the same age. I must, therefore, be guided in my decision by my impression of him."

"I will bring him to see you, in three or four days," Soyera said. "His stain is already faded a good deal, and I shall be able to get it off, by that time. I have to get English clothes for him.

"I am greatly obliged to you for saying that you will take him, if he pleases you. That I think he will do. I have taught him manners, as well as I could. He is as anxious as I am to improve himself; and will, I am sure, give you no more trouble than he can help."

"I will see that he is properly clothed, Mrs. Sankey," Jeemajee remarked. "I knew his father, and have a great interest in him."

Mrs. Sankey chatted for some little time to Soyera; gave her her card, with her address on Malabar Hill; and then left.

Soyera began to thank the Parsee for his introduction, but he said:

"It was a little thing to do and, as I knew his father, it was only right that I should help, as far as I could. Will you bring me, tomorrow morning, the measurement of the boy's height, size around his shoulders and waist, the lengths of his arms and legs? You need trouble yourself no further about it. I shall take that matter upon myself. Come, three days later, for his clothes.

"Goodbye! I have other matters to see about," and, without waiting for any thanks from Soyera, he at once went into his shop, and began to talk to his assistant.

Many were the scrubbings Harry had to undergo, during the next few days; and his hair and face were nearly restored to their proper colour when Soyera returned, one evening, with a coolie carrying a trunk of some size. It contained the whole outfit for a boy: one dark suit, and four of white nankeen; with a stock of shirts, underclothing, and shoes. Soyera showed Harry how these garments, with which he was wholly unacquainted, should be put on.

"They fit you capitally," she said, when she surveyed him. "And you look like a little English sahib."

"They feel very tight and uncomfortable," he said.

"They are sure to do so, at first; but you will soon get over that. Now, Ramdass will take you out for a walk for two or three hours, so that you can get accustomed to them. I should not like you to look awkward, when you go with me to Mrs. Sankey's, tomorrow."

The interview next day was altogether satisfactory. The carriage and bearing of the natives of India is easier, and more graceful, than that of Europeans; and the knowledge Harry had possessed, for some years, that he belonged to a conquering race, the injunctions of Soyera, his strength and activity, and his unquestioned leadership among the boys with whom he played, had given something of confidence to his manner. Mrs. Sankey was greatly taken with him, and he at once became an inmate of her house.

He remained there for two years, and became so great a favourite that Mrs. Sankey insisted on his staying with her, without charge, for three or four months after the time for which she had received payment for him. He had worked hard and earnestly, and now spoke English as well and accurately as any English boy of his own age. He had, after being there a year, made the acquaintance of several boys of his own age, the sons of officers or officials. They knew him only as the orphan son of an English gentleman, in Government employ; and he was often asked to the houses of their parents, and none suspected that he had been brought up among natives.

At the end of his term, Sufder came down for him. Jeemajee, who had remained his steady friend, arranged that he should go to his house, and there resume his native dress and stain. In this garb he felt even stranger and more uncomfortable than he had done, when he first put on European clothes; but this was not long in wearing off and, by the time he reached Jooneer, he was again at home in it. He took with him, at Mrs. Sankey's suggestion, a number of English books, by authors she recommended; so that he could, by reading and learning some of them by heart, retain his knowledge of the language.

For the next three months he spent his whole time in practising with sword, pistol, and gun; under the tuition of an old soldier in Jooneer, who had been a noted swordsman in his time. He was already far stronger than the sons of Ramdass, although these were now young men. Anxious to, at once, exercise his muscles and gain in skill, he now attached himself to a famous shikaree who, seeing the boy's strength and courage, took him as an assistant when he went on excursions among the hills. Here Harry learned to dig pits for the capture of tigers; to smear leaves with a sticky substance, obtained from a plant resembling mistletoe, so that when a tiger or bear trod upon them and, finding them sticking to his feet, paused and rubbed these on his head, until he became blinded and bewildered with a mass of sticky foliage, a well-placed shot would stretch him dead.

For a year he worked with the shikaree.

For a year he worked with the shikaree. Sometimes they hunted simply for the value of the skins; but more often they were sent for by villagers, who were suffering from the depredations of tigers or leopards, and who were willing to pay for having them killed. Harry Lindsay acquired quite a reputation in Jooneer and the surrounding country, for the shikaree spoke freely of his bravery, intelligence, and skill with his arms. His width of shoulders and the strength of his muscles caused him to be regarded as a prodigy; and it was generally considered that, when he grew up, he would become a great fighter, and attain wide renown as a leader of bands in the service of Holkar, or the Peishwa.

When he was sixteen, Sufder, who had watched his progress with great approval, said to him:

"You are scarce a man in years yet, Puntojee; but you are strong, skilful with your weapons, and far more of a man than many ten years older than yourself. It is time that you should see something of war. Since the death of Scindia, a few months back; and the succession of his nephew Doulut, who is about your own age; things have become even more unsettled than before. Scindia was a great man and, although at times worsted by his rivals, always managed to repair his fortunes and to add to his power; but whether the young Scindia will keep the wide territory that his uncle won is doubtful. Holkar, although at times he and Scindia united, as when the English marched against Poona, has been his rival and enemy.

"The Peishwa has sometimes been in alliance with one of these great princes, sometimes with the other. His minister, Nana Furnuwees, is a man of commanding talent. Had it not been for him, it is probable that Scindia and Holkar would long since have become altogether independent; but he has always contrived to play one off against the other and, by securing the services of the secondary chiefs, such as the Rajah of Nagpore and the Rajah of Kolapoore, to hold the balance of power; but he is an old man, and at his death there is no saying how things will go.

"Matters are complicated, too, by the fact that Scindia has now in his service sixteen battalions of drilled infantry, commanded by French officers; and these have proved so valuable, in the various sieges he has undertaken, that Holkar has been obliged to imitate his example. There are many who think that the introduction of infantry will, in the end, prove disastrous to the power of the Mahrattas; whose strength has hitherto lain in their cavalry, which could perform long journeys, strike a blow and be off again, and so were more than a match for the infantry of other Indian princes. But with infantry all this will be altered, for the marches must be no longer or faster than they can journey. The order of battles, too, will be changed altogether; and we shall depend more upon foot, while our horse, until now almost invincible, will become of secondary importance.

"However, that is not the question, at present. The first thing to be considered is, to which of the three great leaders you are to attach yourself. As you know, I was for many years in Scindia's service; but at his death the position was changed. Scindia knew that I was active and capable; had he lived, I should soon have gained much promotion. However, his chief minister took a dislike to me; and I felt that, now the Maharajah was gone, Doulut would be easily swayed by the counsels of those around him; and that instead of promotion I should be more likely to lose my command, and perhaps be put out of the way. Therefore I left Doulut's service, and have entered that of the young Peishwa who, at the advice of Nana Furnuwees, has given me the command of a troop of a hundred men.

"Years ago I gained Nana's goodwill, by apprising him of the hostile intentions of the Rajah of Nagpore; when he promised me that, should I at any time leave Scindia's service, he would give me as good a position as I held there in that of the Peishwa. The young prince is but twenty-one, and I will ask Nana to present you to him as one who, in time, will become a valuable officer; and it is likely that Mahdoo Rao will receive you well when he hears that, though so young, you have gained great credit as a slayer of wild beasts; and that, as he will see for himself, you promise to grow into a strong man, and a brave soldier.

"Nana Furnuwees is a man who, by his conciliating manner, gains the confidence of all who come under his influence; and it is wholly due to him that the authority of the Peishwa has not been entirely overthrown by Scindia and Holkar. He is a reader of men's minds, and has always surrounded himself with friends of discernment and courage; and I think you would be likely, if you remained in the Peishwa's service, to rise to a very much higher rank than I should ever do, being myself but a rough soldier with a heavy hand.

"Holkar, at present, is fast becoming altogether imbecile. He is worn out both in mind and body, and I should not advise anybody to join him. Therefore the choice rests between Doulut Rao Scindia and the Peishwa; as far as I can see, there is an equal chance of your seeing service with either."

"I can choose without hesitation," Harry said. "Had you still been in the army of Scindia, I would have joined it, too; but as you have now entered that of the Peishwa, who is the lawful ruler of the Mahrattas, though overshadowed by Scindia and Holkar, I should certainly choose his service.

"In any case, I would rather be with you. You have taught me the use of arms, and to you I owe it that I was not killed, when an infant; therefore I would assuredly rather fight under your orders, than take service with Holkar or Scindia.

"As to their quarrels, I know nothing. Ramdass has often told me as much as he knew of these matters, but it all seemed to me to be confusion; and the only thing I could understand was that they were always intriguing against each other, instead of putting all their forces in the field, and fighting it out fairly, and so deciding who was to be the chief lord of the Mahrattas."

"Although but a soldier, Puntojee, I cannot but see that this constant antagonism, between the three principal leaders of the Mahrattas, is unfortunate in the last degree. We are wasting the strength that, if properly employed, might bring all India into subjection and, when trouble really comes, we shall be a divided people, instead of acting under one head and with one mind. However, it is not for us soldiers to meddle with these things; but to do our duty to the chief under whom we serve.

"Well, if such be your choice, I will present you to Nana Furnuwees. I am glad that you have chosen that service for, in the first place, being young, he may take a liking to you, and you may obtain rapid promotion; and still more, because I should prefer to have you with me."

Hitherto, Harry had worn only the scanty clothing in use by the peasantry, and the small cultivators; but Sufder now bought him clothes such as were worn by youths of a superior class. Soyera had offered no objection to his departure and, indeed, Sufder had spoken to her on the subject, before he had broached it to Harry.

"'Tis hard upon me to give you up," she said to the lad; "but I have always known that it must be so, and indeed, for the last year I have seen little of you. The change will be good for you. You will learn the manner of war, and take an interest in the intrigues and troubles that are constantly going on, and of which we hear little.

"When you rejoin your countrymen, a few years hence, I shall go with you. You need my testimony, to show that you are the son of Major Lindsay; and I can be useful to you, in managing your household. But at present it is best that I should stay here. A young soldier would not care to have his mother looking after him, and it is for your good that you should go your own way; and besides, you will have the counsels of Sufder to aid you. I should be out of place and, for the present, I am happy here with my good brother and sister-in-law, the latter of whom would miss me sorely. Moreover, Poona is but two days' ride from here, and you will no doubt be able sometimes to come over and see us.

"I have done what little I could for you. You are now old enough to make your own way. The bird that has taught its nestling to fly does not try to keep it in the nest, when it is once able to take care of itself."

"I can never be sufficiently grateful, for all that you have done for me," Harry said earnestly. "You have been more than a mother to me and, wherever I go, I shall not be happy unless you are with me, though I see it is best, this time, that I should go alone; but assuredly, when I join my people, and have a home of my own, it would not seem like a home to me if you did not share it."

Two days later, Harry mounted a horse that Ramdass had given him, and started with Sufder for Poona. On arriving there they rode to the little camp, half a mile out of the town, where Sufder's troop was stationed.

"You don't carry your tents with you, when you are on service in the field?"

"Not when on an expedition where haste is needed; for we should make but poor progress, if we were hampered by luggage. When on a distant expedition, we take tents.

"This is a standing camp, and there are a score like it round the town. They always remain in the same position; sometimes one troop occupies them, sometimes another. When we go on an expedition, we leave them; when we come back, if they are still unoccupied, we again take possession. If they have been allotted to another troop, a vacant one is found for us.

"Only one regiment of horse and two of foot are in the city, where they have lines of huts. We differ from the rest of the army, being always on service; the others are only called out when there is occasion for them, each under its own chief and, in case of necessity, the Peishwa can put thirty thousand horsemen in the field, besides those of the rajahs in alliance with him."

The next morning Sufder, in his best attire, went with Harry into the city; the latter for the first time carrying a sword, dagger and pistols in his cummerbund, or sash. Without being questioned, they entered the chamber were Nana was giving audience to all who waited upon him on business.

Sufder took his place at the lower end of the chamber, moving forward as one after another applicant was disposed of until, at length, his turn arrived. The minister, who knew that he was a brave soldier, who had enjoyed the confidence of the late Scindia, acknowledged his deep salutation with a friendly nod.

"What can I do for you, Sufder?"

"I desire nothing, your excellency, save that I may be permitted to present to you one of my family: the son of a relation of mine who, although still young, I may venture to recommend to you as one possessing great courage and intelligence. I have myself given him lessons in the use of his arms; and he has had other instructors, and done credit to them. For the past year he has been working with a famous shikaree, and has killed many tigers that were a scourge to the villages near the Ghauts, together with many bears and leopards; and his master reported that his fearlessness was great, and that as a marksman his skill was equal to his own. He was most unwilling that he should leave him, but I considered it was time for him to enter the army; in which, I believe, he will soon distinguish himself."

"How old is he?" the minister asked.

"He is as yet but sixteen but, as your highness may see, he is as strong as most men, having devoted himself to exercises of all sorts, since he was a child."

"He is indeed cast in a strong mould, and his face pleases me.

"And so, you would enter the service of His Highness, the Peishwa?"

"That is my desire, your excellency."

"You are young to serve as an officer and, for the present, you had best remain with Sufder's troop. In the meantime, I will see what suitable post can be found for you."

With an expression of thanks, Sufder and Harry left the audience hall.

"It is a good beginning, Puntojee," the soldier said, as they left the minister's palace. "Nana Furnuwees was evidently pleased with you, and I think he will give you special employment. At the same time, serving one master here is not without its danger -- Nana especially, powerful as he is, has enemies as powerful; for he has always stood in the way of the ambition of Scindia."

That evening an officer brought, from Nana, an order conferring upon Harry the appointment of an assistant officer in Sufder's troop, with the usual pay and allowances and, three days later, an order came for him to attend the audience of the minister. On arrival, he was told by the officer of the chamber that he was not to present himself at public audience, but that Nana would speak to him privately. He was therefore taken to an inner chamber where, an hour later, Nana joined him.

"I think by your face, Puntojee, that you can be trusted; and I have decided to place you in the service of His Highness, the Peishwa. What position you will hold there must depend upon yourself, and him. I shall simply recommend you as one of whom I have heard much good. It would be as well for you not to mention your age; but let him suppose that, as you look, you are about the same age as himself. He is amiable and kindly, and your position will be a pleasant one.

"I am anxious to prevent evil advisers from obtaining influence over him. He is young and unsuspicious, and much harm might thus come to the state. It is, then, for the general interest that he should be surrounded by those whom I can trust; so that, if any plotters are endeavouring to poison his mind, their plans may be thwarted. I have of course, officers about his person who are thoroughly trustworthy; but these are much older than himself, and he chafes somewhat at what he wrongly considers his tutelage. But indeed, as he is but twenty-one, and wholly unversed in matters of state, it is needful that the management of affairs should rest in the hands of those who have long controlled it.

"Scindia would be the first to take advantage of any imprudence. He is already, by far, the most powerful of the Mahratta princes. His possessions are of immense extent; he holds the emperor at Delhi in the palm of his hand; he can put one hundred thousand horse into the field, and has large numbers of infantry, including sixteen battalions drilled by French officers, and commanded by de Boigne; and although Doulut Rao is but twenty, and as yet we know but little of his disposition, he is of course surrounded by the advisers of his uncle, and may be expected to pursue the same policy. His uncle gained great ascendency over the Peishwa, and his death was a fortunate circumstance. Still, it is certain that the prince, until his powers are matured, will yield to the advice of those to whom the conduct of affairs is entrusted.

"Now, I am going to the palace, and have requested a private audience with Mahdoo Rao, and I will take you with me."

Followed by a train of officers, with whom Harry fell in, the minister proceeded to the palace. His train remained in the public hall, and Nana went into the Peishwa's private apartment. In a few minutes, an official came in and called Puntojee; and Harry at once followed him to an inner room, where the Peishwa and his minister were alone. Harry bowed to the ground.

"This, Prince, is the young man of whom I have spoken to you. He bears an excellent character for his skill in arms, and has killed many tigers and other beasts. It was but the other day that you complained that you had no one of your own age to whom you could talk freely; and I have selected this young officer as one who, I thought, would be agreeable to you."

"I thank you heartily, Nana. In truth, I sometimes need a companion; and I think, by his face, that this officer will be an agreeable one. To what post, think you, had I best appoint him?"

"As he is a famous shikaree, I should say that it would be suitable were you to make him director of the chase."

"But I never go hunting."

"That is true; but in time, when your occupations of state lessen, you might do so," Nana said. "And indeed, even at present, there is nothing to prevent your hunting sometimes in the royal preserves, where there must be an abundance of game of all sorts."

"So let it be, then," the Peishwa said. "In truth, I care not for the killing of beasts, unless they do harm to the villagers. But it is right that there should be someone to direct the men who have charge of the preserves and, as an official, you will have the right of entry here at all times, and will be frequently about my person; and I will confer with you about other things, as well as the chase. You will, of course, have an apartment assigned to you.

"You will arrange about the emoluments, Nana."

"You had better go to my house, and wait for me there," Nana said; and Harry, bowing deeply to the prince and his minister, left the palace.

He did not deceive himself as to the reason for which Nana had thus placed him in a position in which he was likely to be frequently in the company of the young prince. He intended him to act as a spy. This he was firmly determined not to do, in any matter save in thwarting any designs Scindia might have. That was a public duty.

By this time, he had learnt much of the events that were passing. Ramdass and the other ryots of his acquaintance regarded Nana Furnuwees as the guardian of the country. For many years, it was his wisdom and firmness alone that had thwarted the designs of Scindia, whose advent to supreme authority would have been regarded as a grave misfortune, by all the cultivators of the Deccan. Scindia's expenses in keeping up so great an army were enormous, and the exactions of his tax gatherers ground to the dust the cultivators and peasantry of his own wide dominions; and Harry was therefore ready to give Nana a faithful support in all public matters. He knew that the minister had many enemies, even among the rajahs in the Peishwa's dominion, and in those round it; for they regarded him, with reason, as a curb upon their private ambitions and, for years, intrigues had been going on for his overthrow.

On the other hand, Harry was much pleased with Mahdoo Rao, who was a most amiable and kindly young man. While determined, then, to do all that he could in support of Nana; he decided that he would, on no account, give him any report that would be unfavourable to the Peishwa. His interview with the minister, on the return of the latter, was a short one.

"Here," the latter said, "is a purse of five hundred rupees, with which to obtain garments suitable for one in attendance on the Peishwa. Your emolument will be two hundred rupees a month. I shall issue orders to the men employed in the forests and preserves to report to you; and have requested the chamberlain to allot an apartment to you in the palace, and to tell off two servants to be in attendance on you.

"You understand that your mission, as far as I am concerned, is to give me early warning, if any of those favourable to Scindia -- you shall be furnished with a list of their names -- are endeavouring to obtain an undue influence over the prince; who is of an altogether unsuspicious character, and would be likely to fall an easy victim to bad counsels."

"You can depend upon my doing so," Harry said. "I have been taught to regard Scindia as an enemy to the public peace, and shall use all diligence in carrying out your excellency's orders."

And, leaving the minister, Harry went to Sufder and told him what had happened.

"In truth, Puntojee, you were born under a lucky star. I never dreamt that Nana Furnuwees would have thus introduced you to the Peishwa. Now, lad, you have a fine career opened to you. It will need caution but, as Scindia's ancestor was but a slipper bearer, and rose to the highest rank and honour; so it is open to you to win a great position, if you steer clear of the dangers that attend all who play a part in public affairs. I foresee that you will become a favourite with the prince, but remember to put your trust in Nana. He is, at present, the greatest power in the land, and has been so for many years but, unlike most who have attained such authority, he is liked by the people, for he uses his power well, and for the good of the state.

"You see, even now the young Peishwa is by no means secure on the musnud. The adherents of Rugoba, who was undoubtedly the lawful ruler of the Deccan, still live; and may one day raise the flag of revolt, in favour of his sons Bajee Rao and Chimnajee Appa who, with Amrud Rao, his adopted son, are all in close custody in the hill fort of Sewneree, under two of Nana's officers.

"There is a general feeling of pity for these young men, even among those who regard their imprisonment as necessary -- for, were they free, a civil war would assuredly break out again -- and the feeling is increased by the fact that Bajee Rao is a youth of extraordinary accomplishments. He is graceful in person, with a handsome countenance and a charming manner and, although but nineteen, he is an excellent horseman, skilled in the use of the bow, and considered to be the finest swordsman in the country. He is deeply read in all our religious books and, in all the country, there is no one of his age so learned.

"All these things, however, only add to the necessity for his being kept in prison. A youth so gifted and, as many people consider, the lawful heir to the throne, would speedily be joined by all the enemies of Nana; and might not only drive the minister into exile, but dethrone Mahdoo Rao. Such being the case, no one can blame Nana for keeping them in confinement -- at any rate, until Mahdoo Rao has been master for some years, and has proved that he is able to maintain his position.

"Now, lad, I will go into the town with you, and purchase dresses fit for an official of the palace."

"I quite see that I have been most fortunate in obtaining such a position, Sufder; but I own I should have preferred to remain with you, and learn to do service as a soldier."

"That you may learn later on," Sufder said. "Having the confidence of the Peishwa, you may soon obtain military rank, as well as civil and, if war breaks out, may hold a position vastly better than you could hope to attain to as the mere chief of a troop."

"It seems very ridiculous, Sufder, that I should be thus put forward, without any merit of my own; while you, who have fought in many battles, are still only commander of your troop."

"I have no desire for more," Sufder replied. "I am a soldier, and can do my duty as ordered, but I have no head for intrigues; and I consider the risks of a battle are quite sufficient, without those of being put out of the way for mixing myself up in plots.

"Again, your rise is not altogether undeserved. You have, by your exercises, attained the strength of manhood early; and your experience as a tiger hunter has fitted you for the post for which you are appointed, just as your diligence in exercise in arms will be of good service to you, if you come to hold military command. But you must be circumspect and, above all things, do not forget to use the dye with which Soyera has furnished you. Hitherto your white skin has done you no harm but, were it discovered here that you are English, it would at once be imagined that you were a spy, and little time would be given you to explain how matters stand."

"I will certainly be careful as to that and, now that I am to have a private apartment, I shall be able to apply the dye without the fear of being interrupted, as might have been the case in camp."

On the following day, Harry, having obtained clothes suitable to his position, betook himself to the palace, where one of the officers of the chamberlain conducted him to his apartment, and assigned to him two men appointed to his service.



Chapter 3: A Change In Affairs.


Harry Lindsay's duties were little more than nominal. The reports sent in to him, by those in charge of the royal preserves, could scarcely be considered as satisfactory; as they stated that, owing to the fact that for years there had been no hunting there, the tigers had greatly increased in number, and had thinned down the stags and, indeed, in some cases had so destroyed other game that they were driven to escape from the enclosures, and to ravage the villages. But beyond receiving these reports, and riding over occasionally to the preserves, Harry had little to do save to take part in any court ceremonies and, when called upon to do so, to accompany the Peishwa in his walks in the palace garden. He therefore determined to learn to read and write in Mahratta and, for two or three hours a day, a man of the weynsh, or mercantile class, came in to teach him. So careful was Nana Furnuwees, in preventing Scindia's adherents from approaching the prince, that Harry had nothing whatever to report on this head.

One day, when Mahdoo Rao, who had taken a great liking to him, was walking in the garden, chatting familiarly to him of his life in the country, and his adventures with tigers and other wild beasts, he said:

"Have you seen my cousin, Bajee Rao?"

"No, Your Highness, I have never seen him."

"You have heard of him, of course, and nothing but good."

"That is so, Prince. It seems that, both in sports and learning, he is wonderfully well instructed."

"I should like to see him," the prince said. "I admire what I have heard of him, greatly, and it is hard that he should be shut up in prison; and yet he is scarcely more a prisoner than I am."

Harry was struck with dismay.

"But Your Highness is in no way a prisoner!"

"I am not shut up in a fortress," the young prince said, "but I am no more my own master than Bajee Rao is. Nana Furnuwees treats me as if I were a child. He is, I know, devoted to me; but that makes it no more pleasant. I can go where I like, but it is always with my retinue. I cannot choose my own friends."

"Your Highness will forgive me, if I say that it is for your own safety, and for the peace of the country that your minister watches over you so jealously; and doubtless he thinks that, having been the chief adviser to your family, for so many years, having guarded it so successfully from those who would have lessened your authority, for the present it is of the greatest importance that he should continue to guide the state."

"I am, at least, very glad that he allows me a companion of my own age, to whom I can talk freely."

"On all subjects, Your Highness, excepting state matters. Nana presented me because I was ignorant of the court, and knew nothing whatever of intrigues, and was not likely to take any part in them. Therefore, Your Highness, I pray you but to speak upon ordinary matters; be assured I am your devoted servant, but the courtiers would grow suspicious, were you to talk of state matters with me. These things speedily become known, and I should fall under Nana's displeasure."

"Perhaps you are right," the Peishwa admitted, in a tone of melancholy. "No doubt, whatever passes in this house is known to my minister; and indeed, it is his duty to make himself so acquainted. Still, I feel it hard that I should not have one friend to whom I can speak."

"The time will come, Prince, when you will be able to do so and, doubtless, there will be at hand those who will dare to have your confidence."

The prince was silent but, after this, he abstained from any remarks to Harry concerning the state. He had, indeed, for some time been in correspondence with Bajee Rao, who had gained the confidence of one of those appointed to look after him and, though there was nothing save expressions of friendship on the part of both princes, Nana was furious when he found out, from his spies, what was going on.

The news came as a shock to the minister. Nana had been the greatest enemy of the house of Rugoba; and the discovery of this correspondence, and the friendship between the two young men, so threatened his authority that, after ordering that Bajee Rao and his brothers should be more strictly confined than before, he visited the Peishwa and upbraided him bitterly for having entered upon a friendship with the head of a party which had harassed his family, and had brought innumerable troubles on the state. Then he sent a message to Harry, bidding him to come, at once.

"How is it, Puntojee," he said sternly, "that you have altogether failed to justify the faith I put in you, and have already assisted Mahdoo Rao to enter into relations with my enemy, Bajee Rao?"

Harry was thunderstruck at this sudden attack.

"My lord, you must have been misinformed. I know nothing of any such correspondence and, if it really went on, I think the Peishwa would have taken me into his confidence."

"Do you mean to say that Mahdoo has not spoken to you about his cousin?"

"No, sir, I do not say so for, some four months ago, he spoke in terms of admiration for Bajee Rao; but he did not pursue the subject, and never afterwards alluded to it."

The minister looked at him fixedly.

"I believe you," he said. "You do not look like a double-faced man, but as one who would tell the truth, whatever were the consequences. Moreover, I felt that if you had known of Mahdoo Rao's intentions, and had not reported them to me, you would, on receiving my message, have endeavoured to make your escape. I have of course enquired, and found that you spent your afternoon, as usual, with your scribe; and that you afterwards rode out to Sufder's camp, and there talked for half an hour, sitting outside the tent and conversing on ordinary matters; and then you returned here to the palace. These proceedings go far to assure me that you were ignorant of the discovery that had been made, that a correspondence had been going on between Mahdoo and Bajee. Still, I thought you might have known of the correspondence, though not of the discovery; but now I am quite convinced that you were altogether ignorant of what was going on."

The scene with Nana, and the knowledge that he had brought upon his cousins even stricter confinement than before, acted most painfully upon the mind of the young Peishwa, already embittered by the restraint in which he was being held. He now shut himself up in his room, and absolutely refused to leave it. His absence from the durbars was put down to illness. Nana paid no great attention to him, believing that the young prince would speedily recover himself.

This, however, was not the case, for settled melancholy took possession of him. On the 22nd of October he appeared at the Duddera, a high ceremonial, went among his troops and, in the evening, received his chiefs and the representatives from the great rajahs but, three days later, he threw himself from a terrace in front of his palace, broke two of his limbs, and so seriously injured himself that he died, two days afterwards; having, almost in his last breath, expressed to Nana his strong desire that Bajee Rao should succeed him on the musnud.

The consternation of the minister was unbounded. It seemed that, by this sudden and unexpected blow, the whole of his plans were overthrown; and that not only his position, but his very life, was in danger.

He sent for Harry, two hours after the Peishwa's death.

"Answer me frankly," he said. "Can I depend upon you, absolutely? And have you had no communication of any kind from my enemies?"

"You can depend upon me, my lord. Everyone knows that you have saved the state, a score of times; and will, I doubt not, do the same again."

"I have the will," the minister said, gravely, "but whether I have the power is another thing. I sent off a messenger to the general, Purseram Bhow, bidding him gather as many troops as possible and march hither; and I shall send letters to the Rajah of Nagpore, and Scindia. Holkar, being in Poona, I have already seen and, as he has always supported me against Rugoba, he is as anxious as I am as to the succession.

"I shall now send you with a duplicate letter to Purseram Bhow for, since the terrible accident to Mahdoo Rao, whom I loved dearly for his amiable character, it is probable that the adherents of Bajee Rao have been active; and that my every movement is watched, and attempts may be made to stop any messengers that I may send out. Take Sufder's troop with you. If you are stopped, fight your way through, whatever their force. It is a matter of supreme importance that this letter should reach the general."

"It shall reach him, my lord," Harry said, as he took it; "in five minutes I shall be on my way."

Going to his room he changed his attire, mounted his horse, and rode to Sufder's camp. The men were all ready, as Nana had sent an order to Sufder to prepare instantly for a journey.

"So it is you, Puntojee!" the captain said, as he rode up; "the orderly did not tell me whom I was to escort, nor our destination. In which direction do we ride?"

"I am bearer of a letter to Purseram Bhow."

"Then I know the direction;" and, giving orders to his men, he rode off at once by the side of Harry.

"This is a terrible business, Puntojee."

"I am greatly grieved, indeed, for no one could have been kinder to me than Mahdoo Rao."

"Yes, yes," Sufder said; "that is all very well, but the serious side of the matter is that, just as everything seemed settled, we may be entering upon another civil war, more terrible than the last. Of course, I am sorry for the young Peishwa; but I doubt whether he was in any way fit to rule over the Mahrattas. Kindness of heart goes for nothing with a people like ours; split up into many factions, led by many chiefs, and ever ready for war. It needs a strong, as well as an able man to hold in check all the parties in the state.

"Scindia was the sort of man to rule us. He was strong in every way, was troubled with no scruples, would strike down without mercy any who opposed him. He took great care of his troops, and they were always ready to follow him. That is the man we want on the musnud; not a young prince, of whom we can only say that he was kindly.

"And why did Nana choose you?"

"I am a second string to his bow. He sent off a messenger as soon as he heard of Mahdoo Rao's accident but, fearing he might be intercepted on the way, he has chosen me as being a person no one would be likely to suspect of being his messenger, on so important a matter."

"It is important, indeed, Puntojee. There is no saying what may be the result of the Peishwa's death. There is no doubt that Scindia and Holkar will, for once, be in complete accord with Nana Furnuwees, and will combine in any plan to keep Rugoba's son from succeeding; still, there are many of the friends of Rugoba who will be ready to declare for his son and, moreover, there are the stories that have been so widely circulated as to Bajee's personal appearance, and his many accomplishments -- these will gain for him a great number of partisans."

The journey was performed without interruption. At one time, a body of some fifty horsemen made their appearance on rising ground near the road, but drew off when they saw how strong was the party and, after a ride of sixty miles, they arrived at Purseram Bhow's camp. Harry dismounted in front of the general's tent and, entering, handed him the letter.

"What is your news?" the latter asked, before opening it.

"There is none, General, beyond what the letter, sent to you three hours before I left, will have prepared you to hear. I only bear a copy of that letter, in case the first should not have reached you."

"It is well that the precaution was taken for, in truth, the messenger has not arrived."

"It is possible that he may have been murdered on the way, sir; for we saw a party of fifty horsemen on the road, whose intentions seemed to be hostile, but as I had Sufder's troop of a hundred men with me, they drew off."

"But what is the news, then, that is so important that steps are taken to stop messengers that bear it?"

Harry related what had taken place, the old officer giving many ejaculations of regret, and horror, at the news of Mahdoo Rao's death.

"'Tis a terrible misfortune, indeed," he said, "and is like to throw the whole country into disorder again."

He opened the despatch now, and glanced through it. He called some of his officers, who were gathered near the tent, and ordered them to cause the trumpets to be sounded for all the troops to be in readiness to march, at once; leaving only a small body of infantry to pack up the tents, and follow at a more leisurely pace with the baggage.

An hour later two regiments of cavalry started, infantry men being taken up behind the troopers and, late the next day, they arrived at Poona. Scindia and the Rajah of Berar had also been sent for, in haste and, as soon as they arrived, a council was held as to the choice that should be made of a successor.

All were opposed to the selection of Bajee Rao; for he would have been brought up by his mother, with the deepest enmity towards those who had successfully combined against his father. It was therefore proposed that the widow of Mahdoo Rao should adopt a son, in whose name the government should be carried on.

It was not until two months had been spent in negotiations that the matter was finally settled. One of Scindia's ministers, named Balloba, alone opposed the course decided upon; and Bajee Rao opened communications with him, and succeeded in winning him over to his cause. Having done this he addressed Scindia; offering him a very large addition to his territory, and payment of all his expenses, if he would assist him to gain his rightful position. As Balloba had great influence over the young Scindia, the offer was accepted.

The arrangement was made so secretly that Nana Furnuwees had received no intimation, whatever, of what was going on, until the agreement had been concluded. Purseram Bhow was again summoned to Poona and, with his usual energy, made a march of one hundred and twenty miles in forty-eight hours.

The position was a difficult one, indeed. At one blow, the plans that had been so carefully laid by Nana were shattered. Scindia, who had but a month or two before formed one of the confederacy, had now gone round to the side of Bajee Rao, who regarded the minister as his greatest enemy. Holkar was not to be depended upon and, in Poona, there were many adherents of the son of Rugoba. The council held by Nana, Purseram, and two or three other great officers was long and, at times, stormy; but it was finally agreed that the sole way out of the perilous position, caused by Scindia's desertion, was to anticipate him and to release Bajee Rao, and declare him Peishwa.

Purseram started, at once, to the fort where the brothers were confined. Harry, who was now deeply interested in the course of events, was one of Nana's officers who accompanied Purseram. On hearing the general's errand, the officer in command of the fort at once sent for Bajee, his brother Chimnajee, and Amrud -- who was the adopted son of Rugoba, and who stood on an equal footing with regard to the succession. Bajee Rao listened calmly to the proposals made to him in Nana's name, asked several questions, and demanded guarantees; but was evidently disposed to accept the proposals, if assured that they were made in good faith.

Amrud strongly urged him to decline the offer; but Bajee, upon Purseram taking the most solemn oath known to the Hindoos, in proof of his sincerity, accepted the offer and, with his brother Chimnajee, rode with Purseram to Poona; Amrud being left behind in the fort, as Purseram considered that he would continue to exercise his influence over Bajee in a direction hostile to Nana's interest.

As soon as the party arrived at the capital, an interview took place between Bajee and Nana when, in the presence of many of the great officers, both swore to forget all enmities and injuries, and Bajee promised to retain Nana at the head of his administration.

That same evening, the minister sent for Harry.

"Puntojee," he said, "I have a commission for you. I know that you are loyal to me, and that I can depend upon you. I wish you to go at once to Scindia's camp, which is now on the bank of the Godavery, and ascertain how he takes the news. Doubtless Balloba, his prime minister, will be furious at finding that, instead of Bajee becoming a mere creature of Scindia's, I have placed him on the musnud, and retain my place as his chief minister. I can employ you for this business better than most others, for the greater part of my officers are personally known to those of Scindia, while you have scarce been seen by them. I have also a high idea of your shrewdness; and I have no doubt that you will, in some way, be able to gain the information that I require -- indeed, it will probably be the public talk of the camp. If you should find an opportunity of entering into negotiations, with any influential person in Scindia's court, I authorize you to do so in my name; and to agree to any reasonable demands that he may make, either for a payment in money or in estates. Scindia's character is wholly unformed and, though today he may be guided by Balloba, tomorrow he may lean on someone else.

"You can go in any guise you think fit, either as a trooper or as a camp follower. In either case, you had better take Sufder and twenty men with you; and leave them in concealment within a few miles of the camp so that, in case of necessity, you can join them; and his men can act as messengers, and bring your reports to me."

As it was now a year since Harry had first gone to Poona, and he had during that time worked diligently, he could now both read and write the Mahratta language, and was thus able to send in written reports; instead of being obliged to rely upon oral messages, which might be misdelivered by those who carried them, or possibly reported to others instead of to the minister; whereas reading and writing were known to but few of the Mahrattas, outside the Brahmin class.

Sufder expressed himself much pleased, when he heard that he was to accompany Harry.

"I am sick of this life of inactivity," he said. "Why, we have had no fighting for the past five years; and we shall forget how to use our arms, unless there is something doing. I would willingly accompany you into Scindia's camp, but I am far too well known there to hope to escape observation. However, I will pick out twenty of my best men so that, if there should be a skirmish, we shall be able to hold our own. Of course, I shall choose men who have good horses, for we may have to ride for it."

Harry himself was very well mounted, for Mahdoo Rao had given him two excellent horses; and as he had, when out with Sufder's troop, tried them against the best of those of the sowars, he felt sure that he could trust to them, in case of having to ride for his life. The trooper who looked after them had become much attached to him, and he determined to take him with him into Scindia's camp, one of Sufder's other men looking after the horses.

After a consultation with Sufder, he decided on adopting the costume of a petty trader or pedlar carrying garments, scarfs, and other articles used by soldiers. Of these he laid in a store and, three hours after his interview with Nana, started with his escort; the trooper leading his spare horse, on which his packs were fastened, and his own man riding a country pony. The distance to Scindia's camp was under a hundred miles, and they took three days in accomplishing it. It was important that the horses should not be knocked up, as their lives might depend upon their speed.

When within ten miles of their destination, they halted in a grove near the Moola river. Here Harry changed his clothes, and assumed those of a small merchant. Then he mounted the pony; a portion of the packs was fastened behind him, and the rest carried by his servant.

Scindia's camp lay around Toka, a town on the Godavery at the foot of a range of hills. On arriving there he went to the field bazaar, where a large number of booths, occupied by traders and country peasants, were erected. The former principally sold arms, saddlery, and garments; the latter, the produce of their own villages. Choosing an unoccupied piece of ground, Harry erected a little shelter tent; composed of a dark blanket thrown over a ridge pole, supported by two others, giving a height of some four feet, in the centre. The pony was picketed just behind this. In front of it a portion of the wares was spread out, and Harry began the usual loud exhortations, to passers by, to inspect them.

Having thus established himself, he left Wasil in charge, explaining to him the prices that he was to ask for each of the articles sold, and then started on a tour through the camp. Here and there pausing to listen to the soldiers, he picked up scraps of news; and learned that there was a general expectation that the army would march, in a day or two, towards Poona -- it being rumoured that Scindia and his minister, Balloba, had been outwitted by Nana Furnuwees; and that Balloba had made no secret of his anger, but vowed vengeance against the man who had overthrown plans which, it had been surely believed, would have resulted in Scindia's obtaining supreme control over the Deccan.

Returning to his little tent, he wrote a letter to Nana, telling him what he had gathered, and giving approximately the strength of Scindia's force; adding that, from what he heard, the whole were animated with the desire to avenge what they considered an insult to their prince. This note he gave to Wasil, who at once started on foot to join Sufder; who would forward it, by four troopers, to Poona.

The next morning he returned and, after purchasing provisions from the countrymen, and lighting a fire for cooking them, he assisted Harry at his stall. The latter was standing up, exhibiting a garment to a soldier, who was haggling with him over the price, when a party of officers rode by. At their head was one whose dress showed him to be a person of importance; and whom Harry at once recognized as Balloba, having often noticed him during the negotiations at Poona. As his eye fell upon Harry he checked his horse for a moment, and beckoned to him to come to him.

"Come here, weynsh," he said, using the term generally applied to the commercial caste.

Harry went up to him, and salaamed.

Harry went up to him, and salaamed.

"How comes it," the minister asked, "that so fine a young fellow as you are is content to be peddling goods through the country, when so well fitted by nature for better things? You should be a soldier, and a good one. For so young a man, I have never seen a greater promise of strength.

"It seems to me that your face is not unknown to me. Where do you come from?"

"From Jooneer, your excellency, where my people are cultivators but, having no liking for that life, I learned the trade of a shopkeeper, and obtained permission to travel to your camp, and to try my fortune in disposing of some of my master's goods."

As Jooneer was but some sixty miles from Toka, the explanation was natural enough and, as the former town lay near to the main road from Scindia's dominions in Candeish, it afforded an explanation of Balloba's partial recognition of his face.

"And as a merchant, you can read and write, I suppose?" the latter went on.

"Yes, your highness, sufficiently well for my business."

"Well, think it over. You can scarcely find your present life more suitable to your taste than that of a cultivator, and the army is the proper place for a young fellow with spirit, and with strength and muscles such as you have. If you like to enlist in my own bodyguard, and your conduct be good, I will see that you have such promotion as you deserve."

"Your excellency is kind, indeed," Harry said, humbly. "Before I accept your kind offer, will you permit me to return to Jooneer to account for my sales to my employer, and to obtain permission of my father to accept your offer; which would indeed be greatly more to my taste than the selling of goods."

"It is well," Balloba said, and then broke off:

"Ah! I know now why I remember your face. 'Tis the lightness of your eyes, which are of a colour rarely seen; but somehow or other, it appears to me that it was not at Jooneer, but at Poona, that I noticed your face."

"I was at Poona, with my master, when your highness was there," Harry said.

"That accounts for it."

The minister touched his horse's flanks with his heel and rode on, with a thoughtful look on his face. Harry at once joined Wasil.

"Quick, Wasil! There is no time to be lost. Throw the saddle on to the pony, and make your way out of the camp, at once. Pitch all the other things into the tent, and close it. If you leave them here, it will seem strange. Balloba has seen me at Poona, and it is likely enough that, as he thinks it over, he will remember that it was in a dress altogether different from this. Go at once to Sufder. If you get there before me, tell him to mount at once, and ride fast to meet me."

Two minutes later, everything was prepared; and Wasil, mounting the pony, rode off, while Harry moved away among the tents. In a quiet spot, behind one of these, he threw off his upper garments and stood in the ordinary undress of a Hindoo peasant, having nothing on but a scanty loincloth. He had scarcely accomplished this when he heard the trampling of horses; and saw, past the tent, four troopers ride up to the spot he had just left.

"Where is the trader who keeps this tent?" one of them shouted. "He is a spy, and we have orders to arrest him."

Harry waited to hear no more, but walked in the opposite direction; taking care to maintain a leisurely stride, and to avoid all appearance of haste. Then, going down to the road by the side of which the bazaar was encamped, he mingled with the crowd there. Presently, one of the troopers dashed up.

"Has anyone seen a man in the dress of a trader?" and he roughly described the attire of which Harry had rid himself.

There was a general chorus of denial, from those standing round, and the trooper again galloped on.

Harry continued his walk at a leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to look at articles exposed for sale, until he reached the end of the bazaar. Then he made across the country. Trumpets were blowing now in the camp, and he had no doubt that Balloba had ordered a thorough search to be made for him. He did not quicken his pace, however, until well out of sight; but then he broke into a swinging trot, for he guessed that, when he was not found in the camp, parties of cavalry would start to scour the country. He had gone some four miles when, looking behind him, he saw about twenty horsemen, far back along the road.

The country here was flat and open, with fields irrigated by canals running from the Moola, and affording no opportunity for concealment. Hitherto he had been running well within his powers; but he now quickened his pace, and ran at full speed. He calculated that Wasil would have at least half an hour's start of him; and that, as he would urge the pony to the top of his speed, he would by this time have joined Sufder; and he was sure that the latter would not lose an instant before starting to meet him. He had hesitated, for a moment, whether he should break into a quiet walk and allow the troopers to overtake him, relying upon the alteration of his costume; but he reflected that Balloba might have foreseen that he would change his disguise, and have ordered the arrest of a young man with curiously light eyes.

Harry had always attempted to conceal this feature, as far as possible, by staining his eyelashes a deep black; but when he looked up, the colour of his eyes could hardly fail to strike anyone specially noticing them.

His constant exercise as a boy had given him great swiftness of foot, and the year passed as a shikaree had added to his endurance and speed and, divested of clothing as he was, he felt sure that the horsemen, who were more than a mile in his rear when he first caught sight of them, would not overtake him for some time. He was running, as he knew, for life; for he was certain that, if caught, Balloba would have him at once put to death as a spy. Although hardy and of great endurance, the Mahratta horses, which were small in size, were not accustomed to being put to the top of their speed except for a short charge; and the five miles that they had galloped already must have, to some extent, fatigued them.

After running at the top of his speed for about a mile, he looked back. The party was still a long distance in his rear. Again he pressed forward, but his exertions were telling upon him and, before he had gone another half mile, the Mahrattas had approached within little more than half that distance.

Far ahead he thought he could perceive a body of horsemen, but these were nearly two miles away, and he would be overtaken before they could reach him; therefore he turned suddenly off, and took to one of the little banks dividing one irrigated field from another. As soon as the horsemen reached the spot where he had left the road, they too turned off; but Harry, who was now husbanding his strength, saw a sudden confusion among them.

The little bank of earth on which he was running was but a foot wide, and was softened by the water which soaked in from both sides. It could bear his weight, well enough; but not that of a mounted man. Only one or two had attempted to follow it, the others had plunged into the field. Here their horses at once sank up to the knees. Some endeavoured to force the animals on, others to regain the road they had quitted. The two horsemen on the bank were making better progress, but their horses' hoofs sank deeply in the soft earth; and their pace, in spite of the exertions of the riders, was but a slow one.

Harry turned when he came to the end of the field, and followed another bank at right angles, and was therefore now running in the right direction. He was more than keeping his lead from the foremost of his pursuers Some of the others galloped along the road, parallel to him, but ahead.

The horsemen he had first seen were now within a mile. On they came, at the top of their speed; and the troopers on the road halted, not knowing whether this body were friends or foes, while those on the bank reined in their horses, and rode back to join their comrades. Harry continued to run till he came to another bank leading to the road and, following this, he arrived there just as Sufder galloped up with his party, one of the troopers leading his horse. They gave a shout of welcome, as he came up.

"I thought it must be you," Sufder said, "from the way you ran, rather than from your attire. Shall we charge those fellows?"

"I think not," Harry said. "In the first place Scindia has not, as yet, declared war against Nana and Bajee; in the second, there may be more men coming on behind; therefore it will be best to leave them alone though, if they attack us, we shall, of course, defend ourselves."

"I think that is their intention, Puntojee. See, they have gathered together! I suppose they daren't go back, and say that you have escaped."

"Give me either your sword or spear."

The latter was part of the regular equipment of the Mahratta horsemen. Sufder handed him his sword and, as the pursuers advanced towards them at a canter which speedily became a gallop, he took his place by the side of Sufder and, the latter giving the word, the band dashed forward to meet their opponents.

The combat was a short one. Sufder's followers were all picked men, and were better mounted than Scindia's troopers. These made special efforts to get at Harry, but the latter's skill with the sword enabled him to free himself from his most pressing opponents. Sufder laid about him stoutly and, his men seconding him well, half their opponents were speedily struck to the ground; and the rest, turning their horses, fled at full speed. Sufder's men would have followed, but he shouted to them to draw rein.

"Enough has been done, and well done," he said. "If Scindia means war, nothing will be said about this fight; but if he does not, complaints will doubtless be laid against us, and it is better that we should be able to say that we fought only in self defence; and that, when the attack ceased, we allowed them to ride off unmolested, though we might easily enough have slain the whole of them."

On arriving at the grove where the troop had halted, Harry at once resumed his own clothes; for although in his early days he had been accustomed to be slightly clad, he felt ill at ease riding almost naked. Here, too, he found Wasil, who had ridden with such speed that his pony was too much exhausted for him to ride back with the rest. He received his master with the greatest joy, for he had feared he would be captured before leaving the camp.

They continued their journey to Jooneer, where they halted for the night. Sufder went to his house, and Harry rode out to the farm.



Chapter 4: A British Resident.


As Harry drew rein at the farm Soyera ran out, followed by her brother and Anundee, with cries of joy at his unexpected return. It was nearly fifteen months since she had last seen him; though he had, when opportunity offered, sent messages to her assuring her that he was well, and hoped ere long to be able to come over to see her.

"I should scarce have known you," she said, "in those fine clothes of yours. You sent word that you were an officer in the Peishwa's service; but I hardly thought that you could be so much changed. You have grown a great deal, and are now much taller than Ramdass's sons."

The worthy farmer and Anundee were also delighted to see him.

"How long are you going to stay?" the former asked.

"Only till tomorrow, at daybreak. I have to ride forward, with all haste, to Poona; for I have been on a mission for Nana Furnuwees."

"Surely it is not so important that you cannot stay a few hours, Puntojee?"

"It is of importance. You may have known that Nana has placed Bajee Rao on the musnud, and he has installed himself as his minister; thereby defeating the plans of Balloba and Scindia, who will probably come along here with their whole force, in a day or two."

Late that evening, when the others had retired to bed, Soyera and Harry had a long talk together.

"Have you thought, Harry," she asked, after speaking for some time about his doings and position at court, "of joining your people again? There is peace between the Peishwa's court and the English. There is a British Resident at Poona and, as you have now gained a certain rank there, you could go to him with a much better face than if you had come direct from here, as a peasant. Then it would probably have been supposed that you were an impostor. That you were English, of course could be seen by your skin; but it might have been thought that I had adopted some English child, and was now trying to pass it off as the son of an officer."

"I think, mother, that I had best continue, for some time, as I am. You see I have, at present, nothing in common with the English except their blood. Were another war to break out between the Mahrattas and Bombay, I would at once declare myself to the Resident here, and go down to Bombay but, even then, my position would be a doubtful one and, unless I were to enlist in their army, I do not see how I should maintain myself.

"Moreover, you must remember that I have now a deep interest in matters here. Nana Furnuwees has treated me with much kindness, and placed his confidence in me. He has many enemies, as I have told you. Scindia is about to advance against Poona, and it is probable that he may succeed in driving Nana into exile, or imprisoning him for life; and establishing Balloba, or some other person devoted to his interest, as minister, in which case Scindia would be absolutely supreme. Nothing would persuade me to desert Nana; who has, for many years, alone withstood the ambition of Scindia's party. I do not say, for a moment, that my aid would be of the slightest use to him but, at any rate, he shall see that I am not ungrateful for his kindness; and will be faithful to him in his misfortunes, as he has been kind to me, when in power."

"That is right," Soyera said. "The cause of Nana is the cause of all in this part of the Deccan; for we should be infinitely worse off, were Scindia to lay hands on us. But there is an alternative, by which you could at once remain faithful to Nana, and prepare your way for joining the English, when you considered that the time for doing so had arrived."

"What is that, Soyera?"

"You might go to the English Resident, and tell him who you are, and how you have been brought up. Say that, at present, you wish to remain in the service of Nana; who has been a good friend to you, and with whom your sympathies, like those of nearly all the cultivators in the Peishwa's dominions, accord. Say that you hope, when the time comes, to return to your countrymen; and that, in the meantime, you will give him any information in your power as to what is going on, subject only to your friendship for Nana. Thus, by making yourself useful to the Resident, you may prepare your way for joining your countrymen and, at the same time, be able to remain with Nana until either he is victorious over his enemies, or his cause is really lost."

"The plan is an excellent one," Harry said, "and I will certainly adopt it. Undoubtedly, the feeling among the English must be in favour of Bajee Rao and Nana. As Bajee is the son of Rugoba, he is their natural ally. Moreover, they would object most strongly to see Scindia become master of the whole Mahratta power; which he would probably use against them, at the first opportunity. It would, as you say, greatly facilitate my obtaining a fair position among the English; and I might also be able to do Nana a service. Of course, I have seen the English Resident many times, in the streets of Poona; and more than once, on special occasions, at Mahdoo Rao's court. As it is his business to know something of all connected with the palace, it is probable that he may have heard of me; at any rate, it would be easier to explain to him my position, than it would be to go down as a stranger to Bombay -- where I should be ignorant as to whom I should first approach, and how to declare myself -- a matter I have very often thought over."

The next morning the troop started at daybreak and, riding fast, reached Poona by noon. Harry went at once to report what he had seen to Nana.

"I received your letter yesterday," the minister said, "and the news was indeed bad. Purseram Bhow has offered to go out to give battle to Scindia, but my forces would have no chance: not only is Scindia's army much larger, but he has the infantry regiments commanded by foreign officers, and against these my infantry could not prevail. It would be madness to risk fighting, under such circumstances. The wheel may turn and, ere long, I may be in a position to thwart the schemes of Scindia and Balloba."

Nana had never been conspicuous for personal courage, though his moral courage, and his ability to meet any storm were unbounded. He was now an old man, and dreaded the shock of battle, when the chances appeared to be so much against him. He could not depend upon the support of Bajee, who had already shown himself willing to side with the strongest, and to make terms for himself, without the slightest regard for those who had befriended him.

"But if your excellency does not think of fighting, what course will you pursue?"

"I shall leave the country, at once," he said. "If I stop here, I know that Balloba, who is my personal enemy, will have me put to death. I only need time to recover from this sudden misfortune, and it would be madness for me to wait here, and to fall into the power of my enemies.

"Purseram Bhow is greatly offended, because I will not allow him to fight; but I, who have for so many years done my best to prevent civil war in this country -- a war which, however it ended, would break up the Mahratta power -- would not bring its horrors upon Poona. It is against me that Balloba is marching and, if I retire, bloodshed will be altogether averted.

"Will you accompany me, Puntojee?" he asked almost wistfully.

"Assuredly I will do so, sir; and I think that I can answer for Sufder, who has, I know, a great regard for your excellency. As to myself, I have little hope that I should escape unharmed, if Balloba arrive here before I leave. He detected me, even in my disguise in his camp; and I had a narrow escape, for a party of his cavalry pursued me, and would probably have caught me had not Sufder, with his band, met me, and defeated them with a loss of half their number. You may be sure that Balloba will learn who was in command, and Sufder's life would be no safer than my own.

"May I ask when your excellency is going to leave Poona?"

"Scouts were sent out yesterday, as soon as your letter was read and, directly Scindia's army gets in motion, I shall receive news. When I do, I shall leave. The horses will be saddled in readiness, and I shall be at the edge of the Ghauts by the time Scindia arrives here. You can tell Sufder to come, at once. He knows the disposition of the captains of the various troops, and will be able to tell me who can be depended upon."

Sufder was indeed outside the palace, having told Harry that he would wait, until he had learned the result of his interview with Nana. Harry briefly related to him his conversation with the minister.

"I think he is right," he said. "Purseram Bhow is a stout fighter, and is as brave as a lion; but Scindia's force would be double that which he could gather, at such a short notice, and Nana does right not to risk everything on the chance of a single fight. He is a wily old fox, and has got safely through dangers which would have crushed an ordinary man. You will see that, before long, he will be back again, and reinstated in power.

"At any rate, I will accompany him. After that thrashing we gave Balloba's horsemen, my head would not be safe here an hour, after his arrival."

On the road, Harry had informed him of the decision at which he had arrived, upon Soyera's advice; and Sufder agreed that it would certainly be a wise step. Accordingly, when the latter entered the palace, Harry went straight to the British Residency. He sent in his native name to Mr. Malet, and asked for an interview, and was at once shown in.

"You wish to speak to me, sir?" the Resident said, in the Mahratta language. "I think I have seen you at Mahdoo Rao's court."

"I have seen your excellency there," Harry replied, in the same language.

Then, seeing that the Resident spoke the language with difficulty, he went on, in English:

"It is a matter chiefly personal to myself."

The Resident looked at him in surprise, for it was the first time he had heard a Mahratta speaking English.

"I am the son of Major Lindsay who, with his wife and escort, was murdered by a party of Mahrattas, seventeen years ago, at the time when the English army was advancing against Poona. I was saved by the fidelity of an ayah, who had been in the family for ten years. A cousin of hers was, fortunately, one of the leaders of the party who attacked the camp and, with his connivance, she carried me off and made her way back to her family, near Jooneer. She stained my skin, as you see, and allowed it to be supposed that she had married in Bombay, and that I was her own child.

"She has brought me up with the intention of my rejoining my countrymen, as soon as I became a man; for she did not see how, until then, I could earn my living among strangers. She taught me as much as she knew of the language and religion of the English and, when I was twelve, took me down to Bombay and left me, for some two years and a half, in the house of Mrs. Sankey, a lady who taught some of the children of officers there. When I left Bombay I was able to speak English as well as other English boys of my age.

"My nurse had, from the earliest time I can remember, encouraged me in taking part in all sports and games; and when I was but eight a soldier, a cousin of hers, began to teach me my first exercise in arms. I continued to work at this until I went down to Bombay and, on my return, spent all my time, for some months, in riding and shooting. After this I was, for a year, with a famous shikaree; and took part in the killing of many tigers, and other wild beasts. This was fortunate; for when, through this relation of my nurse, I was introduced to Nana Furnuwees, and by him to Mahdoo Rao, the latter was pleased to take a fancy for me, and appointed me to the charge of the game preserves.

"At the present moment I have just returned from a mission, in disguise, to Scindia's camp. Nana has shown me great kindness. My intention is to remain with him, until he has passed through his present difficulties, which are very serious. After that, I hope to be able to go to Bombay, and to obtain a commission in the Company's service."

"I remember well the circumstances of the murder of Major Lindsay, and his wife; for I was in Bombay at the time. It was a matter of deep regret to us all, for he was greatly liked but, at the time, everyone was excited over the infamous treaty of Wurgaum. I remember that when a party was sent out, on our receiving the news of the attack, the bodies of the major and his wife were found, as also those of his servants and sowars; but it was reported that no trace could be discovered of the infant, or of his ayah. It was thought possible that they had escaped, and hopes were entertained that the woman might have carried off her charge. I have no doubt as to the truth of your story.

"Is your nurse still alive?"

"She is, sir, as is also the man who assisted her. His name is Sufder, and he commands a troop of the Peishwa's cavalry. Both will testify, at the right time, to the truth of my statement."

"I can the more readily believe it," the Resident said, "inasmuch as, in spite of your colour, I can perceive a certain likeness to Major Lindsay, whom I knew intimately."

"My intention, in coming to see you now, sir, was to offer to furnish any information to you, concerning the movements and plans of Nana Furnuwees, so far as such information could do him no harm."

"I heard that there had been discussions between Nana and Purseram Bhow, the latter wishing to give battle to Scindia; but I think that Nana is right in refusing to sanction this for, from all I hear, Scindia's army is very much the stronger."

"It is, sir; and I should say that Purseram's army could hardly be depended upon to fight, under such circumstances."

"What is Nana going to do?"

"He is going to retire, as soon as Scindia's army is fairly in motion."

"He is in an awkward position," Mr. Malet said, "but he has reinstated himself, several times, when it seemed that everything was lost. I have great respect for his abilities, and he is the only man who can curb the ambition of Scindia and his ministers. Scindia's entire supremacy would be most unwelcome to us for, indeed, it is only owing to the mutual jealousy of the three great chiefs of the Mahratta nation, that we have gained successes. Were the whole power in one hand, we should certainly lose Surat, and probably Bassein and Salsette, and have to fight hard to hold Bombay.

"I shall be very glad to receive any reports you can supply me with, for it is next to impossible to obtain anything like trustworthy information here. We only hear what it is desired that we should know, and all these late changes have come as a complete surprise to me; for what news I do obtain is, more often than not, false. Unfortunately, truth is a virtue almost unknown among the Mahrattas. They have a perfect genius for intrigue, and consider it perfectly justifiable to deceive not only enemies, but friends.

"And when do you think of declaring yourself Mr. Lindsay?"

"I shall remain with Nana, so long as there is the slightest chance of his success; unless, indeed, the course of affairs should lead to the English intervening in these troubles; then, in case they declare against Nana, I should feel it my duty to leave him at once."

"I do not think there is any probability of that. Our policy has been to support him, as the Peishwa's minister, against either Scindia or Holkar. I shall, of course, report your appearance to the authorities at Bombay; and I am sure there will be a disposition to advance your views, for the sake of your father; and moreover, your knowledge of the language of the Mahrattas -- which is, of course, perfect, or you could not have maintained your deception so long -- will of itself be a strong recommendation in your favour."

After thanking Mr. Malet for his kindness, Harry returned to Sufder's camp, and gave him an account of his interview with the Resident.

"That is satisfactory, indeed, Puntojee. It shows the wisdom of the step you took. Now, as to our affairs here, I have mentioned the names of five captains of troops; all of whom can, I think, be relied upon. However, I am now going out to see them, and have only been waiting for your return. Six hundred men is but a small body; but it is a beginning, and I have no doubt that others will join Nana, later on. But I am not sufficiently sure of their sentiments to open the matter to them, and it is essential that no suspicion of Nana's intention to leave the town should get about. There might be a riot in the city and, possibly, some of the captains, who have not received the promotion which they regard as their due, might try to gain Scindia's favour by arresting him."

On the following day a messenger arrived from Nana, requesting Sufder to place himself with his troop, and such other captains as he could rely upon, on the road a mile west of Poona. He himself would leave the town quietly, with a small body of his friends, and join them there. Sufder at once sent off five of his men, with orders to the captains whom he had seen on the previous afternoon and, within an hour, six hundred men were gathered at the point indicated. Half an hour later a party of horsemen were seen coming along, and Furnuwees soon rode up, accompanied by several of his strongest adherents.

The officers were gathered at the head of their troops. Nana, drawing rein, said to them:

"Thanks for your fidelity. I shall not forget it; and hope, when the time comes, to reward it as it deserves."

He motioned to Harry to join him.

"Scindia's army was to march this morning," he said, "and his horsemen will be here by tomorrow evening, at latest."

They rode to Satara, where Nana had arranged to stop until he received news, from Purseram Bhow, as to the course of events at Poona; and two days later a messenger rode in, with news that Scindia had arrived near Poona, and had had a friendly interview with Bajee Rao. Balloba had seen Purseram, and had pretended great friendship for him; but the old soldier was by no means deceived by his protestations.

"If we had only to do with Scindia," Nana said, "matters could be easily arranged; but the young rajah is only a puppet in his minister's hands."

Several days passed, and then another letter came from Purseram. It said that Balloba had resolved to oppose Bajee Rao, and to have both a minister and a Peishwa of his own nomination; and that he proposed to him that Mahdoo Rao's widow should adopt Chimnajee as her son, that Bajee should be placed in confinement, and that he, Purseram Bhow, should be his minister. He asked Nana's advice as to what course he should take. He stated that Balloba had said he was greatly influenced, in the methods he proposed, by the hope of rendering them in some degree acceptable to Nana.

As the latter had only placed Bajee Rao on the musnud as a means of checkmating Scindia, he advised Purseram to accept the offer; but pointed out the absolute necessity for his retaining Bajee in his own custody. Purseram omitted to follow this portion of the advice, and a formal reconciliation took place, by letter, between Balloba and Nana. The latter was invited to proceed at once to Poona; but on finding that Purseram had allowed Balloba to retain Bajee in his hands, he suspected that the whole was a scheme to entice him into the power of his enemy, and he therefore made excuses for not going.

Bajee, ignorant of the plot that had been planned, went to Scindia's camp to remonstrate against a heavy demand for money, on account of the expenses to which Scindia had been put; and to his astonishment he was, then and there, made a prisoner. Chimnajee positively refused to become a party to the usurpation of his brother's rights; but he was compelled, by threats, to ascend the musnud. On the day after his installation, Purseram Bhow wrote, proposing that Nana should come to Poona to meet Balloba, and to assume the civil administration of the new Peishwa's government; while the command of the troops, and all military arrangements, should remain as they stood.

In reply, Nana requested that Purseram should send his son, Hurry Punt, to settle the preliminaries; but instead of coming as an envoy, Hurry Punt left Poona with over five thousand chosen horse. This naturally excited Nana's suspicions, which were strengthened by a letter from Rao Phurkay, who was in command of the Peishwa's household troops, warning him to seek safety without a moment's delay.

Now that he saw that half measures were no longer possible, Nana ceased to be irresolute and, when his fortunes seemed to all men to be desperate, commenced a series of successful intrigues that astonished all India. He had quietly increased his force, during the weeks of waiting since he had left Poona. He had ample funds, having carried away with him an immense treasure, accumulated during his long years of government. There was no time to be lost and, as soon as he received the letter of warning, he left the town of Waee and made for the Concan.

As soon as he reached the Ghauts, he set the whole of his force to block the passes, by rolling great stones down into the roads. In addition, strong barricades were constructed, and a force of two hundred men left, at each point, to defend them. The infantry he had recruited he threw into the fort of Raygurh, and added strongly to its defences.

Balloba had proposed that Nana should be followed without delay, and offered some of Scindia's best troops for the purpose; but Purseram, acting in accordance with the advice of some of Nana's friends, raised an objection. He had now, however, resolved to break altogether with the minister, whose timidity at the critical moment was considered, by him, as a proof that he could never again be formidable; and he accordingly gave up Nana's estates to Scindia, and took possession of his houses and property in Poona, for his own use. After remaining for a few days, waiting events and sending off many messengers, Nana sent for Harry.

"I have a mission for you," he said. "It is one that requires daring and great intelligence, and I know no one to whom it could be better committed than to you. You see that, owing to the turn events have taken, Bajee Rao and myself are natural allies. We have both suffered at the hands of Balloba. He is a prisoner in Scindia's camp; though, as I understand, free to move about in it. I privately received a hint that Bajee, himself, recognizes this; but doubtless he believes that I am powerless to help either myself or him.

"In this he is mistaken. I have been in communication with Holkar, who is alarmed at the ever-increasing power of Scindia; and he will throw his whole power into the scale, to aid me. The Rajahs of Berar and Kolapoore have engaged to aid me, for the same reason; and the Nizam will sign the treaty that was agreed upon between us, some time since. Rao Phurkay has engaged to bring the Peishwa's household troops over, when the signal is given.

"More than that I have, through Ryajee, a patal, who is an enemy of Balloba, opened negotiations with Scindia himself; offering him the estates of Purseram Bhow, and the fort of Surrenuggar, with territory yielding ten lakhs, on condition of his placing Balloba in confinement, re-establishing Bajee Rao on the musnud, and returning with his troops to his own territory.

"I have no doubt that, when Bajee Rao hears this, he will be glad enough to throw himself heartily into the cause. I may tell you that he is apparently a guest, rather than a prisoner; and that he has a camp of his own, in the centre of that of Scindia; and therefore, when you have once made your way into his encampment, you will have no difficulty in obtaining a private interview with him. It is necessary that he should have money, and silver would be too heavy for you to carry; but I will give you bags containing a thousand gold mohurs, which will enable him to begin the work of privately raising troops."

"I will undertake the business, sir. The only person I fear, in the smallest degree, is Balloba himself. I must disguise myself so that he will not recognize me."

Without delay, Harry mounted his horse, placed the two bags of money that had been handed to him in the wallets behind his saddle, exchanged his dress for that of one of Sufder's troopers, and then started for Poona, which he reached the next day. He did not enter the town; but put up at a cultivator's, two miles distant from it.

"I want to hire a cart, with two bullocks," he said to the man. "Can you furnish one?"

"As I do not know you, I should require some money paid down, as a guarantee that they will be returned."

"That I can give you; but I shall leave my horse here, and that is fully worth your waggon and oxen. However, I will leave with you a hundred rupees. I may not keep your waggon many days."

After it was dark, Harry went to the town and purchased some paints, and other things, that he required for disguise. Having used these, he went to the house of the British Resident and, on stating who he was, he was shown in. Mr. Malet did not recognize, in the roughly-dressed countryman, the young officer who had called upon him before.

"I am Harry Lindsay and, being in Poona, called upon you to give you some information."

"I recognize you by your voice," the Resident said; "but I fear that there is nothing of importance that you can tell me; now that Nana Furnuwees is homeless, and Bajee Rao is no longer Peishwa."

"Nana is not done with, yet, sir."

"Why, he is a fugitive, with a handful of troops under him."

"But he has his brains, sir, which are worth more than an army and, believe me, if all goes well, it will not be long before he is back in Poona, as minister to the Peishwa."

"Minister to Chimnajee?"

"No, sir, minister to Bajee Rao."

"I would that it were so," Mr. Malet said, "but since one is a fugitive and the other a prisoner, I see no chance, whatever, of such a transformation."

"I will briefly tell you, sir, what is preparing. Bajee, feeling certain that he will, ere long, be sent to a fortress, has communicated with Nana, imploring him to aid him."

"If he has turned to Nana for support, he is either mad, or acting as Balloba's tool."

"On the contrary, sir, I think that his doing so shows that he recognizes Nana's ability; and feels that, ere long, he may become a useful ally. Already Nana has been at work. Holkar, who naturally views with intense jealousy Scindia's entire control of the territory of the Peishwa, has already agreed to put his whole army in the field; Rao Phurkay will rebel, with the household troops and, what is vastly more important, Scindia has embraced Nana's offer of a large sum of money, and a grant of territory, to arrest Balloba, and to replace Bajee on the musnud. In addition to this, he has won over the Rajah of Berar, has incited the Rajah of Kolapoore to attack the district of Purseram Bhow; and has obtained the Nizam's approbation of a treaty, that had already been settled between Nana and the Nizam's general, the basis of which is that Bajee is to be re-established, with Nana himself as minister and, on the other hand, the territory formerly seized by the Peishwa to be restored.

"My mission here is to inform Bajee Rao of the plans that have been prepared, and to obtain from him a solemn engagement that Nana shall be reappointed as his minister, on the success of his plans."

Mr. Malet listened to Harry with increasing astonishment.

"This is important news, indeed," he said; "marvellous, and of the highest importance to me. Already I have been asked, by the Council of Bombay, to give my opinion as to whether it is expedient to render any assistance to Nana Furnuwees. It is, to them, almost as important as to Nana that Scindia should not obtain supreme power. I have replied that I could not recommend any such step, for that Nana's cause seemed altogether lost; and that any aid to him would be absolutely useless, and would only serve Scindia with a pretext for declaring war against us. Of course, what you have told me entirely alters the situation. It will not be necessary for the Council to assist Nana, but they can give him fair words and, even if Balloba should win the day, he will have no ground for accusing us of having aided Nana.

"It is impossible to overlook the value of your communication, Mr. Lindsay; and I can promise you that you will not find the Government of Bombay ungrateful, for it will relieve them of the anxiety which the progress of events here has caused them."

On leaving the Residency, Harry returned to the farm where he had left his horse and, early next morning, put on his disguise again, painted lines round his eyes, touched some of the hairs of his eyebrows with white paint, mixed some white horsehair with the tuft on the top of his head, and dropped a little juice of a plant resembling belladonna -- used at times, by ladies in the east, to dilate the pupils of their eyes and make them dark and brilliant -- in his eyes.

Soyera had told him of this herb, when he related to her how Balloba had detected him by the lightness of his eyes. He was greatly surprised at the alteration it effected in his appearance, and felt assured that even Balloba himself would not again recognize him.

He bought a dozen sacks of grain from the farmer and, placing these in the bullock cart, started for Scindia's camp. He had, during the night, buried the gold; for he thought that, until he knew his ground, and could feel certain of entering Bajee Rao's camp unquestioned, it would be better that there should be nothing in the cart, were he searched, to betray him. He carried in his hand the long staff universally used by bullock drivers and, passing through Poona, arrived an hour later at the camp, which was pitched some three miles from the city.

As large numbers of carts, with forage and provisions, arrived daily in the camp for the use of the troops, no attention whatever was paid to him and, on enquiring for the encampment of Bajee Rao -- one of whose officers had, he said, purchased the grain, for his horses and those of his officers and escort -- he soon found the spot, which was on somewhat rising ground in the centre of the camp. It was much larger than he had expected to find it as, beyond being prevented from leaving, Bajee had full liberty, and was even permitted to have some of his friends round him, and two or three dozen troopers of his household regiment.

In charge of these was a young officer, who was well known to Harry during the time of Mahdoo Rao. Seeing him standing in front of a tent, Harry stopped the cart opposite to him and, leaving it, went up to him.

"Where shall I unload the cart?" he asked.

"I know nothing about it," the officer said. "Who has ordered it? The supply will be welcome enough, for we are very short of forage."

Then, changing his tone, Harry said:

"You do not know me, Nujeef. I am your friend, Puntojee."

"Impossible!" the other said, incredulously.

"It is so. I am not here for amusement, as you may guess; but am on a private mission to Bajee Rao. Will you inform him that I am here? I dare not say whom I come from, even to you; but can explain myself fully to him."

"I will let him know, certainly, Puntojee; but there is little doubt that Balloba has his spies here, and it will be necessary to arrange that your meeting shall not be noticed. Do you sit down here by your cart, as if waiting for orders where to unload it. I will go across to Bajee's tent, and see him."

Nujeef accordingly went over to the rajah's tent, and returned in a quarter of an hour.

"Bajee will see you," he said. "First unload your grain in the lines of our cavalry, place some in front of your bullocks, and leave them there; then cross to the tent next to Bajee's. It is occupied by one of his officers, who carries the purse and makes payments. Should you be watched, it would seem that you are only going there to receive the price of the grain. Bajee himself will slip out of the rear of his tent, and enter the next in the same way. The officer is, at present, absent; so that you can talk without anyone having an idea that you and Bajee are together."

Harry carried out the arrangement and, after leaving his bullocks, made his way to the spot indicated. He found the young rajah had gone there.

"And you are Puntojee!" the latter said. "I saw you but a few times, but Rao Phurkay has often mentioned your name, to me, as being one who stood high in the confidence of my cousin Mahdoo. Nujeef tells me that you have a private communication to make to me; and indeed, I can well believe that. You would not thus disguise yourself, unless the business was important."

"It is, Your Highness. Nana Furnuwees has received your message. He reciprocates your expressions of friendship, and has sent me here to let you know that the time is approaching when your deliverance from Balloba can be achieved."

He then delivered the message with which he had been entrusted. Bajee's face became radiant, as he went on.

"This is news, indeed," he said. "That Phurkay was faithful to me, I knew; but I thought that he was the only friend I had left. Truly Nana Furnuwees is a great man, and I will gladly give the undertaking he asks for; that, in the event of his succeeding in placing me on the musnud, he shall be my minister, with the same authority and power that he had under Mahdoo."

"I have, at the farmhouse where I am stopping, a thousand gold mohurs, which Nana has sent to enable you to begin your preparations; but he urges that you should be extremely careful for, as you see by what I have told you, he has ample power to carry out the plan without any assistance from yourself, and it is most important that nothing shall be done that can arouse the suspicions of Balloba, until all is ready for the final stroke. I have not brought it with me, today, as I knew not how vigilant they might be in camp, and it was possible that my sacks of grain might be examined. As, however, I passed in without question, I will bring it when I next come, which will be in two days."

"I suppose there is no objection to my telling Phurkay what is being done?"

"None at all, Your Highness. He has not yet been informed, though communications have passed between him and Nana. But, although the latter was well convinced of his devotion, he thought it safer that no one should know the extent of the plot, until all was in readiness."

Two days later, Harry made another journey to the camp, and this time with the bags of money hidden among the grain, in one of the sacks. He saw Bajee Rao, as before, and received from him a paper, with the undertaking required by Nana. The sack containing the money was put down where Bajee's horses were picketed, and was there opened by a confidential servant, who carried the bags into the tent which was close by.

As he was leaving the camp, Harry had reason to congratulate himself on the precautions that he had taken; for he met Balloba, riding along with a number of officers. Harry had, with his change of costume, assumed the appearance of age. He walked by the side of the bullocks, stooping greatly and leaning on his staff; and the minister passed without even glancing at him.

Harry, on his return, paid the farmer for the hire of his cart. The latter was well pleased for, in addition to the money so earned, he had charged a good price for the two waggon loads of grain. Harry then put off the peasant's dress, and resumed that of a trooper, and rode back to Raygurh, where he reported to Nana the success of his mission.



Chapter 5: Down To Bombay.


Harry's stay with Nana was a short one as, in three days, he was again sent to Poona. This time he was to take up his abode at a large house, occupied by two of the leaders of Bajee's party; the rajah having told him that he would request them to entertain him, if he should again come to Poona. He was the bearer of fifty thousand rupees, principally in gold, which he was to give to them for the use of Bajee. He had no message this time for the prince, personally, Nana having said to him:

"I want you to let me know how matters are going on. The young man may do something rash and, if Balloba's suspicions are in any way excited, he may send him to some distant fortress; which would seriously upset my plans, for I should have to retain Chimnajee in power, as representative of his brother.

"We know that he was placed on the musnud greatly in opposition to his wishes; and he certainly hailed, with pleasure, the prospect of Bajee's release. Still, it would not be the same thing for me. A minister of the Peishwa can rule without question by the people but, acting only as minister to a representative of the Peishwa, he would be far more severely criticised; and it is certain that, to raise money for paying Scindia the sum that has been agreed upon, extra taxation must be put on, the odium resulting from which would fall upon me."

The two officers received Harry cordially. He had personally known them both and, as Nana's representative, they would have treated him with much honour, had it not been pointed out to them that this might be fatal to their plans for, did Balloba hear that some strange officer was being so treated by them, he would be sure to set at once about finding out who he was, and what he was doing there.

"Matters are going on well," they said. "The old general, Manajee Phurkay, who was one of Rugoba's devoted adherents, is now staying in Bajee's camp, and is enlisting men for his service."

"Where are they being assembled?"

"In Bajee's camp. He is not interfered with, there."

"It appears to be a very rash proceeding," Harry said. "It is true that Bajee has apparent liberty, and can have with him in his camp many of his friends; but a gathering of armed men can scarcely escape the eye of so keen an observer as Balloba."

A few days later, Harry, being out one evening, saw a party of soldiers coming along the road from the direction of Scindia's camp. This was unusual for, in order to prevent plundering, the orders were stringent that none of Scindia's troops should enter Poona. He hurried back to the house, and acquainted the two leaders with what he had seen. They were inclined to laugh at his apprehension but, when a body of horsemen were seen coming down the street, they issued orders for the doors to be closed and barricaded. There were some twenty men in the house, and when the officer who commanded the detachment summoned them to open the door, and to deliver the two nobles to him, he was met by a decided refusal, from the chiefs themselves, from an upper window.

The officer then ordered his men to dismount and break open the door but, when they attempted to do so, they were met by a fire of musketry from every window. Many fell; and the officer, seeing that the house could not be taken, except by a force much larger than that at his command, rode off at full speed, with the survivors, to Scindia's camp.

No sooner had they gone than the horses were brought out from the stables, and the two officers, with ten of their troopers, rode off at full speed. Harry refused to accompany them, as he wished to see what had really happened, in order to carry the news to Nana. He therefore rode out to the farmhouse where he had before stayed, left his horse there, and returned to Poona.

Here he heard that Rao Phurkay had been seized, and that Bajee Rao's encampment was surrounded by troops, who suffered none to enter or leave it. The next morning he went over there and found that, as the supply of water had been cut off, the garrison had surrendered; all being allowed to depart, with the exception of Bajee, over whom a strong guard had been placed.

Before they left, Manajee Phurkay gave them all directions to gather in the neighbourhood of Waee. They did so, and were joined at once by the two chiefs. Nana promptly sent them a supply of money, telling them to take up their position at the Salpee Ghaut; where they were speedily joined by ten thousand men, and openly declared for Bajee Rao.

In the meantime Balloba, believing that the whole plot was the work of Bajee Rao, determined to despatch him, as a prisoner, to a fortress in the heart of Scindia's dominions. He sent him off with a strong escort, under the charge of an officer named Sukaram Ghatgay who, although having command only of a troop of one hundred horse, belonged to an ancient and honourable family.

Balloba could hardly have made a worse choice. Ghatgay had a daughter who was reported to be of exceptional beauty, and the young Scindia had asked her father for her hand. Ghatgay, an ambitious and enterprising man, had given no decided answer; not from any real hesitation, for he saw how enormous would be the advantage, to himself, of such an alliance; but in order to increase Scindia's ardour by pretended opposition, and so to secure the best terms possible for himself. The reason he gave would appear natural to any Mahratta of good blood, as none of these would have given a daughter of their house to one who, however high in rank, had ancestors belonging to a low caste.

Upon the way, Bajee, who was aware of Scindia's wishes, and was most anxious to obtain his goodwill, urged Ghatgay to give him his daughter in marriage and, after much pretended hesitation, the latter agreed to do so -- on condition that Bajee would authorize him to promise Scindia a large sum of money, as soon as he again ascended the musnud; and that he would get the prince to appoint him his prime minister, which post would be vacant at the overthrow of Balloba. This being arranged, Bajee Rao pretended that he was seriously ill; and Ghatgay therefore halted, with his escort, on the banks of the Paira.

Taking with him his disguise as a countryman, Harry, as soon as he learned that Ghatgay had started with Bajee, mounted and followed him; and travelled, at some little distance in rear of the party, until they halted. Then he went to the house of a cultivator, left his horse there, and exchanged his dress as fighting man for that of a countryman.

There was no occasion for him, now, to disguise his age or darken his eyes and, as before, he hired a cart, bought some grain for forage, some sacks of rice and other things, and boldly entered Ghatgay's camp. As the prices he asked were low, Ghatgay purchased the whole contents of his cart. When this was cleared, Harry left his cattle and wandered about, saying that he and the animals needed an hour's rest.

Presently he passed Bajee Rao, who was standing listlessly at the door of a tent.

"I am Puntojee," Harry said, as he passed. "I followed you with the horse, that I might help you to escape."

"Stay and talk to me here," the young prince said. "It will seem that I am only passing my time in asking you questions about the country."

"I wanted to ascertain the road by which you will travel, after crossing the river. I have money with me, and will endeavour to raise a force of forty or fifty men; with which to make a sudden attack upon your camp, after nightfall. I will bring a good horse with me. If you will run out when you hear the uproar, I will ride up with the spare horse. You will leap on to its back, and we can gallop off."

"You are a brave fellow, Puntojee, and I thank you heartily for your offer; but, happily, I stand in no need of it. I have gained Ghatgay over, and he will linger here until we hear that Balloba has been arrested, and that Nana Furnuwees is approaching Poona. Believe me, I shall never forget your offer, or the fidelity that has prompted it; and when I am established as Peishwa you shall, if it pleases you, have any post at court you may desire."

"I thank you much, Prince; but I am an officer of Nana, and know that, in acting as I have done, I am acting in his interest, as well as yours. I am glad that the necessity for making an attack upon the camp is obviated. I might have had considerable trouble in raising a sufficient force for such a purpose, for even the most reckless would hesitate to fall on one of Scindia's officers; and in the next place, although I doubt not that I should have been able to carry you off, Ghatgay would, as soon as he had beaten off the attacking party, have set out in pursuit, and raised the whole country, and the difficulty of reaching the Western Ghauts would have been immense.

"I hope to see Your Highness at Poona."

So saying, he strolled carelessly back to the bullock cart, waited till the animals had finished their feed, and then drove off again; returned the cart to its owner, and started again for Poona.

On his arrival there, he went to the Residency and informed Mr. Malet that Bajee had gained over the officer who was escorting him, and was ready to come back to Poona, as soon as the blow was struck.

"It will be struck soon," Mr. Malet said. "All is in readiness. I sent your report on to the Council, urging that, as it seemed likely that Bajee Rao would soon be on the musnud, they should express their readiness to recognize him. I received a despatch only yesterday, saying that they perfectly agreed with me, and had already sent off a messenger to Nana stating their willingness to recognize Bajee as lawful heir to the late Peishwa.

"Things are working well. The Nizam's general has been ordered to watch Purseram Bhow, who is raising troops for the purpose of aiding in crushing Bajee's supporters. Holkar and Scindia's troops also are in readiness to move and, after the fete of the Dussera, the regular battalions in the Peishwa's service, commanded by Mr. Boyd, will march to the Neera bridge, and a brigade of Scindia's regulars will move against Raygurh.

"It is evident that neither Balloba nor Purseram has the slightest suspicion of what is going on, or they would never have despatched troops from here. I certainly have felt very uneasy, since Bajee was carried away; for he is a necessary figure, and should be here as soon as Nana arrives, otherwise there would be no recognized head. It would have been hopeless to try to deliver him, once imprisoned in one of the strong fortresses in Scindia's dominions; and the latter could have made any terms for himself that he chose to dictate.

"Your news has relieved me of this anxiety, and I think it probable that everything will now be managed without bloodshed; and that we may, for a time, have peace here."

The next morning, Harry rode off and rejoined Nana, who thanked him warmly for the manner in which he had carried out his mission, and especially for his offer to attempt to rescue Bajee from his captors.

"It would have been the greatest misfortune," he said, "had he been carried far away. I should have been obliged to recognize his brother Chimnajee; and Scindia, having Bajee in his hands, would have kept up a constant pressure, and might probably have marched to Poona to restore him; which he would certainly have succeeded in doing, for the feeling of the population would have been all in favour of the lawful heir.

"As a token of my satisfaction, here is an order upon my treasurer for fifty thousand rupees."

All being ready, Scindia, on the 27th of October, suddenly arrested Balloba; and sent a body of his troops, with those of the Nizam's general, for the purpose of seizing Purseram Bhow. The latter, receiving news of what had happened in good time, and taking with him Chimnajee, fled to a fortress; but was quickly pursued, and obliged to surrender. Bajee Rao was brought back to Beema, eighteen miles from Poona. His brother Amrud, and Rao Phurkay, were also released.

Nana joined his army at the Salpee Ghaut, and Scindia's infantry, under Mr. Boyd, marched for the capital; which Nana refused to enter, however, until he had received a formal declaration, from Bajee, that he intended no treachery against him. This pledge was given; and a treaty was, at the same time, entered into by the Nizam and Scindia, both agreeing to establish Bajee Rao on the musnud, and reinstate Nana as his prime minister. These matters being settled, Nana returned to Poona, from which he had been absent for nearly a year, and resumed the duties of prime minister.

A fortnight later, Bajee Rao was solemnly invested as Peishwa. One of his first acts was to send for Harry, to whom he gave a robe of honour, and thirty thousand rupees in money, in token of his gratitude for the risk he had run in communicating with him, and for his daring proposal to rescue him from the hands of his escort.

On the day after Nana's re-entry into the capital, Harry received a note from Mr. Malet, asking him to call.

"I expect Colonel Palmer to relieve me of my duties here, in the course of a day or two. I need scarcely say I shall be glad to be released from a work which is surrounded with infinite difficulty, and which constantly upsets all human calculations. Nana is in power again; but another turn of the wheel may take place, at any moment, and he may again be an exile, or possibly a prisoner.

"It seems to me that it would be well for you to accompany me to Bombay. The remembrance of your services will be fresh, and they cannot but be recognized by the Council. That body is frequently changed and, in two or three years' time, there will be fresh men, who will know nothing of what has happened now, and be indisposed to rake up old reports and letters, or to reward past services; especially as the whole position here may have altered, half a dozen times, before that."

"I will gladly do so, sir, and thank you very heartily for your kindness. I will ride over to Jooneer, tomorrow, and bring my old nurse down with me; and I have no doubt Sufder will be willing to accompany us. He has rendered good services to Nana; and the latter will, I am sure, grant him leave of absence for as long as may be necessary."

"I think it would certainly be best to take them both down, if possible. They could make affidavits, in Bombay, that would place it beyond doubt that you are Major Lindsay's son. It is morally certain that there are relatives of your father and mother still living, in England. I do not say that you require any assistance from them; but when you return home, as everyone does, two or three times, in the course of his Indian service, it would be pleasant to find friends there; and it would be well that your position should be established beyond all question."

"I will gladly go down with you," Soyera said, when Harry laid the matter before her. "I am happy and contented here, but should be glad to see Bombay again. It was my home for ten years. I am very glad you have made up your mind to go, for it is time that you should take your place among your countrymen; and the recommendation of the Resident at the court of Poona is as good a one as you could wish for.

"I should say that you had better give up, at once, staining your skin. I can see that you have not used the dye for some days, and it would be as well to recover your proper colour, before Mr. Malet introduces you to the Council at Bombay."

"I will ride down to the town," Harry said, "and engage a gharry [a native carriage] to carry you to Poona. When we get there, I shall learn what route Mr. Malet will take, and how fast he will travel; and shall then see which will be the best for you -- to go down in a gharry, or to be carried in a dhoolie [a palanquin]."

"But all this will cost money, Harry."

"I am well provided with funds," Harry said, "for the Nana and Bajee Rao have both made me handsome presents for the services I rendered them. There is, therefore, no reason why we should not travel in comfort."

They arrived at Poona two days later; and Harry -- having ascertained that the new Resident would not arrive until the next day, and that he would probably wish Mr. Malet to defer his departure for at least two days, in order to give him his experience of the factions and intrigues there, and of the character of all those who were likely to influence events -- rode to see Nana, who had not yet returned to Poona.

"I have come, your excellency," he said, "to tell you that it is my wish to retire from the public service."

The minister looked greatly surprised.

"Why, Puntojee," he said, "this sounds like madness. Young as you are, you have secured powerful protectors, both in the Peishwa and myself; and you may hope to reach a high office in the state, as you grow older.

"I do not know, though," he went on, speaking to himself rather than to the lad, "that high office is a thing to be desired. It means being mixed up in intrigues of all kinds, being the object of jealousy and hatred, and running a terrible risk of ruin at every change in the government here."

Then he turned again to Harry.

"And what are you thinking of doing?"

"I will speak frankly to your highness. I am not a Mahratta, as you and everyone else suppose. I am the son of English parents."

And he then went on to give an account of the killing of his father and mother, and of how he was saved by Soyera, and brought up as her son; until such times as he might, with advantage, go down to Bombay. Nana listened with great interest.

"It is a strange tale," he said, when Harry brought the story to a conclusion, "and explains things which have, at times, surprised me. In the first place, the colour of your eyes always struck me as peculiar. Then your figure is not that of my countrymen. There are many as tall as you; but they have not your width of shoulders, and strong build. Lastly, I have wondered how a young Mahratta should be endowed with so much energy and readiness, be willing to take heavy responsibilities on his shoulders, and to be so full of resource.

"Now that you have told me your story, I think you are right to go down and join your own people. Everything is disturbed, and nothing is certain from day to day here. I was a fugitive but a short time ago and, ere long, I may again be an exile.

"Moreover, no one can tell what may happen to him. Your people are quarrelling with Tippoo, as they quarrelled with his father, Hyder; and I think that, before long, it is possible they will overthrow him, and take possession of his territory.

"Were the various powers of India united, this could not be so; but the English will always find some ready to enter into an alliance with them, and will so enlarge their dominions. The Mahrattas may laugh at the idea of their being overthrown, by such small armies as those the English generals command; but our constant dissensions, and the mutual jealousy between Holkar, Scindia, the Peishwa, the Rajah of Berar, and others, will prevent our ever acting together. It may be that we shall be conquered piecemeal.

"I have watched, very closely, all that has taken place in southern India and in Bengal. I have seen a handful of traders gradually swallowing up the native powers, and it seems to me that it may well be that, in time, they may become the masters of all India. Were I to say as much to any of our princes, they would scoff at my prediction; but it has been my business to learn what was passing elsewhere, and I have agents at Madras and Calcutta, and their reports are ever that the power of the English is increasing. A few years ago, it seemed that the French were going to carry all before them; but they, like our native princes, have gone down before the English; who seem, moreover, to get on better than the French with the natives, and to win their respect and liking.

"Well, young sir, I shall be sorry to lose you; because while I, and with good reason, was seldom able to trust, and to give my absolute confidence to any of those around me, I have always felt that I could wholly rely on you. During the past year I have seen much of you, and have freely told my plans to you, as I have done to no others; and have chosen you for missions that I could not, with safety, have entrusted to any of my own followers, knowing that Scindia or Holkar would be ready to pay great sums for these secrets. None except Bajee, to whom I sent you with particulars, were aware of the extent of my plans, or that I was in communication with more than one of the rajahs.

"You have played your part marvellously well, for I should not have deemed it possible that one of your race could live so long among us, without exciting any suspicion. While you remain in Bombay, I hope that you will act as my confidential agent. I do not ask you to divulge any secrets you may learn, relating to projects connected with the Deccan; but I should like to be informed as to the course of affairs, generally. Of course, my dealings with the Council there must be carried on through the English Resident; but there is much information respecting the views of the Council with regard to Tippoo, the Nizam, and Bengal, that will be valuable for me to know."

"I could not so act, your excellency, without permission from the Council; but I should imagine that they would not be averse to such an arrangement, especially as, perhaps, you would give me private information as to the state of parties, here, such as you would not care to tell their Resident."

"Certainly I would do so. They change their Residents so frequently that it would be impossible for new men to really understand the situation; which you, with your intimate knowledge of Poona, could readily grasp. Of course the arrangement could only be temporary, as my own position is so uncertain and, in any case, my life cannot now be a long one.

"I should propose that your salary, as my private agent, be a thousand rupees a month."

"I thank you much, sir; and if I stay at Bombay, and obtain the permission of the Council to correspond with you, I will readily undertake the part. They can have little objection to the arrangement, as doubtless you have agents in Bombay, already."

"Certainly I have, but these are natives, and necessarily can only send me the rumours current in the bazaars, or known generally to the public; and their news is, for the most part, worthless."

"I have another favour to request," Harry said; "namely, that you will give leave of absence to Sufder, in order that he may accompany me to Bombay. He and my old nurse could, alone, substantiate my birth and identity; and it would be necessary for them to give their evidence before some legal authority."

"That I will readily do. Sufder is honest and faithful, and I can rely upon him, absolutely, for anything in his sphere of duty; and have, only today, appointed him to the command of two hundred men; but although he has a hand ready to strike, he has no brain capable of planning. Had it not been so, I should before this have raised him to a higher position. When he returns from Bombay, I will grant him the revenues of a village, of which he shall be the patal [a mayor]; so that, in his old age, he will be able to live in comfort."

On leaving the minister, Harry went to Sufder's camp.

"'So you are back again, Puntojee?"

"Yes, and have brought Soyera down with me."

"I have great news to tell you," the soldier went on.

"It will not be news to me, Sufder. I know that your command has been doubled, and that you will now be the captain of two hundred men; but I can tell you much more than that. You are to accompany me down to Bombay, the day after tomorrow, so as to give evidence about my birth; and furthermore, Nana will, on your return, bestow upon you the jagheer [revenue] of a village district; so that, as he says, when you grow too old for service, you will be able to live comfortably."

"That is good news indeed -- better even than that I am to have the command of two hundred men, for in truth I am beginning to be weary of service. I am now nearly fifty, and I feel myself growing stiff. Nothing would please me more than to be the patal of a village community, of which I hold the jagheer. However, so long as Nana lives and retains power I shall remain a soldier; but at his death I shall serve no other master, and shall take to country life again.

"Does Nana know that you are English?"

"Yes, I have told him my story. I was obliged to give my reasons for resigning and, as Nana has the support of the Government of Bombay, there was no risk in my doing so.

"How long will it be before I get quite rid of this colour, Sufder?"

"That I cannot say. I should think that in a fortnight the greater part of it will have faded out, but maybe Soyera knows of something that will remove it more rapidly."

Soyera, when asked, said that she knew of nothing that would remove the dye at once; but that if he washed his hands and face, two or three times a day, with a strong lye made from the ashes of a plant that grows everywhere on the plain, it would help to get rid of it.

"I will go out, tomorrow morning, and fetch some in."

When she had made the lye, and mixed it with oil, it made a very strong soap.

"How do you mean to dress, to go down, Harry?"

"I have no choice; but even if I had, I should ride out of here in my best court suit, and change it for English clothes when we got down the Ghauts. I may have to come up here again, for aught I know; and it is better, therefore, that no one should know that I am English."

Mr. Malet, however, solved the difficulty; for when, in the evening, Harry went to enquire about the time that they would start, he said:

"I had been thinking of offering you a suit to ride down in but, unfortunately, my clothes would be a great deal too small for you. However, I think that, after all, it is best you should go down as you are. In the first place, you would not show to advantage in English clothes, in which you would feel tight and uncomfortable, at first; and in the second place, I think that it is perhaps as well that the Council should see you as you are, then they would the better understand how you have been able to pass as a Mahratta, all these years.

"I will introduce you, now, to Colonel Palmer. It is important that he should know you, for possibly you may be sent up here on some mission or other -- for which, having the favour of Nana, you would be specially fitted."

Accordingly, the next morning they started early. Soyera had prepared the liquid soap, but as it was decided that he should go in native dress, Harry thought it as well not to use it, especially as the dye was gradually wearing off. The party consisted of Mr. Malet, Sufder, and Harry; with an escort of ten cavalrymen, belonging to one of the native regiments. The mission clerk had been transferred to Colonel Palmer, as his knowledge of affairs would be useful to the newcomer. Soyera was carried in a dhoolie, and followed close behind the troopers.

That evening they descended the Ghauts into the Concan and encamped there and, on the following day, rode into Bombay; where Mr. Malet took them to an hotel, principally used by natives of rank visiting Bombay.

"You had best stay here, till I send for you," he said, to Harry. "I shall see some of the Council tonight. No doubt there will be a formal meeting, tomorrow, to ask my opinion about the probability of the present state of things continuing at Poona. I shall, of course, tell them your story; and they will likely request you to go, at once, to see them; therefore, do not leave the hotel until you hear from me."

Sufder had not previously visited Bombay, and the next morning early he went out, with Soyera as his guide, to inspect the European part of the town. He was much struck with the appearance of neatness and order in the fort, and the solidity of the buildings.

"It is a strong place, assuredly," he said to Harry, on his return. "In the first place, it would be necessary for a force attacking it to cross over the narrow isthmus, and causeway, uniting the island with the land; and that would be impossible, in face of a force provided with artillery guarding it. Then, if they succeeded in winning that, they would have to make their way through the native town to get on to the maidan; and this would be defended by the guns from all the batteries and, in addition to the artillery on land, it might be swept by guns on board ship. Truly, those who talked about driving the English into the sea cannot have known anything of the strength of the position.

"As to carrying it by assault, it could not be done; nor could the garrison be starved out, since they could always obtain supplies of all sorts by sea. And yet, except at the causeway, the place has no natural strength. The Mahrattas acted unwisely, indeed, when they allowed the English to settle here."

"They could not foresee the future, Sufder. Now, doubtless, they are sorry; but if in the future the British become masters of India, the Mahrattas will have no reason to regret having given them a foothold. Wherever their powers extend, the natives are far better off than they were under the rule of their own princes. Were the British masters, there would be no more wars, no more jealousies, and no more intrigues; the peasants would till their fields in peace, and the men who now take to soldiering would find more peaceful modes of earning a living."

"But you do not think, surely, Harry," -- for after leaving Poona, he had been told to call him so -- "that the English can ever become masters of India? They conquered the Carnatic, but even there they were not safe from the forays of Hyder Ali. Mysore bars their way farther north. Then there is the Nizam to be dealt with, and then Berar and the Mahrattas; then comes Rajputana, and beyond are the Sikhs, and the fierce chiefs of Scinde. It is true that the English have beaten the peoples of lower Bengal, but these have always been looked down upon, and despised as cowardly and effeminate, by the fighting men of all India.

"Besides, how few are the white soldiers! They say, too, that the French have promised Tippoo to send a big army, to help to drive the English into the sea."

"The French have quite work enough, at home," Harry said. "It is true that they have got into Egypt, but they are shut up there by our fleets. Moreover, even were they to cross over into Arabia, how could they march across a dry and almost waterless country, for a thousand or two of miles? When they arrived in Scinde they would find all the fighting men of the province, and the Sikhs, opposed to them; and they would never be able to fight their way down to Mysore. The thing is absurd."

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, from the Government House, with a request that Mr. Lindsay should at once attend there. Harry's horse, which had been saddled in readiness, was brought round; for it would have seemed strange for a Mahratta, whose dress showed that he held a good position, to go on foot. Sufder rode by his side, Soyera following on foot.

Dismounting at the Government House, he threw the reins to one of the lads, who were waiting in readiness to hold the horses of officers coming to see the Governor. On Harry mentioning his name, the native doorkeeper said:

"I have orders for you to be taken, at once, to the Council chamber, sahib, on your arrival here."

The Governor, with four members of the Council and Mr. Malet, were seated at a long table. Mr. Malet rose and said:

"This is Mr. Lindsay, gentlemen."

"Truly, sir, it would be difficult to recognize you as a fellow countryman, in that garb," the Governor said; "though your colour is somewhat less dark than that of a Mahratta."

"Since I left Poona I have ceased to dye, sir; as to my dress, this will be the last time I shall wear it, unless I should be called upon to go to Poona again."

"Your story is a most singular one," the Governor said, "but Mr. Malet assures us that you are the son of Major Lindsay, and has been telling us how you escaped the massacre at the camp, and how your ayah has brought you up."

"She has come down with me, sir. I thought that her testimony would be necessary; and I have also brought down her cousin, who was present at the foray in which my father and mother were killed. My account will be confirmed by their statements."

"You do credit to Mahratta food and training, Mr. Lindsay; but Mr. Malet has mentioned to me that, at one time, you were employed as a shikaree, to keep down the tigers which were doing havoc among the villagers near the top of the Ghauts. He has also informed us of the very valuable service you rendered, by informing him of Nana Furnuwees' measures for regaining power, and replacing Bajee Rao on the musnud -- intelligence which saved us a great expenditure of money in preparing to support him; with the certainty that, by doing so, we might excite the enmity of Scindia. He tells us, also, why you continued so long in the Deccan, instead of coming down here; and I think you acted very wisely.

"We have mentioned your services, in that matter, in our reports to the Board of Directors; and have said that, partly as a recognition of this, and partly because you are the son of an English officer, who was killed in their service, we should at once give you an appointment, subject to their approval.

"Now, sir, which would you prefer, the civil or military branch?"

"I should much prefer the military," Harry answered, without hesitation; "unless indeed, sir, you think my services would be more useful in the civil."

"If we were at Calcutta or Madras, there would be more scope for you in the civil service; but as we hold, at present, little territory beyond this island, there are therefore but few appointments affording an opportunity for the display of the intelligence which you certainly possess; but, should circumstances alter, you might, owing to your knowledge of the country and its language, be told off for civil work, in which the emoluments are very much higher than in the military branch of the service.

"You will at once be gazetted to the 3rd Native Cavalry, and do duty with the regiment, until your services are required elsewhere. Fresh disturbances may break out at Poona and, in that case, you might be attached as assistant to Colonel Palmer.

"Do you think you would be known again?"

"I think it would be very unlikely, sir. When my skin has recovered its proper colour, and I am dressed in uniform, I feel sure no one would recognize me as having been an officer in the Peishwa's court."

"Very well, sir. Then you will see your name in the gazette, tomorrow. You will, within a day or so, report yourself to the officer commanding the regiment.

"I may say that it would be well if your nurse, and the man who came down with you, were to draw up statements concerning your birth, and swear to them at the High Court. These might be valuable to you, in the future."

After expressing his thanks to the Governor and Council, Harry went out, and rode back to the hotel with Sufder.



Chapter 6: In The Company's Service.


There was no conversation between Harry and Sufder on the way back to the hotel; Harry saying that he would tell the news when Soyera joined them, otherwise he would have to go through it twice. They rode slowly through the streets, and Soyera arrived a few minutes after them.

"Now," Harry said, "we will go up to my room and talk the matter over.

"Mr. Malet has been kind enough to give such a favourable report of me that I am appointed lieutenant to the 3rd Regiment of Native Cavalry, and shall be employed as assistant to the resident at Poona, should there be fresh disturbances there."

"That is good fortune, indeed," Sufder said.

"Wonderfully good fortune! and I owe it all, in the first place to Soyera, and in the next to yourself. You see, I have gained greatly by taking your advice, and remaining in the Deccan until fit for military service. Had she declared who I was when she took me down to Bombay, before, there is no saying what might have become of me.

"And now, the first thing to do is for me to go out and order a uniform. When I return I will draw up, in Mahratti and English, a full account of the manner in which I was saved, by Soyera and you, from being murdered; and how I have been brought up."

Harry had learned, at the Governor's, the name and address of an official at the Judge's Court who would get his statements copied out, in proper form and writing; and when he had taken them down from the lips of Sufder and Soyera, he saw this gentleman, who promised that the documents should be ready by the next day.

Having thus put his business in train, Harry went to call upon Mrs. Sankey. She did not recognize him at once but, as soon as he made himself known, she received him most warmly.

"You looked as if you would grow into a big fellow, but I hardly expected that you would have done it so soon."

"It is more than four years since I left you. I don't think that I am likely to grow any taller than I am; though of course, I shall get broader."

He then told her what had happened since he left her, and how he had just been appointed an officer in a native cavalry regiment.

"I am very glad you have come now. My daughters have both married, and I am going to sail for England in a few days. Whether I shall stay there permanently, or come back, I cannot say but, at any rate, I shall be away at least two years."

"I should have been very sorry to have missed you, Mrs. Sankey. I have always looked back, with the greatest pleasure, at the time I spent here."

"You have kept up your English well," she said.

"I have followed your advice, and hardly ever missed reading aloud for an hour, so as to keep my tongue accustomed to it; and I know many of Shakespeare's plays by heart, and could recite a great many passages from the writings of Dean Swift, Mr. Addison, Mr. Savage, and others."

His next visit was to Jeemajee, who received him with real pleasure, when he told him who he was. Harry had not learned -- nor did he ever learn -- that the kindly Parsee had contributed a hundred pounds towards the expenses of his education; but he did know that he had presented him with his outfit of clothes, and had been the means of his being placed with Mrs. Sankey; and during the months he remained at Bombay, he paid frequent visits to the man who had so befriended him.

The next day he went with Sufder and Soyera, who swore to their statements before the judge of the High Court.

As soon as his uniform was ready, Harry went to his regiment -- which was encamped on the maidan, between the fort and the native town -- and was introduced to the colonel.

"I have come to report myself, sir," he said to the colonel. "My name is Lindsay."

"I was expecting you," the colonel said, "for Mr. Malet came in this morning and told me about you; saying that you would most likely come either today or tomorrow. I will have a tent pitched for you, this afternoon; and a soldier told off as your servant. Of course, at first you will have to go through the somewhat unpleasant task of learning your drill.

"From what Mr. Malet told me, I think you are not likely to be much with us as, from your perfect knowledge of Mahratti, and of the country, you can do better service in a staff appointment than with the regiment.

"You are much fairer than they had given me to expect."

"I have been hard at work, for the last two days, in getting rid of the dyes with which I have been coloured, ever since I was an infant."

"Ah! You are not very noticeably darker, now, than other officers in the regiment.

"Now, I will hand you over to the adjutant. You will, of course, mess with us today; and I can then introduce you to your brother officers."

The adjutant was sent for, and soon entered.

"Mr. Lewis," the colonel said, "this is Mr. Lindsay, who was gazetted to us two days ago. He will be very useful to us, if we go up to Poona again -- of which there is always a possibility -- for he speaks Mahratti like a native, having lived among the people since he was an infant. He is the son of Major Lindsay, who was killed here at the time of the advance on Poona."

"You will be a great acquisition to us," the adjutant said, as he left the tent with Harry. "Most of us speak a little Mahratti; but it will be very useful to have one of us who is perfect, in that way. Of course, you have not got your full kit yet; but you will want a mess jacket and waistcoat. These I can lend you, till you get your own made."

"They are ordered already, and I am to get them in a couple of days. It was so much more important that I should get the undress uniform, to enable me to begin work, that I did not press the tailor quite so much as to the other clothes."

"Are you ready to begin work, at once?"

"The sooner the better," Harry replied.

"Then I shall hand you over to the native officer, who has charge of the drilling of recruits. There is a small yard, behind the barracks, where Europeans are instructed in the first stages. To see them doing the goose step would not add to the respect the soldiers have for their white officers. They are therefore taught such matters in private so that, when they come out for company drill, they are not quite at sea."

Half an hour later, Harry was at work under the instructions of a native officer. By the time he had finished, a tent had been erected for him; and he was glad to find a bath ready, for it was much warmer down in Bombay than above the Ghauts, and it had been hot work drilling. The adjutant had chosen a Mahratta servant, and the man's surprise, when the newly-joined officer addressed him in his own language, was great.

As Mr. Malet had told him that, except when on duty, the officers generally wore civilian clothes, he had purchased several white suits, consisting of jacket and trousers, as these were kept in stock by a Parsee tailor; and he put on one of these, with a white shirt, after he had finished his bath. He had scarcely done so when a bugle sounded.

"That is the call for tiffin, sahib," Abdool said.

"Do the officers go in uniform?"

"No, sahib, not to this meal."

Just at this moment, the adjutant came in.

"Come along, Lindsay," he said. "I thought I would come round for you. It is rather trying going into a room full of strangers."

There were some twelve officers gathered in the mess tent, and the adjutant introduced Harry to them, singly. They were all curious to see him, having heard from the colonel -- who had summoned them to the tent, a quarter of an hour before the bugle sounded -- some particulars of his life; and how he had been at once appointed to be lieutenant, without going through the usual term as a cadet, as a reward for important services.

Their first impression of him was a favourable one. He was now nearly six feet in height, with a powerful and well-knit frame. His face was pleasant and good tempered and, although the features were still boyish, there was an expression of restraint and determination that had been acquired from the circumstances in which he had been placed.

He had seen the barbarous splendour of the entertainments at the Peishwa's court, but nothing like the well-ordered table now before him; with its snow-white cloth, its bright silver, and perfect appointments.

When the meal was over, the colonel said:

"As duty is over for the day, I think it would be most interesting if Mr. Lindsay would give us an account of his life, and adventures. As you are all here, it would save him the trouble of going over his story, again and again; for you are all, I am sure, like myself, anxious to know how it was that he has been able, all these years, to pass as a Mahratta among Mahrattas."

There was a general expression of agreement. Cheroots were lighted, and Harry told his story, with some detail. When he had finished, the colonel said:

"I am sure we are all obliged to you, Lindsay. You have had a remarkable experience; and few of us have, in the course of our lives, gone through anything like the same amount of adventures. To have been, at your age, a peasant boy, an English school boy, a shikaree, an officer in the Peishwa's court, a confidential agent of Nana Furnuwees, and now a British officer, is indeed wonderful. It speaks volumes for your intelligence and discretion."

"I cannot take the whole credit to myself, sir. I had two good friends. My nurse, not content with saving my life, taught me English, instructed me in the ways of our people, and even in their religion, and continually urged me to exercise myself in every way; so that when, some day, I left her, I should in bodily strength and activity not be inferior to others; and, aided by her brother, expended all her savings, of years, in having me educated here. Next to her I owe much to Sufder, who first taught me the use of arms, and then presented me to Nana. Without such an introduction I must, had I entered the Mahratta service at all, have gone as a private soldier, instead of obtaining at once a post at court.

"To Mrs. Sankey I owe very much for the kindness she showed me, and the pains she took with me; and I owe much, too, to Mr. Jeemajee, the Parsee merchant."

"Yes, you owe much to both of them," the colonel said; "but their teaching and advice would not have gone for much, had it not been for your own energy, and for the confidence you inspired in the Peishwa's minister.

"What are you going to do about your nurse?"

"We have not quite arranged, as yet, sir; but she will, at any rate, remain here for a time. She loves me as a mother; and I think that, so long as I am quartered here, she will remain. She has already found a lodging, at the house of a woman of the same caste as herself; and tells me that she is sure she will be comfortable with her. If we move, and all goes on quietly in the Deccan, she will return to her brother's, where she is thoroughly at home and happy."

"And Sufder?"

"He will return, in the course of a week or so. He is greatly interested in what he sees here, especially in the shipping, never having seen the sea before. I think that, probably, he will remain for two or three years with his troop of two hundred men; and will then settle in the village, of which and the surrounding country he has received the jagheer. This, although not large, will suffice for him to live in comfort. It is but a few miles from Jooneer, and he will therefore be able to be near his friends, and pay frequent visits to his cousin Ramdass."

In a short time Harry became a general favourite, and made the acquaintance of the officers of all the regiments in the garrison; for his romantic story speedily circulated and, before he had been a fortnight in the city, he had received invitations to dine at all their messes.

After the exciting life he had led, for two years, he felt, on being released from drill, that life in a garrison town was dull and monotonous. The simple habits, in which he had been brought up, did not help him to enjoy heavy meals at regimental mess. Occasionally he and two or three other officers crossed to the mainland, and had some shooting in the wild district of the Concan. But he was pleased when he received an order, from the Governor, to call upon him.

"Colonel Palmer," he said, "has written, requesting me to send him an assistant; as matters do not seem to be going on well at Poona. He suggested that you, from your acquaintance with the people and their intrigues, should be selected for the post but, even had he not done so, I should have chosen you, as being better fitted for it than any other officer here.

"Your instructions are simple. You will watch, and endeavour to penetrate the schemes of the various factions, and assist Colonel Palmer generally."

"Am I to go up in my uniform, sir; or to wear a disguise, similar to that in which I came down here?"

"That is a matter over which I have been thinking. I have come to the conclusion that you will be more likely to obtain intelligence in native garb. All parties look with jealousy upon us, and would be chary of giving any information to an officer of the Residency; and therefore, if you have no objection, we think that it will be an advantage to you to assume native dress. Of course, you could not go in the attire that you came down in for, although you would not be recognized in uniform, you would, if dressed as before.

"I would rather leave that matter entirely to you, and also the manner in which you can proceed. You must also decide, for yourself, whether to renew your connection with Nana Furnuwees. It appears to me that he is the only honest man in the Deccan, and the only man who takes the patriotic view that there should be peace and rest throughout the country. He is, however, no more willing than others that we should, in any way, interfere in the affairs of the Deccan."

"That certainly is so, sir; but I know that it is his most earnest desire to possess the friendship of the authorities of Bombay. He has frequently told me that he is a great admirer of the English, of their methods of government, and of the straightforwardness and sincerity with which they conduct their business. But he is afraid of them. He sees that, where they once make an advance, they never retire; and is convinced that, if they obtained a footing above the Ghauts, there would be no turning them out, and that their influence would be supreme."

"Very well, Mr. Lindsay; you showed such discretion and judgment, during your residence at Poona, that I am well content to leave the matter in your hands. The appointment as assistant to Colonel Palmer will carry with it a civil allowance of three hundred rupees a month. Of course, all necessary expenses will be paid and, should you find it expedient to use a certain amount of bribery, to obtain the news we require in other quarters besides that of the minister, you will refer the matter to the Resident.

"You will, of course, give your reports to Colonel Palmer, and will be under his orders, generally. He will be requested to further your special mission in every way in his power."

"When shall I start, sir?"

"As soon as you like, Mr. Lindsay."

"I shall be ready, sir, as soon as the clothes are made for me. I must have one or two disguises, of various kinds, to use as most desirable. Some of these I can, no doubt, buy ready made -- perhaps all of them. If so, I will start at daylight, tomorrow."

"Very well, Mr. Lindsay. I shall be sending up a despatch to Colonel Palmer, and it will be left at your tent, this evening."

On leaving the Government House, Harry went to see Soyera. Scarcely a day had passed, since he came to Bombay, without his paying her a visit.

"I am off again to Poona," he said. "I do not know how long I shall be away. It must depend upon what is going on up there. Of course, I should be glad to have you with me; but that would hamper my movements. I shall, naturally, see Sufder as soon as I get there."

"But what are you going for? Will you travel as an officer?"

"No, I shall be in disguise. It seems that things are unsettled; and I am, if possible, to find out the intentions of the various leaders, and communicate them privately to our Resident. I shall have to take to dyeing my skin again, which is a nuisance, but it cannot be helped. I shall take with me three or four different disguises, and get you to do the shopping for me. I wish to have them by this evening, as I shall start in the morning, early.

"I shall get leave to take my soldier servant, Abdool, with me. He is a sharp fellow, and may be useful. I shall have to buy a pony for him."

"What sort of disguises do you want?"

"One is that of a native soldier."

"That is easy enough, as it differs but little from the ordinary Mahratta's dress."

"One would certainly be the attire of a trader, in good circumstances. I can't think, at present, of any other."

"I should say the dress of a Brahmin might be useful," Soyera suggested.

"Yes, that would give me an entry, unquestioned, to Nana, or to any other person of importance."

By nightfall, Soyera had bought the three disguises, and obtained from a native dyer a supply of stain sufficient for a long time; and Harry had purchased two useful ponies, for himself and his servant.

At mess, that evening, the colonel said:

"So you are going to leave us, for a time, Mr. Lindsay. I have received a letter, from the Governor, requesting me to put you in orders, tomorrow, as seconded from the regiment for civil employment. I won't ask you where you are going. That is no business of ours. But I am sure I can say, in the name of my officers as well as myself, that we shall all miss you, very much."

A murmur of acquiescence passed round the table and, seeing that Harry, in thanking the colonel, made no allusion to what he was going to do, they followed the example of their superior officer, and abstained from asking any questions.

"I should like to take my man, Abdool, with me, Colonel," Harry said, later on. "He is a sharp fellow, and I might find him very useful."

"By all means. I will tell the adjutant that I have allowed him to go with you."

"I am not going in uniform, nor are you to do so," Harry said to Abdool, when he returned to his tent. "I am going in Mahratta dress, and I shall take a lodging in the town, and pass as a native. I know, Abdool, that you are a sharp fellow, and feel certain that I can depend upon you."

"You can certainly depend upon me, sahib. You have been a kind master, and I would do anything for you."

"What part of the country do you come from, Abdool?"

"From Rajapoor, in the Concan, sahib. I had no fancy for working in the fields, so I left and took service with the Company. I have never regretted it. I have been a great deal better off than if I had enlisted in the army of one of the great chiefs. The pay is higher, and we are very much better treated."

"Well, Abdool, when this business which I am now starting on is over, I shall recommend you for promotion and, in any case, will make you a present of three months' pay."

The next morning they started at daybreak. When a few miles out of town, they took off their uniforms; and Harry put on the dress of a trader. There was no occasion for any disguise for Abdool who, like all the native troops, was accustomed, after drill was over for the day, to put on native garments. The uniforms were then folded up, and stowed in the wallets behind the saddles.

They had brought with them a good supply of grain for their horses, and provisions for themselves; so that they might not have to stop at any village. They rode at a steady pace, and mounted the Ghauts by eleven o'clock. Then they waited three hours, to feed and rest the animals and, just as the sun was setting, entered Poona, having accomplished a journey of fifty miles. Knowing the place so well, Harry rode to a quiet street near the bazaar and, seeing an old man at one of the doors, asked him if he knew of anyone who could afford accommodation for him and his servant.

"I can do that, myself," the man said. "I am alone in the house. Two merchants who have been staying here left me, yesterday; and I can let you have all the house, except one room for myself."

"You have no stables, I suppose?"

"No, sahib, but there is an outhouse which would hold the two horses."

There was a little haggling over the terms.

There was a little haggling over the terms; for it would have been altogether contrary, to Indian usages, to have agreed to any price without demur. Finally the matter was arranged, at a price halfway between that which the man demanded, and that offered by Harry and, in a short time, they were settled in the two rooms of the second floor. Harry then went out and bought two thick quilted cushions, used as mattresses, and two native blankets.

They had still provisions enough for the evening. The furniture was scanty, consisting of a raised bed place, or divan; two tables, raised about a foot from the ground; brass basins, and large earthenware jars of water. Harry, however, was too well accustomed to it to consider such accommodation insufficient.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I will get a carpet for sitting upon, and you will have to get copper vessels, for cooking."

Abdool presently went out, and returned with two large bundles of forage for the horses. Soon afterwards they lay down, feeling stiff and tired from their unaccustomed exertions.

The next morning Harry went to the Residency. He had again painted caste marks on his face, which completely changed his appearance. Telling the guard that he had come from Bombay, and had a message for Colonel Palmer, he was shown in.

"You bring a message for me?" the colonel said, shortly; for he was, at the time, writing a despatch.

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, in Mahratti. "I have come to be your assistant."

"Then you are Mr. Lindsay!" the Resident exclaimed, dropping his pen and rising to his feet. "I received a despatch, yesterday, saying that you were coming. Of course, I remember you now, having seen you on the day I came up here; but your dress is altogether different, and the expression of your face seems so changed."

"That is the result of my having adopted different caste marks, larger than they were before, with lines that almost cover my forehead."

"I did not expect you to come in disguise."

"The Governor thought, Colonel, that I might be of greater service, in finding out what was passing in the town, and in going elsewhere, were I to come up as a native. To an officer of the Residency, all parties would keep their lips sealed."

"I thoroughly agree with you," the Resident said. "Your disguise differs so much, from your former appearance, that I do not think any of your acquaintances, of those days, would be likely to recognize you."

"At present I am supposed to be a trader; but I have with me the dress of a peasant, or small cultivator, which I used when I went into Scindia's camp. I have also the dress of a Brahmin -- one of the better class -- which I thought, if necessary, would enable me to enter the house of Nana, or other leaders, without exciting surprise. I also have my uniform with me.

"I am staying, at present, in the street that faces the market, at the house of a man named Naroo. I myself am Bhaskur. I have a soldier servant with me, on whom I can confidently rely; and I will send him, with a chit, when I have any news to give you, and you can send me word at what hour I had better call.

"Now, Colonel, I am at your orders and, if you will indicate to me the nature of the news which you wish to gain, or the person whom you want watched, I will do the best I can. At present, I know nothing of any changes that have taken place, since I left here."

"The only event that is publicly known is that, while the Peishwa has carried out his engagement with Scindia and with the Rajah of Berar, he refused to ratify any treaty with the Nizam; and the consequence is that the latter's general quitted Poona, without taking leave of Bajee Rao, and returned in great indignation to Hyderabad. This matter might have been smoothed over, if Scindia had intervened, or if the Peishwa had made suitable advances to the Nizam; but he has not done so. There is no doubt that he thoroughly dislikes Nana Furnuwees and, instead of being grateful to him for having placed him on the throne, he would gladly weaken his power. At any rate, it was Nana who formed the confederacy; and I know that his greatest wish is to keep it intact, and to secure peace to the country.

"Moreover, matters have been further complicated by the death of Holkar. He left two sons behind him, Khassee and Mulhar. Unfortunately, Khassee is next door to an imbecile; while Mulhar was a bold and able prince. The brothers quarrelled: two half brothers took the part of Mulhar, who left his brother's camp, with a small body of troops, and took up his abode at a village just outside the city -- and was, I believe, favoured by Nana, whose interest naturally was to have an active and able prince, as ruler of Holkar's dominions. Scindia -- who was, I suspect, delighted at this quarrel in Holkar's camp -- supported Khassee, and sent a body of troops to arrest Mulhar, who, refusing to surrender, maintained a desperate defence, until he was killed. Jeswunt went to Nagpore and Wittoojee fled to Kolapoore, but they were almost the only adherents of Mulhar who effected their escape.

"So matters stand, at present. The fact that the imbecile Khassee owes his elevation to Scindia will, naturally, give the latter a predominating influence over him. Thus, you see, the confederacy has gone completely to pieces. The Nizam is estranged; the Rajah of Berar has gone home to Nagpore; Holkar's power is, for the time, subservient to Scindia; and Nana Furnuwees is, therefore, deprived of all those who aided to bring him back to power.

"You are well known to Nana, are you not?"

"Yes, Colonel, he was kind enough to place a good deal of confidence in me."

"Then I think you cannot do better than see him, to begin with, and gather his views on the matter. I myself have heard nothing from him, for some time. He knows that the Company are well disposed towards him; but he also knows that they can give him no assistance, in a sudden crisis."

"But surely, Colonel, Bajee Rao, who owes everything to him, will not desert him?"

"My opinion of the Peishwa is that he is a man without a spark of good feeling; that he has neither conscience nor gratitude, and would betray his own brother, if he thought that he would obtain any advantage by so doing. He is a born schemer, and his sole idea of politics is to play off one faction against another. I would rather take the word of a man of the lowest class, than the oath of Bajee Rao."

"I am sorry to hear it, sir. He seemed to me to be a fine fellow, with many accomplishments. His handsome face and figure, and winning manner -- "

"His manner is part of his stock in trade," the colonel said, angrily. "He is a born actor; and can deceive, for a time, even those who are perfectly aware of his unscrupulous character.

"Remember one thing, Mr. Lindsay: that if you are in any difficulty, or if a tumult breaks out in the city, you had best make your way here, at once. A trooper of my escort was thrown from his horse, and killed, the other day; and if you attire yourself in his uniform, you will pass for one of them. Whatever happens, they are not likely to be touched. Both parties wish to stand well with me and, even were it found out that you are an Englishman, you would be safely sheltered here; for I should claim you as my assistant, and an officer in our army, and declare truthfully that you had only assumed this guise in order to ascertain, for me, the feelings of the populace."

"Thank you, sir. I will certainly come here, as soon as any serious trouble begins."

That evening, after rubbing off the caste marks and assuming those of a Brahmin, and putting on the dress suitable for it -- padding it largely, to give him the appearance of a stout and bulky man -- he went to Nana's house.

"Will you tell the minister," he said to the doorkeeper, "that Kawerseen, a Brahmin of the Kshittree caste, desires to speak to him?"

The man gave the message to one of the attendants who, in two or three minutes, returned and asked Harry to follow him. The minister was alone.

"What have you to say to me, holy man?" he enquired; and then, looking more fixedly at his visitor, he exclaimed:

"Why, it is Puntojee!"

"You are right, Nana. I am sent here to ascertain, if possible, what is going on, and how things are likely to tend. But first, I must tell you that I am now here as Colonel Palmer's assistant."

"I will take you entirely into my confidence," Nana said. "Until you told me that you were an Englishman, when you took leave of me two years ago, I could not quite understand why it was that I felt I could confide in you, more than in the older men around me. I esteem the English highly, and especially admire them for their honesty and truthfulness. You at once impressed me as one possessing such qualities and, now that I know you are English, I can understand the feeling that you inspired.

"I am glad you have come. No doubt your Government are well informed, as to the state of affairs here. I feel the power slipping from my hands, without seeing any way by which I can recover my lost ground. Scindia is solely under the domination of Ghatgay, whose daughter he will shortly marry. I have, of course, made it my business to enquire as to the antecedents of this man. I find that he has the reputation of being a brutal ruffian, remarkable alike for his greed and his cruelty -- a worse adviser Scindia could not have. Holkar was but a poor reed to lean upon, for he was as weak in mind, as in body. But at any rate, he was a true friend of mine and, now that he has been succeeded by one even more imbecile than himself -- and who is but a puppet in the hands of Scindia, to whose troops he owes his accession -- his power and his dominions are practically Scindia's.

"There can be no doubt, whatever, that Bajee Rao is acting secretly with Scindia; that is to say, he is pretending so to act, for he is a master of duplicity and, even where his own interests are concerned, seems to be unable to carry out, honestly, any agreement that he has made.

"I am an old man, Mr. Lindsay, and can no longer struggle as I did, two years ago, against fate; nor indeed do I see any means of contending against such powerful enemies. The Rajah of Berar, although well disposed towards me, could not venture, alone, to support me against the united power of Scindia and Holkar, backed by that of the Peishwa.

"There is but one direction in which I could seek for help -- namely, from the Government of Bombay -- but even this, were it given, would scarcely avail much against the power of my enemies. And even were I sure that it could do so, I would not call it in. My aim, through life, has been to uphold the power of the Peishwa, and to lessen that of Scindia and Holkar and, by playing one against the other, to avert the horrors of civil war. Were I to call in the aid of the English, I should be acting in contradiction to the principles that I have ever held.

"The arrival of a force of English, here, would at once unite the whole of the Mahrattas against them, as it did when last they ascended the Ghauts; and believing as I do in their great valour and discipline, which has been amply shown by the conduct of Scindia's infantry, which are mainly officered by Europeans, it is beyond belief that they can withstand the whole power of the Mahratta empire. But granting that they might do so, what would be the result? I should see my country shaken to the centre, the capital in the hands of strangers, and to what end? Simply that I, an old and worn-out man should, for a very few years, remain in power here. It would be necessary for those who placed me there to remain as my guardians, and I should be a mere cypher in their hands. Nothing, therefore, would persuade me to seek English aid to retain me in power."

"But the English would doubtless act in alliance with the Nizam, and probably with the Rajahs of Berar and Kolapoore."

"Possibly they might do so, but what would be the result? Each of these leaders would, in return for his aid, bargain for increased territory, at the expense of the Peishwa; and I, who believe that I am trusted by the great mass of the people here, should become an object of execration at having brought the invaders into our country.

"No, Mr. Lindsay; my enemies can, and I believe will, capture me and throw me into prison. They will scarcely take my life, for to do so would excite a storm of indignation; but I always carry poison about with me and, if they applied torture as a preliminary to death, I have the power of releasing myself from their hands.

"Are you established at the Residency?"

"No, sir; I am living in disguises, of which I have several, in the town. In that way, I can better discover what is going on than if I were in uniform, as assistant to Colonel Palmer. Should there be a tumult in the city, or if I find that my disguise has been detected, I can make for the Residency; and either put on my uniform and declare my true character, or attire myself as one of the Resident's escort."

"Come here as often as you can," Nana said. "I shall always be glad to see you. It is a relief to speak to one of whose friendship I feel secure. As a Brahmin, you can pass in and out without suspicion; and I will always tell you how matters stand."

"I have not yet spoken, Nana, of my work as your agent in Bombay. I have sent you reports, from time to time; but there was nothing in them that could be of any value to you. At present, the attentions of the authorities of Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta are centred upon the probability of war with Mysore. Tippoo has continually broken the conditions under which he made peace with us, six years ago; and it is known that he is preparing for war. He has received with honour many Frenchmen, and is in communication with the French Government; and believes that he will be supported by an army, under General Bonaparte and, as it is certain that, when the war breaks out again, it will need the fighting strength of the three towns to make head against the army of Mysore, as far as I have been able to learn they have given but little attention to the state of affairs in the Deccan. I have therefore been able to furnish you with no useful information, beyond telling you that the sympathies of the Governor and Council are wholly with you, and that they consider that the fact of your being in power here secures them from any trouble with the Mahrattas.

"Therefore, sir, I have put aside the allowance you have given me, considering that I have in no way earned it; and have written this order upon the bankers with whom I have placed it, authorizing them to pay the money to anyone you may depute to receive it;" and he handed the letter to the Nana.

The latter took it and, without opening it, tore it up.

"Your offer does you honour, Mr. Lindsay, but it is impossible for me to accept it. Your information has not been without advantages. I have foreseen that the Nizam would probably enter into an alliance with your people; and that the very large increase that he has made in his battalions, under foreign officers, was intended to make his alliance more valuable. I, however, have not deemed it necessary to imitate his example, and that of Scindia, by raising a similar force. Your communications, therefore, have been of real value, and have saved a large outlay here; but even had it not been so, there can be no question of your returning your pay. You undertook certain work, and you have to the best of your powers carried it out; and it is not because you consider that the information you sent me is not sufficiently valuable that you have, in any way, failed to carry out your part of the contract.

"I consider it of very great value. In the first place because, as I have said, it relieved me from anxiety as to the Nizam's intentions of increasing his army; and in the second place, it eased my mind by showing that neither Scindia nor Holkar was intriguing with Bombay, which knowledge is worth a crore of rupees to me.

"It is the first time, sir, since I have taken part in politics, that anyone has offered to return money he has received on the ground that he had not sufficiently earned it; or indeed, upon any other ground, whatever. Your doing so has confirmed my opinion of the honesty of your people, and I would that such a feeling were common among my countrymen, here. No negotiations can be carried on, no alliance can be formed, without a demand for a large sum of money, or for an addition of territory. All our petty wars are waged, not on a question of principle, but entirely from greed.

"Let us say no more about it. I am, as of course you have heard, a very wealthy man; and have so distributed my money among the shroffs of all India that, whatever may happen here, I shall lose comparatively little; and I am glad to know that some very small portion of it goes to one whom I regard as a genuine friend, and who does not draw a tenth part of what many of those around me accept, without any consideration given for it."

"Thank you, sir, but -- at any rate while I am stationed here, as Assistant Resident -- I cannot continue to receive pay from you. I should regard it as a disgraceful action, and absolutely incompatible with my duty."

"Well, so far I will humour you, Mr. Lindsay; though from what I hear, in the Carnatic and Bengal the British officers, civil and military, do not hesitate to accept large sums from native princes."

Harry was well aware that this was so, and that many British officials had amassed considerable fortunes, by gifts from native sources. He only replied:

"That is a matter for their own consciences, sir. They may be rewards for services rendered, just as I did not hesitate to accept the sum that you so generously bestowed upon me. It is not for me to judge other men, but I cannot but think that the custom of officials accepting presents is a bad one."

"Where can I find you," Nana said, changing the subject, "if I should need to communicate with you, before you call again?"

Harry gave his address.

"Your messenger must enquire for Bhaskur, a trader from Ahmedabad, who is lodging there."

He chatted for some time longer with Nana, and then took his leave and returned to his lodging.



Chapter 7: An Act Of Treachery.


Some months passed quietly. Scindia more openly assumed supreme power, imprisoned several leading men, and transferred their jagheers to his own relations. Colonel Palmer had gone down to Bombay on leave, his place being filled temporarily by Mr. Uhtoff.

Bajee was, as usual, playing a deep game. He desired to become independent both of Scindia and Nana Furnuwees. The former, he believed, must sooner or later return to his own dominions, and he desired his aid to get rid of Nana; therefore it was against the latter that his intrigues were, at present, directed. The minister was still an object of affection to his people; who believed, as before, in his goodness of character, and who put down every act of oppression as being the work of Scindia.

Harry saw Nana frequently. There being no change in the position, there was little talk of politics; and the minister generally turned the conversation upon England, its power relatively to that of France, the extent of its resources, the modes of life among the population, and its methods of government.

"It all differs widely from ours," Nana said, after one of these conversations, "and in most respects is better. The changes there are made not by force, but by the will of the representatives of the people, in their assembly. A minister defeated there retires at once, and his chief opponent succeeds him. The army has no determining voice in the conduct of affairs, but is wholly under the orders of the minister who may happen to be in power. All this seems strange to us but, undoubtedly, the system is far better for the population. There is no bloodshed, no burning of villages, no plundering, no confiscation of estates. It is a change in the personnel of the government, but no change in the general course of affairs.

"It is strange that your soldiers fight so well when, as you tell me, they never carry arms until they enter the army; while ours are trained from childhood in the use of weapons. And your enemies, the French, is it the same with them?"

"It is the same, Nana, so far as their civil life is concerned; for none carry weapons or are trained in their use. There is one wide point of difference. The French have to go as soldiers when they reach a certain age, however much they may dislike it; while with us there is no compulsion, whatever, and men enlist in the army just as they might take up any other trade. There is, however, a body called the militia. This, like the army, consists of volunteers; but is not liable for service abroad, and only goes out for a short period of training, annually. However, by law, should the supply of volunteers fall short, battalions can be kept at their full strength by men chosen by ballot from the population. But this is practically a dead letter, and I am told that the ballot is never resorted to; though doubtless it would be, in the case of a national emergency."

"Ah! It is pleasant to be a minister in your country, with no fear of plots, of treachery, or assassination. Were I a younger man, I should like to visit England and stay there for a time so that, on my return, I could model some of our institutions upon yours.

"But no; I fear that that would be too much for the most powerful minister to effect. The people are wedded to their old customs, and would not change them for others, however much these might be for their benefit. An order that none, save those in the army, should carry arms would unite the whole people against those who issued it."

It was on the last day of 1797 that Nana Furnuwees made a formal visit to Scindia, in return for one the latter had paid him, a few days before. Michel Filoze, a Neapolitan who commanded eight battalions in Scindia's army, had given his word of honour as a guarantee for the minister's safe return to his home. The European officers in the service of the Indian princes bore a high character, not only for their fidelity to those they served, but also for their honour in all their dealings and, though Nana would not have confided in an oath sworn by Scindia, he accepted that of Filoze without hesitation.

On his arrival near Scindia's camp the traitor seized him and, with his battalions, attacked his retinue, amounting to about a thousand persons, among whom were many of his principal adherents. Some of these were killed, all of them stripped of their robes and ornaments. Parties of soldiers were immediately sent, by Ghatgay, to plunder the house of Nana and those of all his adherents.

Harry was in his room when he heard a sudden outburst of firing and, a minute or two later, Abdool ran in.

"Scindia's men are in the town, sahib! They are attacking the houses of Nana's adherents. These are defending themselves as best they can. There is a general panic, for it is believed that the whole town will be looted."

"Get your things together, Abdool. I will change my dress for that of a native soldier, and we will make for the Residency."

"Shall we ride, sahib?"

"No, we will leave the horses here. If we were to go on horseback, we might be taken for Nana's adherents trying to make their escape, and be shot down without any further question.

"I felt misgivings when I saw Nana going out; but it would have come to the same thing, in the end, for if Scindia's whole army, villainous as is the treachery, had advanced against the town, Nana could have gathered no force to oppose them."

Three or four minutes later they started, Abdool carrying a bundle containing Harry's disguises. They made their way through lanes, where the people were all standing at their doors, talking excitedly. Continuous firing was heard in the direction of the better quarters, mingled with shouts and cries. No one questioned them, all being too anxious as to their own safety to think of anything else.

The Residency was half a mile from the town. There Mr. Uhtoff was standing at his door, and the men of his escort were all under arms. Harry had been in frequent communication with him, from the time that he had taken Colonel Palmer's place. The Resident did not, for the moment, recognize him in his new disguise but, when he did so, he asked anxiously what was going on in the town.

"A strong body of Scindia's troops are there, attacking Nana's adherents. I fear that the minister himself is a prisoner in their camp."

"That is bad news, indeed. Nana told me, yesterday, that he intended to visit Scindia, and had received a guarantee for his safe return, from Filoze. I advised him not to go; but he said that he could confide, implicitly, in the honour of a European officer. I told him that the various European nations differed widely from each other; and that, although I would accept the word of honour of a British officer in Scindia's service, I would not take that of a Neapolitan. However, he said, and said truly, that it was incumbent on him to return Scindia's visit; and that if he did not do so it would be treated as a slight and insult, and would serve as a pretext for open war against him; and that, as he could but muster three or four thousand men, the city must yield without resistance.

"I believe that this is the work of Bajee Rao, and of Ghatgay -- two scoundrels, of whom I prefer Ghatgay who, although a ruffian, is at least a fearless one, while Bajee Rao is a monster of deceit. I know that there have, of late, been several interviews between him and Ghatgay; and I have not the least doubt that the whole affair has been arranged between them with the hope, on Bajee's part, of getting rid of Nana; and on Ghatgay's, of removing a sturdy opponent of his future son-in-law, and of acquiring a large quantity of loot by the plunder of Nana's adherents.

"You did well to come here for, if the work of plunder is once begun, there is no saying how far it will spread. I shall ride, at once, to see the Peishwa, and request an explanation of what has occurred. There is that trooper's dress still lying ready for you, if you would like to put it on. There is a spare horse in my stable."

"Thank you, sir; I should like it very much;" and, rapidly changing his dress, he was ready by the time the horses were brought round.

He then took his place among the troopers of the escort, and rode to Bajee Rao's country palace, which was some three miles from the town.

After seeing everything in train, the Peishwa had left Scindia's camp before Nana's arrival there; and had summoned a dozen of the latter's adherents, under the pretence that he desired to see them on a matter of business. Wholly unsuspicious of treachery, they rode out at once; and each, on his arrival, was seized and thrown into a place of confinement.

The Resident learned this from a retainer of one of these nobles. He had made his escape when his master was seized, and was riding to carry the news to the British official; whose influence, he thought, might suffice to save the captives' lives.

On arriving at the palace four of the troopers were ordered to dismount -- Harry being one of those selected -- and, on demanding to see the Peishwa the Resident was, after some little delay, ushered into the audience chamber, where Bajee Rao was seated, with several of his officers standing behind him. He received Mr. Uhtoff with a show of great courtesy.

The latter, however, stood stiffly, and said:

"I have come, Your Highness, to request an explanation of what is going on. The city of Poona is being treated like a town taken by siege. The houses of a number of persons of distinction are being attacked by Scindia's soldiery. Fighting is going on in the streets, and the whole of the inhabitants are in a state of wild alarm.

"But this is not all. Nana Furnuwees has, owing to his reliance upon a solemn guarantee given for his safe return, been seized when making a ceremonial visit to Scindia."

"You must surely be misinformed," the Peishwa said. "You will readily believe that I am in perfect ignorance of such a proceeding."

"I might believe it, Prince," Mr. Uhtoff said, coldly, "had I not been aware that you and your officers have decoyed a number of Nana's friends to this palace and, on their arrival, had them suddenly arrested."

Bajee Rao, practised dissimulator as he was, flushed at this unexpected accusation.

"I learned, sir," he said, after a pause, "that there was a plot against my person, by Nana Furnuwees and his adherents; and I have therefore taken what I considered the necessary step of placing these in temporary confinement."

"It is a little strange, Your Highness, that the man who placed you on the musnud should be conspiring to turn you from it. However, what has been done has been done; and I cannot hope that any words of mine will avail to persuade you to undo an act which will be considered, throughout India, as one of the grossest treachery and ingratitude. My duty is a simple one: namely, merely to report to my Government the circumstances of the case."

The officers behind the Peishwa fingered the hilts of their swords, and the four troopers involuntarily made a step forward, to support the Resident. Bajee, however, made a sign to those behind him to remain quiet; and the Resident, turning abruptly, and without salutation to the Peishwa, left the hall, followed by his men.

They mounted as soon as they had left the palace, and rode back to the Residency; Mr. Uhtoff keeping his place at their head, and speaking no word until he dismounted, when he asked Harry to accompany him to his room.

"This is a bad business, indeed, Mr. Lindsay. I cannot say that I am surprised because, having studied Bajee Rao's character, I have for some time been expecting that he would strike a blow at Nana. Still, I acknowledge that it has come suddenly, and the whole position of affairs has changed. Bajee has freed himself from Nana; but he has only riveted Scindia's yoke more firmly on his shoulders. Like most intriguers, he has overreached himself. He has kept one object in view, and been blind to all else.

"His course should have been to support Nana against Scindia, and thus to keep the balance of power in his own hands. He has only succeeded in ridding himself of the one man who had the good of his country at heart, and who was the only obstacle to Scindia's ambition. The fool has ruined both himself and his country.

"I think, Mr. Lindsay, that the best plan will be for you to mount at once, and ride down to Bombay. Your presence here, just now, can be of no special utility; and it is most desirable that the Government should have a full statement of the matter laid before them, by one who has been present, and who has made himself fully acquainted with the whole politics of the Deccan.

"It is better that you should not go into the town again. I will send in for your horses, as soon as the tumult has subsided. We have several spare animals here, and you and your servant can take two of them. I will write to the Governor a report of my interview with Bajee, and say that I have sent you down to give him all the details of what has taken place; which will save the time that it would take me to write a long report, and will be far more convenient, inasmuch as you can answer any point that he is desirous of ascertaining. I do not think that you can do better than go in the disguise that you now have on; for a soldier to be galloping fast is a common sight, but people would be astonished at seeing either a Brahmin or a trader riding at full speed. I will give orders for the horses to be saddled at once and, in the meantime, you had best take a meal. You will have no chance of getting one on the road, and I have no doubt that dinner is ready for serving. I will tell the butler to give some food to your man, at once."

Twenty minutes later, Harry and Abdool were on their way. Skirting round Poona, they heard the rattle of musketry still being maintained; and indeed, the fighting in the streets of the city continued for twenty-four hours. By two in the morning, they halted at the top of the Ghauts; partly to give the horses a rest, and partly because it would have been very dangerous to attempt to make the descent in the dark.

At daybreak they continued their journey, arriving at Bombay six hours later. They rode straight for the Government House, where Harry dismounted and, throwing the reins of his horse to Abdool, told the attendant to inform the Governor that a messenger, from the Resident at Poona, desired to see him. He was at once shown in.

"Why, it is Mr. Lindsay!" the Governor said, "though I should scarce know you, in your paint and disguise. The matter on which you come must be something urgent, or Mr. Uhtoff would not have sent you down with it."

Harry handed over the despatch of which he was bearer and, as the Governor ran his eye over it, his face became more and more grave, as he gathered the news.

"This is serious, indeed," he said, "most serious. Now be pleased to sit down, Mr. Lindsay, and furnish me with all the particulars of the affair."

When Harry had finished, the Governor said:

"I imagine that you can have eaten nothing today, Mr. Lindsay. I am about to take tiffin, and bid you do so with me. I shall at once send to members of the Council and, by the time we have finished our meal, they will no doubt be here."

"I shall be very glad to do so, sir, if you will allow me to go into the dressing room, and put on my uniform. I should hardly like to sit down to table in my present dress."

"Do so by all means, if you wish it; but you must remember that your colour will not agree well with your dress."

"I will remove these caste marks, sir, and then I shall look only as if I were somewhat severely tanned."

In ten minutes a servant knocked at the door, and said that luncheon was ready. Harry was already dressed in his uniform, and had removed the marks on his forehead; the dye, however, was as dark as ever. He had, on leaving the Governor's room, sent a servant down to fetch his wallet, and to tell Abdool that he was to take the horses to the barracks.

The meal was an informal one. The Governor asked many questions, and was pleased at the knowledge that Harry showed of all the principal persons in Poona, and their character and ability.

"At the present moment," he said, "the information that you have given me cannot be utilized; but it would be most valuable, were we to get mixed up in the confusion of parties at Poona. I gather that you consider Nana Furnuwees to be a great man."

"My opinion is not worth much, on that point, sir. I think that he has, over and over again, shown great courage in extricating himself from difficulties which appeared to be overwhelming. I believe him to be a sincere patriot, and that he only desires to be at the head of the administration of affairs that he may prevent civil war from breaking out, and to thwart the ambition of the great princes. His tastes are simple, his house is furnished plainly, he cares nothing for the pleasures of the table; but he is honest and, I believe, absolutely truthful -- qualities which certainly are possessed by very few men in the Deccan.

"I grant that he is not disposed to enter into any alliance with the British. He has frequently told me that he admires them greatly for their straightforwardness and truthfulness, as well as for their bravery and their methods of government, both in the great towns and in the districts in which they are masters; but he fears that, were they to send an army to Poona on his behalf, or on that of any of the other parties, it might end by their acquiring control over the affairs of the country, and make them arbitrators in all disputes."

"No doubt he is right, there," the Governor said, with a smile. "However, at present we are certainly not likely to interfere in the quarrels and intrigues beyond the Ghauts; nor do I see why we should be brought into collision with the Mahrattas -- at any rate, until they have ceased to quarrel among themselves, and unite under one master. In that case, they might make another effort to turn us out.

"And now we will go into the room where the Council must be, by this time, assembled."

This proved to be the case, and the Governor read to them the note that he had received from Mr. Uhtoff; and then requested Harry to repeat the details, as fully as he had already done. There was a consensus of opinion as to the importance of the news.

"Come round again tomorrow morning, Mr. Lindsay," the Governor said; "by that time I shall have fully thought the matter out."

"So you have been masquerading as a native again, Mr. Lindsay?" the colonel said, when Harry called upon him.

"I can hardly consider it masquerading, as I merely resumed the dress I wore for many years; and I certainly speak Mahratti vastly better than I speak English for, although I improved a good deal while I was here, I am conscious that, though my grammar may be correct, my pronunciation differs a good deal from that of my comrades."

"You speak English wonderfully well, considering that you learned it from the natives," the colonel said. "At first, you spoke as a native that had learned English; but a casual observer would not, now, detect any accent that would lead him to suppose that you had not been brought up in England.

"You will, of course, be at mess this evening?"

"I think it would be better that I should not do so, sir. In the first place, I should have innumerable questions to answer; and in the second, which is more important, anything that I said might be heard by mess waiters. It is quite possible that some of these are in the pay of Scindia, or Holkar, who keep themselves well informed of all that goes on here; and were it known that an English officer had come down in disguise, it would greatly increase the danger when I return there."

"I have no doubt that you are right, Mr. Lindsay. Is there anything new at Poona?"

"Yes, Colonel; and as it will be generally known in two or three days, there can be no harm in my telling you. Scindia has made Nana Furnuwees a prisoner, by an act of the grossest treachery. He has killed almost all his principal adherents and, when I got away, his troops were engaged in looting the town."

"That is grave news," the colonel said. "So long as Nana was in power, it was certain that Scindia could not venture to take his army, out of his own country for the purpose of attacking us; but now that Nana is overthrown, and Scindia will be minister to the Peishwa, we may expect troubles."

"Not at present. Scindia's army has, for months, been without pay. He has no means of settling with them and, until he does so, they certainly will not move."

"I do not think that would detain him long, Mr. Lindsay. He has only to march them into other territories, with permission to plunder, and they would be quite satisfied. He certainly can have no liking for the Rajahs of Berar or Kolapoore, for both of them assisted Nana to regain his power; and an attack upon them would, at once, satisfy vengeance and put his troops in a good temper."

"But there is no doubt that the Peishwa will find it much more irksome to be under Scindia's control than that of Nana. And were Scindia to march away, he would at once organize an army, and buy Holkar's aid, to render himself independent of Scindia."

"They are treacherous beggars, these Mahrattas," the colonel said. "They are absolutely faithless, and would sell their fathers if they could make anything by the transaction.

"Then you do not know yet whether you are to return?"

"No; I shall see the Governor again, tomorrow morning; and shall then receive orders."

"I will have some dinner sent over to your quarters, from the mess. Do not have too much light in the room, or your colour may be noticed by the servant. I will let the officers know that you have returned. No doubt many of them will come in for a chat with you. As no one can overhear you, I do not think that any harm can be done by it."

"I think not, Colonel."

"I will tell them," the colonel went on, "that you are on secret service; that you will tell them as much as you can safely do, but they must abstain from pressing you with questions. We all know that you have been acting as assistant to Mr. Uhtoff, because it was mentioned in orders that you had been detailed for that duty; but they know no more than that, and will doubtless be surprised at your colour. But you can very well say that, as you had an important message to carry down, you thought it best to disguise yourself."

"That will do excellently, Colonel; and I shall be very glad to have a talk with my friends again."

After leaving the colonel, Harry went to his own room; where he found Soyera, who had been fetched by Abdool.

"I am sorry to say that I am going away, almost directly, mother," he said; "but it cannot be helped."

"I do not expect you always to stay here, Harry. Now that you are in the Company's service, you must, of course, do what you are ordered. I am glad, indeed, to find that, although you have been with them only a year, you are chosen for a post in which you can gain credit, and attract the attention of the authorities here."

"It is all thanks to the pains that you took to prepare me for such work.

"I don't expect to be away so long, this time. And indeed, now that Nana Furnuwees is a prisoner, it does not seem to me that there can be anything special to do, until some change takes place in the situation, and Scindia either openly assumes supreme power, or marches away with his army."

That evening, Harry's room was crowded with visitors. The news of the treacherous arrest of Nana Furnuwees excited the liveliest interest; and was received with very much regret, as Nana was considered the only honest man of all the ministers of the native princes, and to be friendly disposed towards the British; and all saw that his fall might be followed by an important change in the attitude of the Mahrattas.

Two days later, Harry returned to Poona. The next eighteen months passed without any very prominent incidents. In order to furnish Scindia with money to pay his troops, and to be in a position to march away, Bajee Rao agreed that Ghatgay should, as Scindia's minister, raise contributions in Poona. Accordingly, a rule of the direst brutality and cruelty took place. The respectable inhabitants -- the merchants, traders, and men of good family -- were driven from their houses, tortured often to death, scourged, and blown away from the mouths of cannon. No person was safe from his persecution, and the poorest were forced to deliver up all their little savings. The rich were stripped of everything, and atrocities of all kinds were committed upon the hapless population.

Bajee Rao countenanced these things, and was now included in the hatred felt for Ghatgay and Scindia. Troubles occurred between the Peishwa and the Rajah of Satara, who refused to deliver up an agent of Nana whom he had, at Bajee's request, seized. As Scindia's troops refused to move, Purseram Bhow was released from captivity and, raising an army, captured the city of Satara, and compelled the fort to surrender; but when ordered by Bajee Rao to disband the force that he had collected, he excused himself from doing so, on the plea that he had no money to pay them, or to carry out the promises that he had given them.

Scindia himself was not without troubles. In addition to the mutiny of his troops, the three widows of his father who, instead of receiving the treatment proper to their rank, had been neglected and were living in poverty, sought an interview with him; and were seized by Ghatgay, flogged, and barbarously treated. Their cause was taken up by the Brahmins, who had held the principal offices under Scindia's father; and it was at last settled that they should take up their residence at Burrampoor, with a suitable establishment. Their escort, however, had received private orders to carry them to the fortress of Ahmednuggur.

The news of this treachery spread, soon after they had left the camp; and an officer in the interest of the Brahmins started, with a troop of horse which he commanded, dispersed the escort, and rescued the ladies. These he carried to the camp of Amrud Rao, Bajee Rao's foster brother; who instantly afforded them protection and, sallying out, attacked and defeated a party of their pursuers, led by Ghatgay himself.

Five battalions of infantry were then sent by Scindia, but Amrud attacked them boldly, and compelled them to retreat. Negotiations were then opened, and Amrud, believing Scindia's promises, moved his camp to the neighbourhood of Poona. But, during a Mahommedan festival, he and his troops were suddenly attacked by a few brigades of infantry; which dispersed them, slew great numbers, and pillaged their camp.

Holkar now joined Amrud Rao, who had escaped from the massacre. The Peishwa negotiated an alliance with the Nizam. Scindia sent envoys to Tippoo, to ask for his assistance. Bajee Rao did the same, and it looked as if a desperate war was about to break out.

All this time, Harry had been living quietly in the Residency, performing his duties as assistant to Colonel Palmer, who had again taken charge there. There was no occasion for him to resume his disguises. The atrocities committed by Ghatgay, in Poona, were apparent to all; and at present there seemed no possible combination that could check the power of Scindia.

Colonel Palmer, however, had several interviews with Bajee Rao, and entreated him to put a stop to the doings of Ghatgay; but the latter declared that he was powerless to interfere, and treated with contempt the warnings, of the colonel, that he was uniting the whole population in hatred of him.

The rebellion under Amrud, and the adhesion of Holkar to it, seemed to afford some hope that an end would come to the terrible state of things prevailing; and Colonel Palmer became convinced that Scindia was really anxious to return to his own dominions, where his troops, so long deprived of their natural leaders, were in a state of insubordination. If the Nana were but released from his prison at Ahmednuggur, something might be done, he said. He might be able to supply sufficient money to enable Scindia to leave; and the alarm Nana's liberation would give, to Bajee, would compel him to change his conduct, lest Nana should join Amrud and, with the assent of the whole population, place him on the musnud.

"Nana is the only man who can restore peace to this unhappy country," he said to Harry, "but I see no chance of Scindia releasing a prisoner whom he could always use to terrify Bajee, should the latter dare to defy his authority."

Harry thought the matter over that night and, at last, determined to make an attempt to bring about his old friend's release. In the morning he said to the Resident:

"I have been thinking over what you said last night, Colonel, and with your permission I am resolved to make an attempt to bring about Nana's release."

"But how on earth do you mean to proceed, Mr. Lindsay?"

"My plans are not quite made up yet, sir. In the first place, I shall ask you to give me three weeks' leave so that, if I fail, you can make it evident that you are not responsible for my undertaking. In the next place, I shall endeavour to see Nana in his prison, and ascertain from him whether he can pay a considerable sum to Scindia for his release. If I find that he is in a position to do so, I shall then -- always, of course, in disguise -- endeavour to have a private interview with Scindia, and to convince him that it is in every way to his interest to allow Nana to ransom himself. He is, of course, perfectly well aware that, in spite of Bajee's assurances of friendship, he is at heart bitterly opposed to him; and that the return of Nana, with the powers he before possessed, would neutralize the Peishwa's power."

"It would be an excellent thing, if that could be done," the colonel said; "but it appears to me to be an absolute impossibility."

"I would rather not tell you how I intend to act, sir; so that, in case of failure, you can disavow all knowledge of my proceedings."

"Well, since you are willing to undertake the risk, and unquestionably the Bombay Government would see, with great pleasure, Nana's return to power, I will throw no obstacle in your way. You had better, to begin with, write me a formal request for a month's leave to go down to Bombay. Is there anything else that I can do, to aid your project?"

"Nothing, whatever; and I am much obliged to you for acceding to my request. If for no other reason than that my success should have the effect of releasing the inhabitants of Poona, from the horrible tyranny to which they are exposed, I shall be willing to risk a great deal to gain it.

"I shall not leave for a day or two, as I wish to think over all the details of my plan, before I set about carrying it out."

Going into the city, Harry went to the spot where the proclamations of Scindia were always affixed. These were of various kinds; such as forbidding anyone carrying arms to be in the streets after nightfall; and that every inhabitant should furnish an account of his income, in order that taxation should be carefully distributed. To these Scindia's seal was affixed.

One such order had been placed there that morning. A sentry marched up and down in front of it, lest any insult should be offered to the paper. Satisfied that this would suit his purpose, he called Abdool to him, and explained what he wanted.

"It will not be till this evening, for I want, before that step is taken, to collect a party of ten horsemen to ride with me to Ahmednuggur and back. By this time you know a great many people in the town and, if I were to pay them well, you should have no difficulty in getting that number."

"I could do that in half an hour, sahib. There are a great number of the disbanded soldiers of the Peishwa's army who are without employment, and who would willingly undertake anything that would bring them in a little money."

"Well, you can arrange with them, today. They must not attract attention by going out together, but must meet at the village of Wittulwarree."

The next morning, Harry went to the shop of a trader who was, he knew, formerly employed by Nana, and purchased from him a suit such as would be worn by an officer in Scindia's service. Then he wrote out a document in Mahratti, giving an order to the governor of Ahmednuggur to permit the bearer, Musawood Khan, to have a private interview with Nana Furnuwees. This done, he told the resident that he intended to leave that night.

Colonel Palmer asked no questions, but only said:

"Be careful, Mr. Lindsay, be careful; it is a desperate enterprise that you are undertaking, and I should be sorry, indeed, if so promising an officer should be lost to our service."

"I will be careful, I assure you. I have no wish to throw away my life."

When evening came on, he went to his room, stained his skin from head to foot, put on the caste marks, then dressed himself in the clothes that he had that morning purchased and, at nine o'clock, left the house quietly with Abdool. At that hour Poona would be quiet, for the terror was so great that few people ventured into the street after nightfall.

When they approached the house on which the proclamation was fixed, they separated. Harry went quietly to the corner of the street, a few yards from the spot where the soldier was marching up and down, and listened intently, peeping out from behind the wall whenever the sentry was walking in the other direction. Presently he heard a smothered sound, and the dull thud of a falling body.

He ran out. Abdool had crawled up to the other end of the sentry's beat, and taken his place in a doorway. The sentry came up to within a couple of yards of him, and then turned. Abdool sprang out and, with a bound, leapt upon the sentry's back and, with one hand, grasped his musket.

Taken wholly by surprise, the sentry fell forward on his face, Abdool still clinging to him. He pressed his knife against the soldier's neck and said that, at the slightest cry, he would drive it home. Half stunned by the fall, the soldier lay without moving.

Harry ran up to the proclamation and tore it down.

Without the loss of a moment, Harry ran up to the proclamation and tore it down, and then darted off again. Abdool, springing to his feet, brought the butt end of the soldier's musket down on his head; and then, satisfied that a minute or two must elapse before the man would be recovered sufficiently to give the alarm, he too ran off, and joined Harry at the point where they had separated.

"That was well managed, Abdool. Now we will walk quietly until we are outside the town as, if we met some of Scindia's men, they would question were we hurrying."

In a few minutes they were outside the city; and then, running at a brisk pace, they reached the Residency. They were challenged by the sentry but, on Harry giving his name, he was of course allowed to pass.

He went quietly into his room and lighted a candle. Putting his knife in the flame he heated it, and then carefully cut the seal from the paper on which it was fixed, placed it on the order that he had written and, again heating his knife, passed it along under the paper, until the under part of the seal was sufficiently warmed to adhere to it. He placed the order in an inner pocket, put a brace of pistols into his sash, and buckled on a native sword that he had bought that morning; then he went out again, and found that Abdool had the horses in readiness, with two native saddles, with embroidered housings such as was used by native officers; which he had, by Harry's orders, purchased that morning in the bazaar.

They at once mounted, and started at a gallop for Wittulwarree.



Chapter 8: Nana's Release.


At the entrance to the village Harry found the ten troopers, whom Abdool had engaged, standing by their horses. He gave the order for them to march and, at a brisk canter, they started for Ahmednuggur. It was a ride of some forty miles and, when they approached the town, they halted until the sun rose and the gates of the city were opened.

They then rode in. The men were left at a khan, Abdool remaining with them. They had been told, if questioned, to say that their leader, Musawood Khan, was an officer high in the service of Scindia.

Harry took two of the troopers with him, and rode to the governor's house. Dismounting, and leaving the horse in their charge, he told one of the attendants to inform the governor that he was the bearer of an order from Scindia, and was at once shown up.

The governor received him with all honour, glanced at the order that Harry presented to him, placed the seal against his forehead in token of submission; and then, after a few words as to affairs at Poona, called an officer and ordered him to accompany Musawood Khan to Nana Furnuwees' apartment. This was a large room, at an angle of the fortress, with a balcony outside affording a view of the country round it; for the governor, knowing how rapidly and often the position changed, and having no orders save to maintain a careful watch over the prisoner, had endeavoured to ingratiate himself with him, by lodging him comfortably and treating him well.

The officer opened the door and, when Harry had entered, locked it behind him. Nana Furnuwees was seated at the window, enjoying the fresh morning air. He looked listlessly round, and then rose suddenly to his feet, as he recognized his visitor.

"What wonder is this," he said, "that you should be here, Mr. Lindsay, except as a prisoner?"

"I am here as one of Scindia's officers," Harry replied, with a smile, "although he himself is not aware of it, in hopes of obtaining your freedom."

"That is too good even to hope for," Nana said, sadly.

"In the first place, sir, are you aware of the state of things in Poona?"

"I have heard nothing since I came here," Nana said. "They make me comfortable, as you see but, except for the daily visit from the governor, I have no visitors; and from him I learn nothing, as he has strict orders, from Scindia, not to give me any information of what happens outside these walls; fearing, no doubt, that I might take advantage of any change, to endeavour to open communication with one or other of the leaders.

"Before you tell me anything else, please explain how you managed to enter here."

"That was easy enough, sir. I simply wrote out an order, to the governor, to permit me to have a private interview with you. I tore down one of Scindia's proclamations, and transferred his seal from it to the order that I had written; dressed myself, as you see, as one of his officers; got together ten mounted men, to ride as my escort, and here I am."

"You will be a great man, some day," Nana said, looking at the tall, powerful figure of his visitor, with its soldierly carriage.

"Now, tell me about affairs. I shall then understand better why you have run this risk."

Harry gave him a sketch of everything that had happened, since his confinement.

"You see, sir," he said, as he concluded, "how the situation has changed. Amrud is nominally acting with his brother's approval, but there is no question that Bajee fears him. Amrud is in alliance with Holkar. Purseram Bhow is at liberty, at the head of an army, and a nominal conciliation has taken place between him and Bajee. The latter has incurred the detestation and hatred of the people of Poona and, most important of all, Scindia is really anxious to get back home, but is unable to do so owing to his inability to pay his troops and, willing as Bajee might be to furnish the money to get rid of him, he is without resources, owing to the fact that the taxation wrung from the people has all gone into the pockets of Scindia, Ghatgay, and his other favourites.

"The question is, sir, whether you would be willing to purchase your liberty, at a heavy price. I think that, if you could pay sufficient to enable Scindia to satisfy his soldiers, he might be induced to release you."

"How much do you think he would want?"

"Of that I can have no idea, sir. Of course, he would at first ask a great deal more than he would afterwards accept."

"Yes, I should be ready to pay," Nana said, after considering for a minute. "As a prisoner here, my money is of no use to me, nor ever would be; but I could pay a large sum, and still be wealthy."

"That is what I wanted to know, sir."

"But why do you run this risk?" Nana asked.

"For several reasons, sir. In the first place, because you have honoured me with your friendship; in the second, because I would fain save the people of Poona from the horrible barbarity with which they are now treated; and lastly, because the Government of Bombay would, I am sure, be glad to hear of your reinstatement, as the only means of restoring peace and tranquillity to the Deccan."

"How will you open this matter to Scindia?"

"I have not fully thought that out, sir; but I have no doubt that I shall, in some way, be able to manage it, and intend to act upon his fears as well as upon his avarice."

"But you say that Ghatgay is all powerful, and he would never permit an interview to take place between a stranger and Scindia."

"From what I hear, sir, Scindia is becoming jealous of Ghatgay's power, and disgusted both by his imperious manner and by his atrocities in Poona -- against which he has several times protested, but in vain. If I am to obtain an audience with Scindia, it must be a secret one."

"But there will surely be great danger in such a step?"

"Doubtless it will not be without danger," Harry said, "but that I must risk. I have not yet determined upon my plan, as it would have been useless to think of that, until I had seen you but, as that has been managed so easily, I fancy that I shall have no great difficulty in getting at him. Once I do so, I feel certain that I shall be able to convince him that his best policy is to free you, and place you in your old position as the Peishwa's minister as, in that case, you would be a check upon Bajee Rao, and would be able to prevent him from entering into alliances hostile to Scindia."

"Well, Mr. Lindsay, you have given me such proofs, both of your intelligence and courage, that I feel sure that, if anyone can carry this through, you will be able to do so; and I need hardly say how deeply grateful I shall be, to you, for rescuing me from an imprisonment which seemed likely to terminate only with my life."

"And now I had better go, sir," Harry said. "It is as well that our conference should not be too long a one."

"Well, goodbye, Mr. Lindsay! Even if nothing comes of all this, it will be pleasant for me to know that, at least, I have one faithful friend who was true to me, in my deepest adversity."

Harry went to the door, and knocked. It was immediately opened by the officer who had conducted him there, and who had taken up his post a short distance from the door. He led Harry back to the governor, who pressed him to stay with him; but he replied that his orders were to return to Poona, instantly.

After this interview, he went direct to the tavern where the soldiers had put up, ate a hasty meal, and then mounted and rode out of the town. When ten miles away, he halted in a grove for some hours, and then rode on to Poona. Arrived within a mile of the town, he paid each of the men the amount promised, and told them to re-enter the town separately. Then he secured a room for himself in a small khan, just outside the city and, sitting there alone, worked out the plan of obtaining an interview with Scindia.

He then told Abdool to go quietly to the Residency, and to bring out the Brahmin's dress he had before worn. In the morning, Abdool went out to Scindia's camp with a letter which, when Scindia came out of his marquee, he handed to him. There was nothing unusual in this, for petitions were frequently presented in this way to rulers in India.

As he did so, he said in a low voice, "It is private and important, Your Highness;" and instead of handing it to one of his officers, Scindia went back to his tent to read it.

It stated that the writer, Kawerseen, an unworthy member of the Kshittree Brahmins, prayed for a private interview with His Highness, on matters of the most urgent import. Scindia thought for a moment and then, tearing up the piece of paper, went out and, as he passed Abdool, who was waiting at the entrance, said:

"Tell your master to be here at half-past ten, tonight. The sentry will have orders to admit him."

Abdool returned at once to Harry, and delivered his message.

"That is good," the latter said.

"You will take me with you, sahib?"

"Certainly, Abdool, if you are willing to go. There is some danger in it and, should Scindia give the alarm, you may be of great assistance, by cutting down the sentry before he can run in. Take your pistols and tulwar, and bring another sword for me. If I can once get out of the tent we shall be fairly safe for, in the darkness and confusion which will arise, we shall be able to make off quietly. We will ride there, and fasten our horses in that grove that lies about a quarter of a mile from the camp."

At half-past nine they started, and reached Scindia's tent at the time appointed. Harry's belief that he would succeed was largely founded on the knowledge that Scindia was a weak young man, who had never been engaged in warfare, and was wanting in physical courage. An attendant was at the door, and led him to the prince's private tent, which stood in the middle of an encampment composed of large tents; for the purpose of receptions and entertainments, for the abodes of the ladies of the zenana, and for the officers in whom Scindia reposed most confidence. The retinue of servants, attendants, and minor officials were lodged in tents fifty yards behind the royal encampment.

Scindia was sitting on a divan. Two lamps hung from the ceiling. He himself was smoking.

"You have something of importance to say to me?" he said, as Harry entered, and bowed deeply.

"I have, Your Highness. You are doubtless well aware that the Kshittree Brahmins, who formerly held the principal offices under your father, are greatly offended by the elevation of Ghatgay; and still more so by his atrocious deeds in the town of Poona. There has been a private meeting, and twelve of them, myself among the number, have sworn by the feet of Brahma to take your life, either by poison, dagger, or musket ball."

"And you have the insolence to avow that you took such an oath!"

He sprang to his feet, and would have touched the bell on the table but, in an instant, Harry sprung forward with a loaded pistol, pointed at Scindia's head.

"Stop, sir, I beg of you; for assuredly, if you raise a voice or touch a bell, that moment will be your last."

Scindia sank down into his seat again. He had not the least doubt that the man before him would execute his threat.

"Your Highness," he said, "I have not come here for the purpose of assassinating you. I was first on the list, but obtained from the others permission to endeavour to put an end to the present state of things, before carrying out our vow. We know that, in spite of the enormous sums that Ghatgay has raised in Poona, you yourself have not been enriched; and that you have been unable to persuade your troops to march, owing to your want of money to pay up their arrears. We have thought the matter over, and can see but one way by which you can obtain the necessary funds."

"And that is?" Scindia asked.

"That is, Your Highness, to liberate Nana Furnuwees -- setting his liberty, of course, at a high price. In this way you will not only be able to move your army, but you will cripple the power of the Peishwa -- who would, if possible, overthrow you, now you have done his work and freed him from Nana.

"You are well aware, Prince, that Nana Furnuwees always exercised his authority on the side of peace, and there is no fear that he will permit Bajee Rao to engage in war against you. He is an old man, and useless to you as a prisoner. If you exacted a heavy sum from him it would, in all ways, aid your views."

"But how do you know that Nana could raise such a sum as would satisfy the troops?"

"We have assured ourselves on that score, and I know that it matters not how much Nana Furnuwees will have to give. What I would suggest is that you shall seize Ghatgay, and rid yourself of his domination. He cannot but be as odious to you as he is to Bajee Rao, and to the people."

Scindia sat for some time, in silence.

"Do I understand," he said, "that if I carry out these suggestions, your comrades will be satisfied?"

"That I swear solemnly. I do not threaten Your Highness, for my visit today is one of conciliation. You might, as soon as I leave this tent, order me to be arrested. In that case I should use this pistol against myself, and you would seek in vain for the names of my eleven brethren; but your life would be forfeited -- whether in the midst of your guards or in your tent, whether you ride or walk. You would be watched, and your servants would be bribed, and your food poisoned. If the first man fails, he will blow out his brains, and so will they all; but be assured that the vow will be kept and that, whether by night or by day, you will never be safe."

"You are a bold man to speak so," Scindia said.

"I speak so, Your Highness, because I am perfectly ready to die for the good of the country, and to secure for it peace and contentment."

Scindia rose, and took two or three turns up and down the tent; Harry keeping his pistol in his hand, in readiness to fire should he attempt to slip away. At last, Scindia stopped before him.

"I agree to your conditions," he said, "and the more readily because I shall, as you say, at once free myself from difficulties, and avenge myself on Bajee Rao; who is, I know, in spite of his professions of friendship, constantly plotting against me. Tomorrow at daybreak an officer shall ride, with a troop of cavalry, and shall bring Nana here."

"You have chosen wisely, Prince. It is, believe me, your only way of escaping from your present difficulties. I know that, already, your soldiery are becoming mutinous at being thus kept, for months, away from their country, and receiving no pay. That feeling will grow rapidly, unless their demands are conceded. As to Ghatgay, the soldiers hold him in abhorrence, and his arrest and downfall would cause the most lively satisfaction among them. Your men are soldiers and not assassins, and the tortures and executions that daily take place fill them with horror; so that your order for his arrest will be executed with joy.

"Now, Your Highness, I will leave you. I believe that you will keep your promise, as indeed it is to your interest to do so; in which case you will never hear of myself, or my eleven companions."

"Do not fear," Scindia said, "tomorrow my messenger shall certainly start for Ahmednuggur."

Harry, bowing deeply, turned, passed through the curtain, and made his way out of the tent. Abdool, who was squatting near the entrance, at once rose and followed him.

"Is all well, sahib?"

"I think so. I have so frightened Scindia that I have little doubt he will carry out the promise he has given me. I will tell you about it, when we get back."

They passed through the sleeping camp, and mounted their horses in the grove, and rode to the Residency. Colonel Palmer was still up, engaged in writing a report for the Government. It was a dark night, and the sentry on duty, knowing Harry's voice, let him pass without question, not even observing the change in his attire.

"What! Back again, Mr. Lindsay?" the colonel exclaimed, in surprise, when Harry entered. "I thought that it would be a month before you returned -- that is, if you ever returned at all, and of this I had but little hope. As I expected, you have, of course, found it impossible to carry out your design."

"On the contrary, sir, I have been, I hope, perfectly successful. I have seen Nana Furnuwees, and ascertained that he is ready to pay a large sum to obtain his freedom, and his former position as the Peishwa's minister. I have seen Scindia. Tomorrow a troop of horse will start, to fetch Nana to his camp; and Ghatgay will be arrested as soon as possible, after he arrives."

"How in the name of fortune have you managed all these things?" the colonel asked.

"I will tell you, sir, now that I am back here. I shall tomorrow reassume my uniform, and there is no danger of my being recognized, or of trouble arising from what I have done."

He then related the various steps he had taken, and his conversations with Nana and Scindia.

"Upon my word, Mr. Lindsay, I do not know whether to admire most your daring, in bearding Scindia in the heart of his camp; or the intelligence with which you have carried out what seemed, to me, an absolutely impossible undertaking.

"Light your cheroot. I need not trouble about this report that I was engaged on, when you entered, but will put it by until the day after tomorrow, when we shall see whether Nana is brought to Scindia's camp.

"You speak Hindustani as well as Mahratti, do you not?"

"Not so well, sir; but as you know I have, during the six months that I was at Bombay, and since I have been here, used most of my spare time working up Hindustani, with a moonshee."

"I am glad to hear it, for I received a letter from the Governor, this morning, saying that Lord Mornington has requested him to send an officer, thoroughly acquainted with Mahratti and with some knowledge of the people; and that he has selected you for the service, as being by far better fitted than anyone he knows for the appointment. A knowledge of Hindustani will, of course, be very useful to you; but Mahratti is the principal thing, as he is intending to open negotiations with the Mahrattas, as well as with the Nizam, to induce them to join in concerted action against Tippoo.

"He says that no vessel will be sailing for Calcutta for less than a month, so you can stay here for a few days, and see how your scheme works out. It will be a great step for you, and ensure you rapid promotion."

"I am indeed obliged to the Governor for selecting me," Harry said, "and will do my best to justify his confidence."

Two days later, Nana Furnuwees was brought to Scindia's camp -- news which caused Bajee Rao intense consternation. He at once sent off, to open negotiations with the Nizam for common action, offering a considerable amount of territory for his assistance.

Colonel Palmer rode over the next morning to Scindia's camp, and found that Scindia had demanded three millions of rupees as the price of Nana's release, and appointment as minister to the Peishwa. Nana had protested his absolute inability to raise anything like that sum, but had offered five hundred thousand rupees.

"I can quite believe that he could not pay the sum Scindia demands," the colonel said, on his return; "and when Scindia sees that he would rather return to prison than attempt impossibilities, he will come down in his demands, and Nana will go up in his offer. It is a mere question of bargaining."

When Scindia heard of the step that Bajee Rao had taken, he was greatly alarmed; for he could hardly hope to withstand the Nizam's army, and that which Bajee himself could raise; and he therefore materially lowered his demands, and finally accepted Nana's offer of nine hundred thousand rupees. This arrangement being made, he permitted Nana to leave the camp in order to raise the money; receiving his solemn oath that, if he failed to do so, he would return and render himself a prisoner again.

However, in a few days Nana sent in the money. Scindia fulfilled the other part of his promise, and insisted upon the Peishwa's receiving Nana as his minister. A few days later he had Ghatgay arrested, by the sons of two of his European officers.

Scindia was, indeed, most anxious to be off. He did not know that the Nizam had refused Bajee Rao's offer. He had received news of widespread disaffection among his troops at home, and felt that he could not rely upon those with him. As soon, therefore, as he received the money from Nana, he partially paid the arrears due to the soldiers. The sum, however, was altogether insufficient to satisfy the troops and, as Nana Furnuwees found that Bajee was still intriguing with Scindia for his overthrow, and that no rest could be hoped for until the latter's army marched away, he advanced Scindia fifteen lakhs of rupees from his own private funds. The latter was then able to satisfy his troops.

Scindia accepted the money, but still remained in the neighbourhood of Poona.

These matters were not concluded until months after Harry left for Bombay. On arriving there he called upon the Governor, to report the release of Nana Furnuwees.

"I received Colonel Palmer's last report, four days ago. He has given me full details of the manner in which you, on your own initiative, brought about Nana's release, and the approaching departure of Scindia; and I of course brought them before the Council, and they quite agreed with me as to the remarkable daring and ability with which you had carried out what Colonel Palmer believed to be an impossible scheme.

"I have pleasure in handing you your commission of captain, and only regret that we cannot break the rules of the service, by nominating you major. Tomorrow your name will be removed from the list of officers of the 3rd Regiment, and you will be appointed to the staff. You will have a week before you, to obtain the proper uniform. I shall not require you to perform any duties, and you will therefore have your time to yourself, till you sail. I shall, of course, forward my reasons for sending you to Lord Mornington, and shall give an account of the services that you have rendered; which will doubtless excite as much admiration in Calcutta as in Bombay.

"I shall be glad if you will dine with me, the day after tomorrow, when I shall ask the members of the Council to meet you."

On leaving the Governor, Harry at once went to the shop of the Parsee merchant from whom he had obtained his regimentals, and ordered the various uniforms required for the staff. He then went to Soyera and, to his great satisfaction, found Sufder there. The latter's troop was one of those which had been disbanded when, on the arrival of Scindia, Bajee Rao deemed it necessary to reduce his force; and Sufder, after staying for some time at Jooneer, had now come down to see his cousin.

"I am glad, indeed, to find you here, Sufder; in the first place, because it is always a pleasure to meet a good friend; and in the second, because you can take Soyera back with you, and place her with Ramdass."

"But why should I leave here, Harry?"

"Because, mother, I am to start for Madras in three weeks; and may be, for aught I know, away for a year or more. Of course you can remain here if you prefer it, but it seems to me that the other would be the better plan."

"I should certainly prefer to go with Sufder to my home," Soyera said. "I have numbers of acquaintances here, but no real friends; and Ramdass and Anundee will, I know, joyfully receive me."

"At any rate, you shall be no burden to them, Soyera. I will give you a thousand rupees, with which you can pay your share of the expenses of the house or land; and I will give you a similar sum to hand to Ramdass, as a token of my gratitude for his protection and kindness. This will enable him to add to his holding, and to the comforts of his house. I would willingly give much more, but it might cause suspicion and enquiry, were he to extend his holding largely; and the authorities of Jooneer might demand from him how he became possessed of such means. As I told you, I have received much money in presents, and could afford to give you very much more, if it were of any advantage to you.

"I shall give a thousand rupees also to you, Sufder. They will be useful to you, when you settle down on the revenues of your district; and enable you to cut a good figure among the people when you arrive there."

The day before he was to sail, a Hindu entered Harry's apartment and, bowing deeply, handed him a letter. It was from Nana.

"My good English friend,

"I send the enclosed bill, upon my agent, as a small token of acknowledgment for the inestimable service you have rendered me. During my long life I have had many friends; but these, in supporting me, acted in their own interest. You alone have shown me absolutely disinterested friendship. I have always been opposed to your people interfering in the affairs of the Deccan; but I see now that nothing save their intervention can save the country from absolute ruin, owing to the constant struggles for supremacy among the great rajahs; and I see that it were far better we should enjoy peace and protection, under a foreign power, than be exposed to ruin and misery at the hands of warring factions.

"I grieve that I have not seen you again. Colonel Palmer tells me that you are about to start for either Calcutta or Madras, to join the army that is about to act against Tippoo. It is unlikely that I shall ever see you again; but I shall never forget that, had it not been for you, I should have ended my life a prisoner at Ahmednuggur.

"Nana."

The bill enclosed was an order for a hundred thousand rupees, upon Nana's agent in Bombay.

When Harry went to say goodbye to the Governor, the latter said:

"It is likely that you will see your old regiment before long, Captain Lindsay. This morning a ship arrived, with orders from Lord Mornington for us to send as many troops as could possibly be spared, to ascend the southern Ghauts and join him near Seringapatam. Lord Mornington is now at Madras, making arrangements for an advance; when his brother, Colonel Wellesley, will move forward with the Nizam's troops. There is still a doubt what part the Mahrattas will take -- probably they will hold aloof, altogether, until they see how matters go. We know that Tippoo has sent thirteen lakhs of rupees to Bajee Rao, and that the latter and Scindia are in constant communication with him. However, at present we shall take no notice of these proceedings; but allow the Peishwa to believe that we are deceived by the constant assurances that he gives us of his friendship, although he has declined to enter into a treaty with us, similar to that which the Nizam has made.

"It is enough to have one formidable foe on our hands at a time, and our experience of Bajee assures us that he will not commit himself, by openly declaring for Tippoo, until he sees how matters are going."

The winds were unfavourable, and it was not until six weeks after leaving Bombay that Harry arrived at Madras. It was now November, 1798 and, on landing, he learned that General Harris was in command of the army that was assembling at Vellore, and that the Governor General had returned to Calcutta. He therefore at once went back to the ship, which next day sailed for that town.

On arriving there he presented himself at the Government House and, on sending in his name, was in a short time shown in to Lord Mornington's private room.

"I am glad that you have come, Captain Lindsay," the latter said. "I wish that you had been here sooner."

"I came by the first ship, sir, after the Governor of Bombay received your letter but, owing to contrary winds, we have been nearly two months on the voyage. I landed for an hour at Madras and, hearing that you had returned here, I hesitated whether to come to you for orders, or to join General Harris at Vellore; but I thought it better to come on, and so again embarked on the ship, which has only just anchored."

"You were quite right, sir, for it was an agent rather than a soldier that I required. I own that I thought the Governor would have sent an older man."

"I am the bearer of this letter from him. I believe that in it he gives his reasons for the honour he did me, in selecting me for the post."

"I will look through it, presently," Lord Mornington said; "and if you will dine with me here, I shall then have read it, and shall be able to decide where you can be employed to the best advantage."

The dinner was a quiet one, only the officers of the Governor General's suite being present. The Governor received Harry with much more cordiality than he had evinced at their first interview, and introduced him to his officers, with the expression that Captain Lindsay had done very valuable service in the Deccan. Little allusion was made to business, until the other officers had left, when Lord Mornington said:

"I have read the Governor of Bombay's letter, and am convinced that he could have made no better choice than he has done. He speaks of you in the highest terms, and has given me a slight sketch of your story, and a fuller one of the manner in which you obtained the release of Nana Furnuwees. I learn that Nana has always been considered our friend; although we have not been able to give him the support that we could wish, as this would have entailed war with the Mahrattas, which Bombay is in no position to undertake. Nevertheless, his release will doubtless, to some extent, counterbalance the duplicity of the Peishwa who, while lavish in his promises to us, is receiving money from Tippoo; and will undoubtedly, unless restrained by Nana, openly espouse his cause, should he gain any successes over us. You showed such intelligence in the matter that he says I can place every confidence in you.

"Although the Nizam has been obliged to dismiss the French troops in his service, and to send a portion of his army to act in connection with our own against Mysore, he is in no way to be trusted; being as slippery as the rest of these Indian princes and, like the Mahrattas, would assuredly join Tippoo if he saw his way to doing so. This is so certain that nothing would be gained by sending another agent to Hyderabad. I therefore propose to open communications with the Rajah of Berar.

"None of my officers is able to talk Mahratti; though many of them are, of course, familiar with the southern dialects. The rajah is already practically at war with the Mahrattas as, for a long time, his troops have been ravaging the territory of Purseram Bhow; which he was invited to do by the Peishwa, when Purseram took sides against him. He is doubtless in some apprehension of an attack by the Mahrattas and, upon our promising to guarantee his dominions, and to give him support if attacked, he may be willing to venture into an alliance with us; and his doing so would, alike, help us in keeping the Nizam to his engagements, and deter the Mahrattas from moving.

"This is the mission that I intend to confide to you. I believe that it could not be in better hands. If you will call, tomorrow afternoon, your written instructions and powers to act for me, and to enter into engagements in my name, will be ready for you; and I should wish you to start the next morning. You will have an escort of twenty troopers. These Indian princes have little respect for persons who travel unattended.

"You will understand that the instructions recite the maximum that you are authorized to offer to the rajah. If he will be satisfied with less you will, of course, grant as little as you can; if he demands more, you must refer the matter to me. At any rate, so long as you are negotiating, he will take no active steps against us; though I have learned that Bajee Rao has already been at work, trying to persuade him to join himself and Tippoo against us. Were such a treaty concluded, we could no longer hope to retain the Nizam; and indeed, should find it difficult to contend against so powerful a confederacy. At any rate, if the rajah will not join us, you must endeavour at least to secure his neutrality.

"The day after tomorrow you will start. I will have a route map prepared for you. The distance to Nagpore is about eight hundred miles, and you will get there in four weeks, travelling thirty miles a day. I have given orders, today, for one of the Company's ships of war to take you and your escort to the mouth of the Ganjam; and express messengers have already started, with orders to the commandant to provide waggons to carry your tent, equipage and stores. You should, if the winds are favourable, reach there in four or five days' time."

"The carts will delay us, sir, and without them we might make forty miles a day, after we have landed; for the horses of this country have great endurance."

"A few days will make no great difference. There are no towns of any importance on the road to Nagpore, and you would have to put up at wretched khans, and would be considered as worthy of little consideration; whereas I wish you to travel in a style suitable for my agent, and to impress the native mind with your importance.

"Have you horses?"

"I have but one, sir, and a pony for my servant."

"You must purchase another, and a good one, with showy equipments. You will, of course, charge that and all other expenses, and your appointment will be a thousand rupees a month. I have no doubt the rajah will lodge you handsomely. Should he not do so, you had best encamp outside the town. Do not put up with any inferior lodging."

"Very well, sir; I shall endeavour to carry out your orders, to the letter."

Harry was fortunate in being able to purchase an excellent horse and, in the afternoon, received his letters of instruction. On the following day he embarked in a twelve-gun sloop, with twenty troopers under the command of a native officer. The wind was favourable and, in four days, they arrived at the mouth of the Ganjam.

A large native barge came out to meet them. The horses and the stores which Harry had purchased, together with some boxes with presents for the rajah, were transferred to her; and two of the ship's boats took the barge in tow to the shore. The commandant of the small garrison there informed Harry that the bullock carts had already gone on to a village, thirty miles away; and that he would find all in readiness for him, on his arrival.

Without waiting an hour he started with his escort and, half a mile from the village, found the camp already pitched. It consisted of one large and handsome tent, such as those used by high officials, and two smaller ones for the escort. He had engaged at Calcutta a good cook, and this man at once began to light fires, and prepare a meal from the stores Harry had brought with him.

The tent was handsomely furnished. A large carpet covered the ground. There was a bed, four large chairs, and a table; while between the outer and inner walls of the tent was a bath. As soon as they halted, one of the troopers rode into the village and purchased fowls, rice, ghee, and condiments for the use of the escort, who were all Mahommedans.

Harry found, to his satisfaction, that another set of waggons had started that morning for the next halting place; and that he would find everything ready for him there. This was a great satisfaction, for he had feared that the work of taking down and packing the tents would delay his start in the morning, and that at the end of the day's ride he would have to wait some hours before the tents came up; whereas by the system of double carriage, he would not be delayed.

The head man told him that his party would start in the morning, as soon as the cart could be packed; that fresh bullocks would be hired at the village where he would halt, and would travel all night, so as to be in readiness for him when he had accomplished another stage; and that this process would be continued until they reached Nagpore.



Chapter 9: A Popular Tumult.


The journey was performed without incident. Harry enjoyed it much, for this luxurious method of travelling was quite new to him and, three weeks after leaving the coast, they arrived at Nagpore. On the previous day the native officer had been sent on, beforehand, to inform the rajah of the arrival of a high officer of the Governor General's; and had taken on a letter from Lord Mornington, accrediting Harry to act in his name. Accordingly, when the party arrived within a mile of the town, they were met by two officers of the rajah; who welcomed him in his name, and said that a residence had been prepared for his use and that of the escort. They were surprised at Harry's perfect knowledge of their language for, hitherto, British agents who had come to Nagpore had had but very slight acquaintance with it, and had had to carry on their conversation by means of an interpreter.

The town was large and straggling and composed, for the most part, of native huts built of mud. There were, however, a few brick houses, the property of flourishing traders. The palace was a large square edifice, without any architectural adornments. Trees grew everywhere in the streets and, in the distance, the town had the appearance of a forest.

Harry was conducted to one of the largest brick houses in the town. A host of sweepers had been at work, carpets were laid down, and furniture placed in the principal rooms. He had no doubt that it had been requisitioned from its owner by the rajah for him, and the furniture supplied from the palace. The principal rooms were on the upper floor, and there was ample accommodation for the escort below.

Harry requested the officers to ascertain when the rajah would be ready to receive a visit from him, and they returned with word that he would receive him, in private audience, at eight o'clock that evening. Accordingly at that hour, followed by four of his troopers, he rode to the palace. A guard of honour was drawn up at the entrance, and saluted as he passed in. The entrance hall and staircase were lined by attendants, and all bowed profoundly as he passed. He was conducted to a large audience chamber, where the rajah, attended by his principal officers, was seated.

The conversation was of the usual ceremonial kind, the prince expressing his satisfaction that the Governor General should have sent one of his officers to confer with him, and assuring Harry of his goodwill and friendship towards the English; while Harry, on his part, expressed the strong desire of Lord Mornington that the relations between him and the rajah should be continued unbroken, and that nothing should ever occur to disturb their amity. The presents sent by the Governor General were then brought in and displayed, and appeared to give much satisfaction to the chief.

After the durbar was over, the latter told Harry that he would receive him, privately, at ten o'clock next morning. On arriving at that time, he was shown into the prince's private apartment, and there explained to him the Governor General's desire that he should join the confederacy between the Nizam and the English.

"I have no quarrel with Tippoo," the rajah said. "At present, none can say how the affair will end. All say that the Peishwa has agreed to assist Tippoo. He is a match, and more, for the Nizam; while we know not whether the English company, or Tippoo, is the strongest. Should I remain neutral, the Peishwa and Tippoo might eat me up."

"That is true, Rajah; but you must remember that, in the last war, the English showed that they were much stronger than Tippoo; and he was glad to make peace with them, by giving up nearly half his territories. We are much stronger now. Ships arrive each day with more and more troops and, believe me, Tippoo will assuredly be unable to stand against the English power, even if he were backed up by the whole strength of Poona.

"Of course, we know that messages have been sent to you by Tippoo, and that he has promised you a large slice of the Nizam's dominions, if you will invade them, and so prevent him from aiding the English."

Harry saw, by the change in the prince's countenance, that he was surprised to find that his negotiations with Tippoo were known to the English Government. He replied, however:

"It is true that Tippoo has sent to me, but I have given him no answer. The matter is too important to be settled in a hurry. Certainly, Tippoo's offers were very advantageous."

"I can understand that they were tempting, Rajah; yet they entailed a war against the English and the Nizam, when they had finished with Tippoo. Instead of gaining territory, you would find that much of yours would be lost.

"But undoubtedly, were you to join us, the Governor General would show that he was not unthankful for the service, and your assistance would be handsomely recompensed."

"What does the Governor General offer?"

"He is desirous of knowing what your own views are, Rajah; and he will assuredly meet them, if possible."

"I have not thought of it, yet," the prince said. "I must talk the matter over with my councillors. We are good friends with the Peishwa, also with the Nizam, and with Tippoo. We know that the English are a great people; but we have had nothing to do with them, save that complimentary messages have been exchanged. Therefore it is not a matter upon which one can come to any hasty decision."

"The Governor General would wish you to think the matter over well, before deciding, Rajah; and indeed, there is no occasion for undue haste, seeing that the English army is still lying near Madras, and is not yet ready to advance. Therefore I will leave the matter for the present; believing that, in your wisdom, you will be able to see how matters are likely to go; and whether the English Company, or Tippoo, are likely to be your best friends."

It was nearly a fortnight before Harry heard again from the rajah. The latter had returned his visit, and sent over presents of sweetmeats and food to his guests. At the end of that time he came in, one evening, with only two attendants.

"I have come to speak to you on this matter, privately," he said. "My ministers are altogether divided in opinion. Some say we should fight against Tippoo, who is a cruel and implacable foe, and who has slaughtered all the Hindus in his territory who refused to embrace his religion. Others say it is better to be friends with him, for it seems that these white men intend to eat up all India. Already they have taken the Carnatic and Bengal, now they want to take Mysore. What will they take next?

"For myself, I wish well to the English. Though there are few of them, they are brave and strong; but my council know of the offer that Tippoo has made us and, unless I can show them that the English are also ready to give us material advantages, I shall not be able to persuade my chiefs that our interest must lie in an alliance with them."

"That is so, Rajah, and if you will inform me what are your expectations, I will see how far they tally with those which the Governor General has authorized me to offer."

"I am not greedy," the prince said. "I wish only to have what is fair and just. I think that our aid is worth two crores of rupees (200,000 pounds) and that the Company should put me in possession of the lands of Purseram Bhow, together with the land that lies between us and Malwan, including the territories of the Rajah of Bhopal."

"Your demand," Harry said gravely, "is so far beyond what I was authorized to offer you, that I fear it is altogether useless for me to submit it to the Governor General. He would, I am sure, consider that, in naming such terms, you had resolved to make acceptance impossible."

"That is by no means my intention," the Rajah said. "Nothing could be further from my thoughts; and in order to secure an alliance that, I believe, would be advantageous, I might be able to make some slight concession."

"I will send off a messenger, then, submitting your offer and asking for instructions, and requesting that I may be allowed to meet you, by further concessions on my part; but I fear that, strained as the English treasury is by the preparations for the war against Tippoo, it would be impossible for the Company to pay the sum you name; nor do I think that they would be disposed to guarantee you the territory of Bhopal, seeing that we have no quarrel with the rajah of that country.

"No doubt, they might be willing to grant you a portion of the territories of Mysore, lying on the other side of the Godavery, which would be as valuable as Bhopal."

As the rajah, himself, was still uncertain as to which side it would be most advantageous to take; and as he thought that the campaign against Tippoo would last for many months; he offered no objection to Harry's proposal. The latter sent off two troopers, the next day, with a letter to Lord Mornington saying that as the rajah's demands were, he knew, altogether out of the question, he had sent them to him simply to gain time; hoping that, before the answer arrived, the army would have gained such successes over Tippoo as would induce the prince to greatly modify his terms. The troopers were charged not to use undue haste, but to travel quietly, at a rate not exceeding twenty miles a day.

Two months passed. The rajah was in no hurry, for the two parties among his councillors were so evenly divided that he was by no means sure that, even if he wished it, he could put his army in motion, in support of either the English or Tippoo; and in the next place, he believed that the latter would win, and was reluctant in the extreme to take any step that would draw down upon him the vengeance of the Lord of Mysore. He occasionally saw Harry and, although he expressed his anxiety for the return of the messengers, Harry could see that this feeling was only feigned, and that at heart he was not sorry that he was not yet called upon to decide.

At the end of a month, Harry had received a letter from the Governor General, brought by a messenger in the disguise of a peasant. It only said:

"March 6th, 1799.

"The army has left Vellore. On the 11th the Nizam's contingent also marched, as has that from Bombay. By the 1st of this month all should have reached the plateau -- the Bombay army at Sedaseer, forty-five miles west of Seringapatam; and the main army about eighty miles east of that town. By the end of the month, both should be before Tippoo's capital. Siege will probably occupy a month.

"Even if Berar decides against us, its army cannot arrive in time to aid Tippoo. Therefore, if you can extend the negotiations for a month after you receive this, your mission will have been fulfilled."

This messenger had, of course, been sent off before the arrival of the troopers in Calcutta and, if Lord Mornington's calculations were correct, Seringapatam would be invested before they could return. Three days later, indeed, a report reached Nagpore that Tippoo had fallen upon the advance guard of the Bombay army, and had been repulsed; and on the 27th he had attacked General Harris, and had again been defeated; and that on the 28th the main army had forded the Cauvery, and had marched to Sosilly.

This news caused great excitement in the town, although Seringapatam was generally supposed to be impregnable and, as the English had failed to take it during the last war, it was believed that, after another futile siege, they would be forced to fall back again from want of food, as they did upon the previous occasion.

The rajah, like the majority, believed that Seringapatam could defy any assault; and that, surrounded as the British army would be by the Mysore cavalry, they would very speedily be forced to retire; and that, although Tippoo might have yielded to the wishes of his general, and attempted to check the advance, it could have been with only a portion of his army.

Including the contingent furnished by the Nizam, the Bombay army amounted to forty-three thousand men. Tippoo was credited with having at least twice that force, and his uniform successes against his neighbours had created a belief that he was invincible. The rajah, therefore, was well content to let matters rest, until more decisive news reached him.

It was on the 7th of April that the messengers returned, with a letter:

"We no longer want active assistance from Berar. The army is within striking distance of Seringapatam, and a few thousand native horse, one way or another, will make but little difference. You have done very well in gaining two months, by referring the matter to me. The rajah's demands are, of course, ridiculous. He is evidently playing a double part and, if we were defeated tomorrow, would join Tippoo and attack the Nizam. You can still, however, offer him five lakhs of rupees; but do not guarantee him any additional territory.

"The Peishwa is acting in precisely the same way. The army that was to come to our assistance has not yet moved; and he, like Berar, is simply awaiting events at Seringapatam."

The rajah came in that evening.

"I hear that your messengers have returned, sir."

"Yes; I am sorry to say that the Governor General considers your demands are altogether excessive. The treasury is almost empty and, were he to guarantee you an extension of your dominions, it would bring on a war with the Peishwa and the Rajah of Bhopal; but he is willing to pay five lakhs of rupees, to cover the maintenance of your troops while in the field."

The rajah flushed with anger.

"It is altogether insufficient," he said.

"I do not say that is the final offer, Rajah; that is the offer I am authorized to make, in the first place. Possibly, if you are willing to make concessions of a reasonable kind, I may be able to meet you -- and you must remember that the friendship of the Company is of no slight advantage, and would assuredly be of infinite value to you, were your territory invaded by Scindia and the Peishwa. These may, at any moment, make up their differences. Purseram Bhow may again become the commander of the Peishwa's army and, after the manner in which your troops have, for the last two or three years, raided his jagheer, he would be your bitterest enemy."

Harry saw that this consideration made a powerful impression upon the rajah, and the latter said:

"I must think these matters over. The sum that you offer is altogether insufficient, and cannot be entertained for a moment. However, there is time for reflection."

During the next four weeks, Harry saw the rajah occasionally; but the latter made no attempt to talk business. He was evidently undecided, in his mind, as to the best course he should take. He feared Tippoo more than he feared the English, and he still believed that the latter would assuredly fail in capturing Seringapatam. Tippoo's offers, too, had been considerably higher than those of Calcutta, as he had promised him a large slice of the Nizam's dominions for his assistance. He had therefore determined to reject the English offer, and to march into the Nizam's country, as soon as he heard that the besieging army had fallen back.

Harry's suspicions that this was the case were, to a certain extent, confirmed by the fact that bodies of armed men began to arrive, in considerable numbers. He felt that his own position was beginning to be precarious, and the native officer commanding his escort brought in almost hourly reports of what was passing in the city. The population was a mixed one, and nearly divided between Hindus and Mahommedans. The latter naturally sympathized altogether with Tippoo, while the former were in favour of taking no part on either side.

So matters continued until the 10th of May, when a horseman rode into the town, with the news that Seringapatam had been captured by the British, and that Tippoo himself was killed. A feeling akin to stupefaction was excited by the news; and it seemed, at first, that it must be false, for it was incredible that Tippoo, with so strong an army, should have been unable to defend the fortress that, as was believed, could withstand any attack, however formidable, for four months.

As he rode through the streets he saw . . . how fierce a feeling of resentment had been excited by the news.

The rajah sent at once, to ask Harry to visit him. As he rode through the streets he saw, by the scowling faces of the Mahommedan soldiers, how fierce a feeling of resentment had been excited by the news that the native officer had brought in, a few minutes before. The rajah was deeply agitated.

"Have you heard the news, sahib?"

"I have, Rajah."

"And do you think it possible?"

"Perfectly; indeed, I have been expecting it for some days, but I supposed the English general needed time to bring in provisions from the country round, to form his plans, and construct his batteries."

"To me it is astounding!" the rajah said, walking up and down the room.

"Of course," Harry said, "the proposal that I made to you cannot now be carried out; and I do not feel myself justified, under the changed position of things, in continuing the negotiations."

"I always intended to help the English," the rajah went on.

"No doubt, Rajah. I have noticed, for some time, that you have been gathering a large force here; but you have given me no indication for what purpose it was intended."

"It was intended, of course, for service with the English," the rajah said, "and it would have been set in motion, as soon as the negotiations were completed."

"At any rate, Rajah, in spite of the temptations offered you by Tippoo, you have remained neutral. This will be considered in your favour, and I can assure you that there will be no breach in the friendship between yourself and the English; matters will merely remain as they were, before this war commenced."

"Except that the Nizam will become more powerful than before," the rajah said.

"That will no doubt be so, for he will certainly take a considerable share of Tippoo's dominions. But that need not trouble you. I know the desire of the Governor General has always been for peace. He was driven into this war, by the failure of Tippoo to carry out his undertaking to release all European prisoners in his hands, and also by the great preparations he was making to regain territory that he had lost. But it cannot be to the interest of the Company that the Nizam should use his increased power to be a scourge to his neighbours; and I can promise you that any wanton aggression, on his part, will be regarded with displeasure, and probably lead to their interference in your behalf.

"Now, Rajah, I must remind you that I am here as your guest, and I rely upon you to protect me. As I came through the streets, the attitude of the Mahommedan soldiers was very threatening; and I should not be surprised if they attempted to attack the house. I need not say that any outrage upon the escort of a British agent would be tremendously avenged; and that you would be more easily forgiven, had you taken the part of Tippoo, than if you allow me and my escort to be massacred."

"I will take immediate steps for your safety and, should any attempt be made, I shall come with my household guards to your assistance. A squadron of them shall ride back with you, now, to prevent any insult being offered to you in the streets."

"I will relieve you of my presence, tonight," Harry said. "I do not wish to be an object of strife between you and your people, and will therefore take my farewell of you, at once. I shall have pleasure in informing the Governor General of the steps that you have taken to provide for my safety."

"And give him the assurance that my disposition is wholly friendly, and that I rely on nothing so much as to secure his friendship, and to remain on the most amicable terms with him."

Harry had no doubt that the assurance was given in earnest. The fall of Seringapatam, and the death of Tippoo, had been a terrible shock to the rajah; and even the fact that he had missed his opportunity of allying himself with the English, was as nothing to the thought of what would have happened had he declared for Tippoo.

The rajah at once gave orders for a squadron of his horse to mount, and continued his conversation with Harry until they were ready in the courtyard. Then, bidding adieu to the prince, the latter mounted, and was escorted through the streets by the cavalry guard.

But although their presence prevented any attack being made on him, the lower class groaned and yelled, and he had no doubt that, had it not been for his escort, he would have been murdered on his way back.

Directly he arrived he called the troopers to arms, and told them to barricade the gates, and to be ready to take post at the windows, in case of assault. Looking out, he saw that the rajah's men had taken up their position in front of the house.

A great crowd soon began to gather there. Most of the men were evidently soldiers, and had arms in their hands. Loud shouts were raised, and it was not long before a musket was discharged, quickly followed by others. The native officer in charge of the guard ordered the soldiers to seize those who fired but, as his men pressed their horses forward, the crowd closed in upon them, breaking their ranks and rendering them powerless.

While this had been going on, the men of Harry's escort were hard at work in getting up the paving stones of the yard, and piling them against the gate. The lower windows were all barred and, as there was no entrance except by the front gate, it was felt that they could hold the house for some time.

As soon as the guard were swept away, a portion of the crowd attacked the gate with showers of stones, while a heavy musketry fire was opened at every window. So heavy was this that Harry would not allow the troopers to show themselves there, but posted them behind the barricades of stone against the gates so that, when these yielded, they might be able to open fire whilst showing only their heads over the top line of stones.

Harry regretted, now, that he had not, when he returned from the rajah, at once ordered his men to mount and cut their way through the mob. A few at least might have escaped though, doubtless, they would have been pursued by the irregular cavalry. As it was he felt that, although they might sell their lives dearly, they must be destroyed to a man, unless the rajah sent assistance to them. That he would endeavour to do so he felt sure, for the massacre of a British envoy, and his escort, was certain to bring the English troops to Nagpore, sooner or later; and no assurances that the rajah had done all in his power to save them would be accepted as sufficient.

The house stood in a garden, which extended some distance behind it; and it was here that the horses were picketed. The front gate was a very strong one, and was certain to resist all attacks, for some time.

Harry called off half his men, and set them to work at the wall at the end of the garden, which was only constructed of dry mud; directing them to make a hole large enough for a horse to pass through. At this side all was quiet, the people in the native houses there having gone round to the front, to watch what was doing. Harry stood there for a few minutes, watching the men at work, and saw with satisfaction their heavy tulwars rapidly cutting through the soft wall. He told them that, when they had finished, four of them were to remain to guard the hole, in case any might try to force their way in; and the rest were to return, to aid their comrades at the gate.

He had no great fear that the attempt would be made to enter in that direction, for the windows in the back of the house were, like those in front, large; and anyone attempting to climb the walls and enter the garden would be liable to be shot down from the windows, as they could not be covered, as were those on the other side, by a fire kept up from the houses outside. The entrance into the garden from the house was made by a small door, at the bottom of a staircase leading from what had been the zenana, for the gardens were always considered the special domain of the ladies. There was another small door for the servants' offices, used by the men who, early in the morning, went in to keep the garden in order.

When Harry rejoined the party in front, he found that the gates were yielding. The lower portion had been almost chopped away; but here the wall of stones prevented an entrance, and the men with their axes could scarcely reach to touch the upper half. Presently, however, the hinges of the upper end of one of the half doors yielded to the weight. A great shout arose from the mob; and the musketry, hitherto directed against the windows, was now concentrated on the opening.

But it was no longer one sided. The troopers, glad that the time for inaction had passed, returned the fire with vigour. They had shifted the upper line of stones, so that there was room between each for a musket barrel and, lying in shelter, they were enabled to take deliberate aim at their assailants. At every shot a man dropped, and the crowd opened speedily, and cleared away from the line of fire.

There was a pause of some minutes, and then a strong party of soldiers rushed forward, and began to try to pull down the barrier; a number of others opening fire over their heads, so as to prevent the defenders from standing up to fire down into them. It was evident that, ere long, a slope would be formed outside by which an assault could be made.

That his men would for some time repel any attack, Harry thought certain; but sooner or later it would succeed, and there would then be no time to retire. He therefore sent a man back, to see if the hole in the wall was large enough; and he returned directly, saying that the men there had just concluded their work, and that six of them were coming back.

Harry now gave orders, to the native officer who was standing beside him, to order these men to lead the horses through the opening. When he had been gone a minute or two, he sent all the men, except four, to follow the example of their comrades; while those left with him redoubled their fire, so that their assailants should not know that any of the defenders had been withdrawn.

It was not long before a trooper ran back, with the word that all the horses had been taken through. The news came just in time, for so much of the barricade had been pulled down that it could now be climbed. Harry therefore gave the word and, with the last of the defenders, went off at a run.

The troop was gathered in the deserted lane at the bottom of the garden and, on Harry's arrival, the men sprung into the saddles and galloped off. The rattle of musketry was now very heavy, but it suddenly stopped and, a moment later, shouts and yells told that the breach had been carried, and the yard found to be deserted.

"They will search the house, first," Harry said to the native officer, "and they will be cautious about it, as they will think that at any moment they may come upon us, and will be sure that they would meet with a desperate resistance. I expect that it will be ten minutes before they discover how we have slipped through their hands."

They made a long detour, and then approached the palace from the other side; Harry having determined to place himself under the protection of the rajah, for he did not think it possible that they could escape by hard riding, as they might be pursued by the whole of the cavalry. Just as they were approaching it, they heard a fresh outbreak of firing, the musketry being mingled with the crack of field guns.

"The rajah has gone out to our rescue," Harry said. "He would have been too late, if we had stopped there; however, we can rely upon him now."

Five minutes later, they rode into the courtyard of the palace. It was almost deserted, but one of the officials came out and, bowing deeply to Harry, said:

"The rajah himself has gone out, with the household troops and a battery of artillery, to put down the tumult. He is furious that his guests should have been attacked."

The firing presently ceased and, a quarter of an hour later, the rajah rode in. A messenger had been despatched, at once, to inform him that the British officer, with his escort, had arrived at the palace. Harry and his men had dismounted, and were still standing by their horses.

The rajah sprang from his saddle as he rode up.

"The gods be thanked that I see you safely here, my friend!" he said. "When I arrived at your house, I feared that all was over, for these rebels had gained possession. You must not blame me for not arriving sooner. When the firing was heard, I feared that the rabble of the town, aided perhaps by many of my soldiers, were attacking you; although, until the officer who commanded the guard I had placed there returned, I did not dream how serious the business was. Then I got my soldiers together; but this occupied some time, as many of them were in the town. However, as soon as a squadron of horse was collected, and a couple of hundred infantry, together with four guns of a battery, I headed them myself and, on arriving, opened fire upon the mob; who speedily scattered, some fifty or sixty of them being killed.

"Then I entered the house, expecting to find only your dead bodies, but there were no signs of strife. I questioned some prisoners we had taken inside; and these said that, just before I came up, a hole had been discovered in the garden wall, and it was believed that you had all escaped through that. I was about to ride, with all speed, to prevent any pursuit being taken up; when a messenger arrived with the welcome news that you had just entered the palace."

"I thank you heartily, Rajah, for having so promptly come to my aid; though assuredly you would have arrived too late to save us, had we not, as soon as the fighting began, set to work to prepare a means of escape. Once we got out, we were sure that you would protect us, and therefore rode here and awaited your return."

"'Tis well, indeed, that you thought of that plan, sahib; for I would not, for half my dominions, that a hair of your head should have been hurt, while you were here as my guest."

"It has all ended fortunately, Rajah; and now, what would you recommend me to do?"

"You had best stay here, until nightfall. I will ride, now, to the camps of my men, to reproach them for their conduct; and to ask if they want to bring the army that has just captured Seringapatam down upon us. When it is dark, I will myself accompany you, with my household cavalry, until you are miles away.

"I pray you to report to the Governor General how grieved I am that evil-disposed persons should have raised a riot, with the intention of killing you; and assure him that I did all in my power to save you, and shall, if they can be discovered, punish those concerned in the matter."

"I shall assuredly report very favourably of your conduct, Rajah -- which will, I have no doubt, be warmly appreciated -- and shall let the Governor General know that, from the time of my arrival here, I always have been treated with the greatest courtesy and attention by you."

Leaving the infantry and artillery, with their guns, in front of the palace, lest any attack should be made upon it; the rajah rode off with his cavalry and returned, two hours later, with the news that all was quiet, and that the troops had returned to their duty.

As soon as it was dark, the party started. The rajah rode at the head of his cavalry; Harry, at his request, taking his place with his own escort in the centre of it, so that his presence among them should not be suspected.

"It is as well," the rajah said, "that the news that you have left should not be known till tomorrow morning; for although the troops would, I have no doubt, be obedient to my orders, in a town like this there are many budmashes; who might, if they knew that you had started, ride in pursuit, with the intention of attacking you after I had left you."

Once out of the town they proceeded at a rapid pace, which they maintained until twenty miles away from Nagpore. The rajah then returned, with the main body of his cavalry; ordering a native officer and thirty men to escort Harry, until he arrived at the frontier.

There was, however, little occasion for this addition to Harry's force. The news of the fall of Seringapatam had spread like wildfire, and at each village through which they passed, and at those in which they halted for the night, the inhabitants saluted Harry with the deepest respect; and would willingly have supplied him and his escort with provisions, without payment, had he not insisted upon their receiving fair value for them.

At the frontier the rajah's troop turned back, and Harry continued his journey, reaching Calcutta early in June.

When he arrived there, he was well received by the Governor General, who told him that he had rendered a great service, by so delaying the negotiations that the Rajah of Berar had remained neutral during the war with Tippoo; and that he would probably soon require his services again.

A descendant of the Rajah of Mysore, whose government Hyder Ali had usurped, was released from captivity and raised to the musnud. Nearly half the revenue of the country was assigned to him. A large sum was set aside for the maintenance of the families of Hyder and Tippoo, and the remaining territory was divided between the Company and the Nizam.

A portion was set aside as the share of the Peishwa, although he had not fulfilled his engagement in any way; but it was to be given only on the condition that he signed a treaty of alliance with the English, similar to that entered into by the Nizam. The Peishwa, however, would not consent to do this; and the territory set aside for him was, consequently, divided between the Company and the Nizam.

Civil war was raging in the Deccan. The widows of Mahdoo Rao had been joined by a large force, and were plundering Scindia's villages; while Jeswunt Holkar was also ravaging the country. Scindia found that it was necessary to appoint Balloba, who had been for some years in captivity, to the post of his chief minister and, through him, a treaty was made with the widows of Mahdoo, and the trouble in that direction ceased.

The Rajah of Kolapoore was at war with the Peishwa; and the troops of Purseram Bhow, and those of Rastia, were both defeated. Scindia and the Peishwa now sent an army of thirty thousand horse and six thousand infantry against Kolapoore; but Purseram, who was in command, was defeated and fell, mortally wounded. Another army joined the defeated force, and invested Kolapoore.

On the 13th of March, 1800, Nana Furnuwees died; and affairs in the Mahratta country, that had been to some extent kept in order by his wisdom and moderation, now became worse than ever. A dispute at once took place between the Peishwa and Scindia, each being desirous of obtaining the treasures Nana was supposed to possess. Scindia seized his jagheer. Ghatgay was released, and obtained his former influence over Scindia; who seized Balloba and threw him into prison, where he died.

The Peishwa, on his part, was determined to destroy all the friends of Nana and, inviting most of the principal men to the palace, he seized and sent them all, prisoners, to hill forts. He now, with Scindia, determined to destroy the family and adherents of Purseram Bhow. Appa Sahib, Purseram's son, had succeeded him in the command of the army besieging Kolapoore and, receiving intelligence of the conspiracy against him, raised the siege and retired to the Carnatic, and Scindia plundered the whole of Purseram's villages.

A fierce chief in Dhoondia invaded the newly-acquired territories of the British, and Major General Wellesley was sent against him, and totally routed his party.

Jeswunt Holkar was now becoming extremely dangerous; and Scindia was at last obliged to march away, with his army, to defend his own dominions. He left behind him five battalions of regular infantry, and ten thousand horse and, before he set out, compelled the Peishwa to give him gold to the amount of forty-seven lakhs of rupees.

On his way through Malwan, he sent seven of his regular battalions to protect his capital. One column, under Captain Mackintyre, was intercepted on the way, and all killed or made prisoners. Holkar then fell upon the other party, which he also overpowered and defeated. He next attacked Scindia's artillery on the march; but Major Brownrigg, an officer in the latter's service, with four battalions, repulsed his assailants.

The Peishwa, while this was going on, was mercilessly murdering or imprisoning those whom he considered his enemies; and ordered Wittoojee Holkar, the brother of Jeswunt, to be trampled to death by an elephant.

Scindia having sent for Ghatgay to rejoin him, Jeswunt advanced to meet him, and was signally defeated. He speedily gathered a fresh force, and wasted not only Scindia's country but that of the Peishwa; and finally a great battle was fought, near Poona, in which Holkar, thanks to his fourteen regular battalions, officered by Englishmen, won a complete victory over the Peishwa's force and that left behind by Scindia. The Peishwa was forced to fly, and take refuge at Bassein, where he entered into negotiations for British support.



Chapter 10: A Mission By Sea.


A Fortnight after Harry's return, he was again sent for by Lord Mornington.

"Captain Lindsay, I am about to employ you on a mission of a somewhat delicate character. There have been many complaints that ships trading among the islands have been attacked and, in some cases, captured and the crews massacred, by Malays. We recently received a communication from a native chief, or rajah, who owns the southern point of the Malay Peninsula. He says that the Dutch, in Java, greatly interfere with his trade; as all vessels trading in the East are bound to touch at Batavia, on their way to Europe, and consequently very few of them visit the Peninsula, as to do so would greatly lengthen their voyage to Batavia. He asks that we should make a settlement at the end of the Peninsula, so that our ships may trade with him; and would be willing to place us in possession of an island, two or three miles from the extreme southern portion of his dominions.

"There can be no doubt that the position would be an extremely valuable one; lying, as it does, on our trade route to the East. But it is also certain that a settlement of that kind would be viewed with extreme jealousy by the Dutch; whose possessions, in Java and other islands, render them practically masters of the whole Malay Archipelago.

"Certainly, at present, our hands are much too full here to permit of our engaging in any enterprise of this kind but, at the same time, it is desirable that we should obtain some reliable information as to the situation there, the power of this rajah, and the advantages that the island offers in the way of ports, the salubrity of its climate, and other similar particulars. Its possession would certainly be desirable, not only as a centre for future trade with Bankok and the East, but as a port from which our vessels of war might suppress the piracy that prevails all along the Malay coast, and in the neighbouring island of Sumatra. Such information may be extremely useful in the future, and when our power in this country is consolidated.

"But this is not the sole object of your mission. You will proceed, either before or after your visit to this rajah, as we will determine, to Batavia; bearing a despatch from me to the Dutch governor, narrating a number of acts of piracy that have taken place among the islands, and requesting that, as they are the paramount power in that district, they will take steps, both for their own sake and ours, to suppress piracy; and offering, on our part, that two or three of our ships of war shall, if they think it desirable, aid them in the punishment of the Malays. You will be accompanied by an interpreter.

"There are several Malay traders established here; and some of them, no doubt, speak Hindustani fluently. I will have enquiries made among them, and will also procure you a Dutch interpreter.

"I do not propose that you shall go in a trading vessel to Java. The appearance of such a vessel, off Batavia, would be resented by the Dutch. Of course, traders do go from here down to the islands, but only to those not under Dutch power. They used generally to trade, on their way down, with Burma and Siam; but the Burmese have shown such hostility to us that it is no longer safe to enter their rivers, and they have wrested the maritime provinces of Siam, on this side of the Peninsula, from that power; so that trade there is, for the present, at an end. I shall therefore send you down in one of our small sloops. A larger vessel might irritate the Dutch, and a small one would be sufficient to furnish you with an escort to this Rajah of Johore -- not only for protection, but because the native potentates have no respect for persons who do not arrive with some sort of appearance of state.

"You will, of course, go as high commissioner, with full powers to represent me. I do not anticipate that you will be able to conclude any formal treaty with the Rajah of Johore. He will, of course, ask for an equivalent, either in money or in protection against some neighbouring rajah. We have no money to spare at present, and certainly no troops. Your commission therefore will be to acknowledge his communication, to assure him of our friendship, to ascertain the suitability of the island that he offers, and to tell him that, at present, being so fully occupied with wars here, we are scarcely in a position to extend our responsibility; but that, when matters are more settled, we shall be prepared to enter into a treaty with him, to open a trade with his dominions, to pay a fair sum for the possession of the island, if suitable, and to enter into a treaty of alliance with him.

"Of the value of such a settlement there can be no doubt, whatever; for we may take it that, before very long, some of the Chinese ports will be open to European traders."

A week later, Harry embarked on a brig mounting eight guns, and usually employed in police work along the coast. He was accompanied by a Dutch interpreter, a Malay trader, Abdool, and four troopers of the Governor General's bodyguard, in the handsome uniform worn by that corps. The lieutenant in command of the brig received Harry, with the usual ceremony, as a Government commissioner. He himself was at the gangway to meet him, and twelve of the sailors, with drawn cutlasses, saluted as Harry stepped on to the deck.

The lieutenant, a young man of about four or five and twenty, looked surprised when he found that the official, whom he was to carry down to Java, was apparently younger than himself.

"I suppose, Captain Fairclough," Harry said with a smile, when they entered the cabin, "that you expected to see a middle-aged man."

"Hardly that, Captain Lindsay. I heard that you were a young officer, who had rendered distinguished services on the Bombay side, and had just returned from an important mission in the Deccan; but I own that I had not at all expected to see an officer younger than myself."

"I can quite understand that. I have been exceptionally fortunate, owing to the fact that I speak Mahratti as well as English. Well, I hope that after your reception we have done with ceremony; and that you will forget that I am, at present, a civil official with the temporary rank of commissioner, and regard and treat me as you might any young officer who had been given a passage in your brig. I have led a pretty rough life, and hate anything like ceremony. We may be some weeks on board together, and should have a pleasant time of it, especially as the whole country is new to me."

"And to me also," the lieutenant said. "I generally cruise from the mouth of the Hooghly to Chittagong; and a dreary coast it is, with its low muddy shores and scores of creeks and streams. In the sunderbunds there is little to look after, the people are quiet and very scattered; but farther east they are piratically inclined, and prey upon the native traders, and we occasionally catch them at it, and give them a lesson.

"Well, I shall be very glad to adopt your suggestion, and to drop all ceremony. I have not often had to carry civil officials in this craft, she is too small for any such dignified people; but when I was in the Tigris, we often carried civil and military officials from Madras, and some of them were unmitigated nuisances -- not the military men, but the civilians. The absurd airs they gave themselves, as if heaven and earth belonged to them, were sickening; and they seemed to regard us as dust under their feet. Whenever we heard that we were to take a member of the Council from Calcutta to Madras, or the other way, it was regarded as an infliction of a serious kind."

"Well, I propose to begin with that, when we are down here together, we drop titles; you call me Lindsay, and I will call you Fairclough."

"With all my heart," the other said.

"What officers have you?"

"A junior lieutenant, and two midshipmen. The lieutenant, when I am alone, always messes with me. We are not so strict, among our small craft in the Company's service, as they are in the royal navy; and I think, myself, that it would be ridiculous for me to dine here by myself; Mr. Hardy, by himself; and the two midshipmen in a separate mess of their own. That of course they do, for they would not enjoy their meals with Hardy and myself."

"I quite agree with you."

"This is your stateroom."

"But it is your private cabin, Fairclough, is it not?"

"Well, yes; but I am accustomed to turn out, whenever there are passengers."

"Well, at any rate, I shall feel very much disgusted if you do so for me. I should be most uncomfortable, so I must insist on you having your things moved back here. When I tell you that, for sixteen years, I lived in the house of a small Mahratta cultivator, you may well imagine that I can make myself perfectly comfortable, anywhere."

"It will be quite contrary to the rules of our service," the other began, hesitatingly.

"I can't help that," Harry replied. "There are no rules without exceptions, and mine is an altogether peculiar case. You will really oblige me, very much, if you will have the change made.

"I see that you are surprised at what I told you about myself; it is too long a story to tell you now, but I will, after dinner today, repeat to you and Hardy some of my experiences; which you will see have been curious, and account for my having the rank of captain, and being employed in a responsible position, at my age.

"I suppose you will soon be getting up anchor?"

"Yes; the tide will be favourable now, and everything is ready for a start."

A few minutes later, the clank of the capstan was heard and, going on deck, Harry found Lieutenant Hardy preparing to sail. As soon as the vessel was under way he came aft, and was introduced to Harry.

The latter had enquired, of the chief of the Governor's staff, what was customary on these occasions, and whether he was to take on board a stock of provisions.

"Not at all," was the reply; "Government makes an allowance for messing and wine. Sometimes an official will take a dozen or so of champagne with him, as the allowance, though liberal, would scarcely cover this; but it is quite sufficient to enable a captain to keep a good table, and provide port and sherry."

Harry, seeing that the voyage might be much longer than usual, had sent on board four dozen of champagne; some of which he thought might be useful at the table, if the Rajah of Johore came on board with a number of his chiefs, or if the ship was visited by Dutch officials.

The Dutch interpreter was to mess with the petty officers. The Malay preferred to prepare his victuals for himself.

The wind was light, and the brig drifted quietly down the river and, when evening came on, anchored as, on account of the sandbanks and the lightness of the wind, Fairclough had thought it unadvisable to continue his voyage at night. As soon as the sails had been taken in, the two officers went down to the cabin, where dinner was ready for them.

It was a pleasant one, for the two naval men were in high spirits over this change from their ordinary routine, and the prospect of sailing on a strange voyage. Abdool, as usual, had placed himself behind his master's chair, but Harry said:

"I sha'n't want you to wait on me during the voyage, Abdool; the captain's steward will do that."

After the meal was over, cheroots lighted, and a decanter of port placed on the table, Fairclough asked Harry for the story he had promised him; and the latter accordingly gave them a sketch of his life and adventures.

"I no longer wonder, Lindsay, at your having attained the rank of captain so young. That old nurse of yours must have been a trump, indeed; but certainly it is wonderful that you should have lived, first as a peasant and then at the Peishwa's court, so long without anyone having had a suspicion that you were an Englishman. Fancy your meddling in politics, being regarded as a friend of the Peishwa and this minister of his, and being the means of getting the latter out of prison, and so perhaps averting a war between the Mahrattas and Bombay! That was a ticklish business, too, at Nagpore; and you were lucky in coming so well out of it.

"But after all, I think the most wonderful part is that a boy of sixteen should have been a shikaree, and killed no end of tigers, leopards, and bears and, after that, have risen so soon to the rank of captain in the Company's service. Why, you have seen and done more than most men double your age!"

"Yes, I have had great luck, and it is all owing to my old nurse having taken such pains; first to enable me to pass as a Mahratta, and in the next place to teach me the English language and English ways.

"Well, the story has been an unconscionably long one. I think I will go on deck and smoke a last cheroot, and then turn in."

"If you were a new hand from England, I should say that you had better smoke it here," Fairclough said; "for the mists from the water and swamps are apt to give fresh hands a touch of fever."

The time passed pleasantly, as they made direct for the mouth of the straits between the Malay Peninsula and Sumatra. There was a light but steady breeze and, on the morning of the eighth day after sailing, Harry, on going on deck, saw land on the port side. As the lieutenant, on the evening before, said that they should next day sight the Great Andaman, he was not surprised.

On looking at the chart, he said to Fairclough:

"I should have thought that it would have been shorter to go on the other side of the islands."

"It would have been rather shorter; but there are four or five islands to the north of the Andaman, and another very small one halfway between it and Negrais, so I preferred going outside. When we get south of the Little Andaman Island, we shall pass between it and the Nicobar Islands. I fancy that they, and perhaps the Andamans, once formed a part of Sumatra. They are scattered almost in a line from its northern point. The land has probably sunk; and these islands were, no doubt, the summits of mountains forming part of the chain that runs through Sumatra.

"Once through the passage south of Little Andaman, we shall sail due east for a day or two; and then lay her course nearly southeast, which will take us right up the straits between Sumatra and the Malay Peninsula."

"Are there any islands scattered about there?"

"There is one nasty little group, called the Arroa Islands, nearly in mid-channel. I shall take care to pass them in daylight. Farther down there are several largish islands near the Sumatra coast but, as the passage is some sixty miles wide, there is little fear of our running foul of them."

"Have the Dutch any settlements at Sumatra?"

"Two or three. Palembang is the principal. It is on a river that runs down into the Banca Straits. I believe that they have trading stations at Jambi and Siak."

A fortnight later the brig anchored off the coast of Singapore. During the voyage, Harry had had many conversations with the Malayan interpreter. The latter told him that the chief who had written might not be in a position to carry out his offer. Not only were the small Malay states frequently engaged in wars with each other, but there were constant internal insurrections and struggles, the various petty chiefs frequently endeavouring to set up as independent powers. At the present time the tumangong, or chief justice, had obtained possession of the island of Singapore, and the adjacent district of the mainland; while other chiefs had also thrown off their allegiance to the Rajah of Johore, who himself had usurped the power from the former reigning family.

"If," he said, "you want only to obtain a place for trade, the tumangong is no doubt the person from whom you must obtain it; but if you wanted the whole island, you would have to treat not only with him but with the rajah as, in case the latter should defeat and overthrow the tumangong, he certainly would not recognize the cession of the island to you."

"Is there a good port?"

"No; but it is not needed. They do not have hurricanes, here, as they do in the Bay of Bengal and in the China Seas, and indeed among the islands; so vessels can anchor off the coast, in safety, at all times of the year."

"What is the island like?"

"It is covered with forest and jungle," the Malay replied. "There are but few inhabitants, a hundred and fifty or so. Most of these are my people, but there are a few Chinese and Bugis. The Malays are not cultivators. They live by piracy, attacking small native vessels passing through the narrow passages between Singapore and the mainland. The Chinese cultivate patches of land."

"Is it fertile?"

"Very. Rain falls there more than half the days in the year. If the Chinese had it, they would make a garden of it. It is better, even, than the land on that part of Sumatra where they produce spices and grains of all sorts. The Malay Peninsula would be very wealthy, were it not split up into several kingdoms, that are always at war with each other.

"Singapore was a great place, once. Seven hundred years ago it was the capital of the whole Malay kingdom; but it was taken, a hundred years afterwards, by the King of Java, and Malacca then became the Malay capital."

"The affair does not seem very promising," Harry said, after repeating to Fairclough what he had heard from the Malay. "From my experience of the Indian princes, there is very little trust to be placed in any agreement made with them. They keep it just as long as it suits them, and then break it; without the slightest sense of having done anything dishonourable. It seems to me that the position here is very much like that in the Deccan. Scindia, Holkar, and the Rajahs of Berar and Kolapoore are practically independent of the Peishwa, who maintains only a semblance of authority. From what the interpreter tells me, there seems to be only a puppet rajah who, today, possesses no authority whatever; but who, tomorrow, may excite a quarrel among the other chiefs, and again become their master.

"I think that, in the first place, I shall have to see this semi-independent chief, whose possessions Singapore forms part of; and afterwards the Rajah of Johore, his nominal master.

"The latter may view the matter in one of two ways. In the first place, he may consider the island of no importance, whatever; seeing that, even were he again its master, no revenue could be obtained from the handful of people living there; and would therefore be glad to ratify the cession to us, for a small sum. On the other hand, he may consider that the elevation of the island, into the position of a great European trading port, would add greatly to the power and importance of the tumangong, and might enable him to make himself master of the whole of Johore."

"It seems a complicated business, certainly," the sailor replied. "You see, though this rebel chap, having written to Calcutta, may be trusted to receive you hospitably; there is no saying what the rajah may think of it."

"Nor is it clear how I am to get at the rajah," Harry remarked. "The tumangong would, no doubt, object to my going beyond what he considers as his territory; as it might seem that, did he let me do so, he would be recognizing the power of the rajah to interfere in his business. However, it is certain that I must carry home a clear report on the situation; and to do that I must, at any rate, attempt to see the rajah.

"Of course we must endeavour to learn, from the Malays on the island, whether Johore still holds any territory running down to the sea, or whether the coast chiefs have also revolted against him. In the first case, I will send up a native, to say that I have a mission from the Governor General of India to visit his court; but if he is cut off from the sea, I must endeavour to make my way through, somehow. It would never do to return with only half a story. I do not suppose the Governor General is at all aware of the state of things here, or that the chief who communicated with him is not the acknowledged Rajah of Johore.

"There can be no doubt that the possession of this island would be of great value to us, as it would become a centre of trade, not only with the East, but with all the islands round; except, of course, those belonging to Holland. Therefore, the first essential point is to ascertain whether the old rajah is likely to regain his former authority; and whether, if so, he will recognize, and on what terms, the cession of the island to us."

"Well, I am glad, Lindsay, that it is your business and not mine; for it seems a very difficult affair, and a somewhat dangerous one."

Three weeks after leaving Calcutta the brig reached the island and, at Harry's request, sailed round it, taking soundings very frequently, in order to obtain knowledge of the depth of the water and the nature of the sea bottom. Finally they anchored in the straits between it and the mainland. This varied, in width, from two miles to a quarter of a mile; and the depth of water, at the eastern extremity of the straits, was found to be insufficient for vessels of a large tonnage, though navigable for ordinary native craft.

The island itself was some twenty-five miles long and fifteen miles wide; being, as Fairclough calculated, about a third larger than the Isle of Wight. No high hills were seen; but the whole island was undulating, and everywhere covered with forest and jungle.

Several small Malay canoes had put off to them with fruit; and as, from what the interpreter had told them of the smallness of the population, there was clearly no chance of any attack being made on the brig, they were allowed to come alongside. The supply of fruit was very welcome, and the interpreter learned something from the natives as to the state of things on the mainland.

As to this, however, they appeared to take but little interest. They admitted that the tumangong was their lord but, as they were too poor for him to levy any contributions from them, his mastership was merely a nominal one, and they did not trouble themselves about him. If he should at any time send an officer and troops, to exact tribute money, they would simply retire into the interior, where they could defy pursuit. They had heard reports that there were wars on the mainland but, beyond the fact that the rajah possessed very little authority, they were unable to give any information. They had vaguely heard that some of the chiefs supported the family of the former rajah.

On the day after their anchoring, a large canoe put off from the mainland. In the stern sat two men, whose gay dresses showed them to be minor chiefs or officials. Harry, who had throughout the voyage worn only civilian costume of white drill, now put on his full uniform; as did the sowars of his escort. The ladder was lowered for the accommodation of the visitors; and these, on reaching the deck, were received by Fairclough, his officers, and a guard of honour. The Malay interpreter stood by the captain's side.

"Why do you come here?" was their first question.

"We bring a high officer of the Governor General at Calcutta, to confer with the lord of Singapore," Fairclough answered, through the interpreter.

"Our lord thought that it might be so," one of the officials said, "and therefore sent us off to enquire."

Fairclough led the Malays to the quarterdeck, where Harry was standing, with his four troopers as a bodyguard behind him.

"This is the official whom the Governor General has sent to you."

The Malays, struck with Harry's uniform, and still more with that of his guard -- all of which were new to them, and impressed them deeply -- salaamed profoundly to him.

"I have arrived," Harry said, "as the agent of our great governor; and in answer to a request of your lord, the tumangong, that he should send an officer of rank here, to treat with him."

"Seeing this vessel of war," the Malay said, when Harry's speech had been translated to him, "our lord hoped that it might be so; and directed us, should this prove correct, to inform you that he will himself come off to see you, in three days' time. He has heard of the might of your lord in India, that he has conquered great kingdoms, that the rule is a wise one, and that the people are well contented. We love not the Dutch, who are hard masters, and make the people labour for them; and he desires to be on terms of friendship with the power which, as he understands, has taken their strong places in India, so that they have no longer any importance there."

"He has done wisely," Harry said, "and I shall be glad to see your lord, and to tell him what is in the mind of our governor."

The envoys were then invited to the cabin, where they were offered refreshments. They ate sparingly, but greatly appreciated the champagne; and asked, through the interpreter, if they could be instructed how to make this liquor; and were much disappointed on learning it could only be made from the juice of the grape, that grew in a certain land in Europe, and could not be manufactured elsewhere, though other wines which were equally good could be made -- that as the fruits grown in a hot country like theirs could not be grown in Europe, where the climate was much colder, so the grape could not flourish in their hot country.

Three days later the tumangong came off, in a canoe gaily decorated by flags, attended by several smaller craft. As he set foot on the deck, a salute was fired. He appeared much disturbed when the first gun went off; but the interpreter explained to him that it was a mark of honour, always granted to native princes of importance. Seeing that no harm was done by the fire, the Malay approached Harry, whose escort had been rendered more imposing by a line of blue jackets, with musket and cutlass, drawn up behind them.

Harry advanced to meet him, and friendly greetings were exchanged. He then invited him down into the cabin, where he was accompanied by one of his chief officers. Harry, the captain, and the interpreter went down with them. The Malay commenced the conversation.

"I hope that you bring a favourable answer to my letter?"

"The Governor bids me say that he willingly accepts your offer of friendship, and would readily establish a trading station on the island of Singapore; but that, being now engaged in a serious war in India, it is not in his power, at present, to engage in an alliance that might involve him in war here, since he might be unable to fulfil his obligations. With us, obligations under a treaty are regarded as sacred, and to be upheld at all sacrifices. Later on, when affairs are more settled in India, he will gladly form an alliance with you.

"Here is a despatch, in your language, stating his reasons more fully but, in order to show his friendship, he has sent me down in this ship of war to explain matters to you, and to assure you that he appreciates your offer, and will later on accept it; but that he cannot enter into such a treaty now as, being engaged in war, he might not be able to protect you from all enemies, should you call upon him to do so. I am the bearer of several presents from him, which he has sent as a proof of his friendship towards you."

He touched a bell and, at the signal, some sailors brought in the presents; consisting of a handsome double-barrelled gun, a brace of pistols, some embroidered robes, and some bales of English cloth and other manufactures; also a dinner service of pottery, an ormulu clock, and other articles. The rajah, whose face had at first expressed disappointment, was evidently much pleased with these presents and, after perusing the letter, expressed himself as well contented with its terms.

"I value them all the more," he said, "because they are a proof that the English do not make treaties, unless able to fulfil the conditions. This is far better than accepting treaties, and then withdrawing from them. You can assure the great lord of Calcutta, although I regret much that he cannot at present form an alliance with me, that I shall be ready to renew the negotiations with him, whenever he notifies me that he can do so."

The champagne was then produced. The tumangong had evidently heard, from his officers, how delicious was the strange drink, which bubbled as if it was boiling and was yet quite cold. Two bottles were put upon the table; and the Malays, after tasting it cautiously at first, consumed the greater portion -- the two officers only sipping theirs occasionally, and filling up their glasses, so as to keep the others in countenance. Accustomed to more fiery beverages, obtained from traders in the Dutch possessions, the Malays were in no way affected by their potations; although these evidently impressed them with the superiority of the English over their Dutch rivals, for the tumangong remarked:

"Truly the English must be a great people, to make such liquors. The Dutch sell us fiery drinks, but their flavour is not to be compared with these. I hope that your lord, when he again sends a ship down to me, will forward me some of this drink."

"I have, fortunately, a case of it with me," Harry said. "It contains two dozen bottles. I will give orders for it to be placed in your boat."

He could see, by the Malay's face, that he was greatly gratified, and he added:

"I have no doubt, Tumangong, that when I inform the Governor General that you were pleased with this drink, he will order some of it to be sent down, when there is an opportunity; so that the friendship between you and him can be maintained, until the time comes when he can arrange with you for the concession of a trading station on the island of Singapore."

"The offer shall be always open to him; there is no occasion for haste."

The conversation continued for some time longer, and then the Malay and his officers took their places in their canoe and rowed off, under a salute similar to that which had greeted their arrival.

"That is quite satisfactory," Harry said to the commander.

"Yes; there is no doubt that he thought more of your present of champagne, than of the gifts sent him by the Governor; and your promise to let him have a consignment, occasionally, will keep him in good temper.

"Now, what is your next move?"

"I think it would be best to finish with the Dutch, first. If there were any delay in the other matter, they might get news, from Malacca or some of their trading stations in Sumatra, that the ship has been here and, in that case, they would guess that we are thinking of establishing a trading station, and might send and make their own terms with the tumangong. There can be no doubt that, if we open a free port here, it will do great damage to them, and divert a large portion of the eastern trade here; being so much more handy for all the country craft trading with Siam and China, besides having the advantage of avoiding the heavy dues demanded by the Dutch."

"No doubt that will be the best way," Fairclough said. "We will get up anchor, tomorrow morning."

In the course of the afternoon a large canoe came off, loaded with presents of fresh meat, fruit, and vegetable; sent by the tumangong, together with some handsomely-mounted krises for Harry and the officers of the ship.

They continued their voyage, without incident, to Batavia. Arriving there, they dropped anchor and saluted the Dutch flag. The salute was returned from the shore; and, shortly afterwards a large boat, flying the flag of Holland and carrying several persons, rowed out to them.

It was apparent, at once, when they ascended to the deck, that the visit of the British ship of war was not a welcome one. The jealousy of the Dutch of any attempt, on our part, to obtain a footing among the islands was intense; and the opinion on shore, on seeing the brig, would be that she had come to announce that possession had been taken of some unoccupied island. Their manner, therefore, was cold when Harry informed them, through his Dutch interpreter, that he was the bearer of a despatch to the Dutch Governor from the Governor General.

"I may say that it refers," he said, "to the numerous outrages, committed by the Malays, upon vessels owned by British subjects trading among the islands; and that he suggests that the Dutch authorities should join in an attempt to punish these marauders, from whom they suffer equally with the British."

"The Governor will receive you, at three o'clock this afternoon. You will, of course, wish to deliver your despatch personally to him and, as we shall acquaint him with its import, he will no doubt be prepared to give you an answer, forthwith."

Without further words, the officials returned to their boats.

"They are a surly set of beggars," Fairclough said, as they rowed off. "I don't think there is much chance of cooperation in that quarter. Indeed, I am by no means sure that, at heart, they do not approve of these Malay attacks. At present, they monopolize the trade in spice. The native craft from all the islands bring their productions here; and there can be no doubt that the piracies of the Malays act as a great deterrent, both to the native traders, and our own from Calcutta and Madras."

"I think that, very likely, that is so," Harry agreed. "I do not think that the Governor had any belief that they would cooperate in the matter, and really only invited them to do so because it would explain the presence of a ship of war in these waters; so I shall be in no way concerned, if this part of my business turns out a failure."

At the appointed time, the captain's gig was lowered, and Harry and Fairclough took their places in it. Another boat carried the Dutch interpreter and the four troopers. They were received, on landing, by an official and a guard of honour; and were conducted to the Governor's residence. Another guard of honour was drawn up at the entrance. They were shown into a large room, where the Governor was seated, surrounded by the members of his council.

He rose and advanced a few paces, shook hands with the two officers, and begged them to be seated, on two chairs next to him. Harry handed the despatch to him.

"It is very short, sir," he said, "and perhaps, as you are aware of its import, you will just glance through it."

The Governor did so and, afterwards, handed it to one of the members of the council, and it was passed from hand to hand.

"I am quite in accord," the Governor said, "with Lord Mornington, that the attacks of the Malays which we, as well as yourselves, suffer from are deplorable; and it is greatly to be wished that they could be suppressed. But I think that Lord Mornington could hardly have been informed as to the great number of islands inhabited by the Malays, and the great naval force that would be required to overawe and punish these freebooters; who are so bold that they do not hesitate to attack our traders, even when large ships, and carrying guns for their protection. Nothing short of a great fleet of cruisers would suffice.

"In the next place, did we undertake any operations on a large scale against the Malays throughout the islands, they would unite against us; and might, in revenge, assail many of our ports, and do us enormous damage. Even if your fleet performed half the work, it is we, only, who would be the sufferers. Certainly we have not sufficient vessels of war to attempt such an operation and, even were the Governor General of India to send down as many vessels as we have at our disposal, the force would be altogether inadequate for such extensive operations. These islands are counted by hundreds and, on the approach of ships of war, the people would desert their villages by the seashore and take to the interior -- where it would, in most cases, be impossible to follow them -- and all the damage we could inflict would be to burn their villages, which could be rebuilt after the ships had sailed away. To exterminate piracy would be the work, not of months, but of many years. However, I shall consult my council, and will draft a reply to the despatch, tomorrow.

"You have had a pleasant voyage down, I hope?"

"Very much so," Harry replied. "We have had fine weather, and light breezes."

The conversation was continued for a few minutes, and then the little party returned to their boats.

"There is not much doubt what the reply will be," Fairclough said.

"No; and on the whole, I don't see that the Governor is to be blamed; though of course, he has not given us the principal reason, which is his objection to our flag being seen flying beside the Dutch among the islands. Still, there is a good deal in what he says."

"I think so, too. You see, they are going to send their answer tomorrow, which may be taken as a proof that they are anxious to get rid of us, as soon as possible."



Chapter 11: A Prisoner.


The next day the Governor himself came off to the brig, and was received with the usual honours.

"The council are quite of my opinion," he said to Harry, "as to the extreme difficulty and cost that an effort to put down piracy among the islands would involve. Our ships on the station would not be at all sufficient for such work and, at any rate, it is a step that we should not venture to engage in, without the assent of the home government. We shall, of course, write home fully upon the matter, and shall leave the final decision to them; at the same time expressing our own views, and giving some idea as to the force that would have to be employed, the expenditure involved, and the time required for the operation.

"This letter contains a reply, as far as we can give it, to the Governor General's proposals."

"His lordship will, I am sure, be sorry to hear your views, sir; but I imagine that he will not hesitate to undertake the work of punishing, at least, the people of some of the islands where outrages have taken place, as soon as affairs are sufficiently settled in India for him to dispense, for a time, with the services of some of the Company's ships of war."

As Harry expected, the face of the Dutch Governor showed that this statement, when translated, was evidently most unpalatable to him. After a moment's hesitation, however, he said:

"If Lord Mornington waits until everything is quiet in India, it will probably be a very long time before he will be able to carry out the operation you speak of."

"That may be, sir. I do not know whether you have heard that Seringapatam has been captured, and that Tippoo, himself, fell in its defence?"

A look of amazement, and even of consternation, on the part of the Dutch officials showed that the news was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. The loss of their hold in India, by the wonderful spread of the British power, was an extremely sore point with them. Nothing would have pleased them better than to have heard that the power of the latter had been shattered.

"It is certainly news to us," the Governor said, shortly. "But there are still other powers in India, that are likely to give at least as much trouble as Mysore has done."

"I quite admit that," Harry said, "but have no doubt that we shall be able to deal with them, as satisfactorily as we have done with Tippoo; and possibly as quickly."

"That remains to be seen," the Governor said.

"Quite so, sir. I have a considerable knowledge of India, and of its native armies; and I doubt whether any of them are as good fighters as Tippoo's men were."

"Was Mysore taken by storm, or by famine?"

"By storm, after our batteries had opened fire, for a few days."

"Well, sir, I will now return to shore," the Governor said, abruptly. "You will please to give the assurances of my high esteem to Lord Mornington."

Harry bowed and, without another word, the Dutch officials descended the accommodation ladder, and returned to shore. When they were out of hearing, Fairclough burst into a hearty laugh.

"That was a severe broadside you poured into him, Lindsay. I could see that they were absolutely flabbergasted, when you told them about Mysore. Their manner, before that, had been almost insolent. But you cut their comb finely."

"I knew that it would be a heavy blow for them. Of course, they view with intense disgust the spread of our power in India. Not only has it destroyed their dream of empire there but, in case of war with them, their islands here will be absolutely at our mercy. If we are strong enough to win kingdom after kingdom in India, there should be no difficulty in turning out the small bodies of troops they have, in their various possessions."

"Yes, I see that; and the time may come very shortly, for the French are likely to lay hands on Holland, before long and, as soon as they do so, we shall be ready to pop down upon them, here. The days of Van Tromp are long passed, and the Dutch navy has become absolutely insignificant.

"Well, I am glad that this is over. The sooner we are off, the better."

Half an hour after the Dutch Governor had left, orders were given to get up the anchor and loosen the sails, and the brig was shortly on her way north.

"Now, what is your next move?" Fairclough asked, as the bustle of getting under way subsided.

"The Malay tells me that there is a small town on the east coast, and that this would be the most handy for landing, as from there to Johore's town is not more than some twenty miles. Whether the road is open, he cannot say. The news he learned, from the tumangong's people, was that there was a great deal of fighting going on between Johore and some of the petty rajahs. What the position is, at the present, moment he could not discover.

"I should propose that we drop anchor off the place; and that, if we find the natives well disposed, the interpreter should make an arrangement, with a couple of natives, to carry up a letter from me to the rajah, saying that I have come on a matter of business from the Governor of India; and asking if he is willing to receive me, and to guarantee my safety. If he says no, there is an end to it. If he says yes, I shall start as soon as the answer comes."

"Would you take some blue jackets with you?"

"No. If we were attacked by a force of Malays, we should probably be annihilated even if I took half your ship's company. Therefore, the smaller the escort I travel with, the better. I shall, of course, take the Malay, my man Abdool, and the four men of the escort. That is quite enough, if we get up without trouble; whereas if there is trouble, the fewer the better."

"Well, I hope no harm will come of it, Lindsay. Of course, if you consider it your duty to go, go you must."

"Yes, I think it my duty. I consider the cession of this island to be of extreme importance. If we only obtain it from the tumangong, some day the Rajah of Johore might get the upper hand, and repudiate the treaty made without his approval and, narrow as the strait is, he might cross with forty or fifty canoes, make his way through the woods, and annihilate the settlement at one blow."

"No doubt that is so," the other agreed. "Well, if you get detained you will, of course, try and make your way down to the coast. I will remain at anchor off the town for a month, after you start. If there is no news of you, then, I shall conclude that it is hopeless to wait longer, and shall sail for Calcutta with your despatches. As I was present at both your interviews, I shall be able to report, from my own knowledge, as to the disposition shown both by the tumangong and the Dutch."

Ten days later, they cast anchor off the village. Some canoes soon came off to them with fruit and other products and, shortly afterwards, a war canoe came out with the chief man of the town. At first he was very reticent; but a bottle of champagne opened his lips, and he and the interpreter conversed for some time together.

"What does he say?" Harry asked, when there was a pause in the conversation.

"He says, sir, that the country is very unsettled, and that it is unsafe to travel. The town acknowledges the rajah as its master, and the territory through which the road runs is nominally his; but it is infested by bands owing allegiance to a neighbouring rajah, who is at war with him."

"Have you asked him if it is possible to send a messenger through?"

"He said that there are plenty of men who would venture to go through, if well paid. He thinks that two men would be better than ten, for they could hide themselves more easily in the forest."

"Well, ask him what he would send two messengers through for."

The Malay answered that he could not say, until he had spoken to some of them; but he thought that for ten dollars they would be willing to undertake it.

"Tell him that I would pay that, and will give them as much more if, on their return, they will guide me and my party to the residence of the rajah."

The Malay shook his head.

"They would want more for that," he said. "Two natives could pass without much danger for, if they were caught, they could say that they belonged to one of the other bands, but had lost their party. It would be quite different if they were to have Europeans with them.

"How many would go?"

"Seven of us, altogether."

"I will see about it," the chief said; "but if I succeed, you will give me three bottles of that drink."

"I have very little of it," Harry said, "but I will agree to give him the three bottles, if he finds messengers to take up my letters; and arranges with them, or others, to guide us up."

The Malay nodded, when the answer was translated to him; drank half a tumbler of ship's rum, with great satisfaction; and then went off.

"This is going to be a more dangerous business than our expedition to Nagpore," Harry said to Abdool, when he told him what the Malay had said about the dangers, and the state of affairs on shore.

"My lord will manage it, somehow," Abdool said; "he was born under a fortunate star, and will assuredly do what is best."

"I shall do what I hope is best, Abdool; but one cannot answer how it will turn out. One thing is certain: that if we fall into the hands of the Malays, we shall meet with little mercy."

"We should have had no mercy, if we had fallen into the hands of the people of Nagpore, master," Abdool said.

"That is true enough, Abdool; and I don't think we should have been much better off, if Scindia had laid hands on us after we had bearded him in his tent. I cannot say that this expedition is one that I should have chosen, were I not convinced that it is my duty. However, we must hope that all will go well with us, as it has done before."

The next day the Malay came off again.

"I have arranged with two men," he said, "to take your message, for ten dollars; but if they go back with you, they will require twenty, because the rajah might detain them."

"That I will pay," Harry said.

"But supposing you should not come back," the Malay said, "they might lose their reward. Will you pay them in advance?"

"No. I will leave the money in Captain Fairclough's hands, and whether I return or not he will, before he leaves, pay it to the men themselves, if they come back, or to their families."

"That is a fair proposal," the Malay said. "When do you wish the messengers to start?"

"The letter will be ready for them, in an hour's time. I will come on shore with it, see the men, and give it to them, with instructions. Will they travel by night, or day?"

"They will start at daybreak," the chief said. "The road is but a track, and could not be followed at night; for a forest extends almost the whole distance, and they would find it too dark to keep to the road. I told them that it would be safer to travel at night, but they said it could not be done. They would not be likely to be surprised in the day, as they would travel noiselessly, and would be sure to hear any movement of a party of men coming along the road, and could hide in the forest until they had passed. Moreover, our people do not like travelling in the dark. Evil creatures are about, and even the bravest fear them."

"Very well, chief; then I will come ashore in an hour, and give them this letter."

As soon as they had left, Harry went down to the interpreter, and gave him the exact purport of the message to the rajah; leaving it to him to put it in the usual form in which communications were addressed to persons in authority, but saying that it was necessary that he should impress him with his importance, as the commissioner of the great Governor of India. When this was transcribed, on some parchment which had been brought for the purpose, Harry went ashore with Lieutenant Hardy and a strong party of seamen for, although the local chief had apparently been most friendly, the treacherous nature of the Malays was well known, and Fairclough thought it as well to order them to take their cutlasses with them, and each man to carry a brace of pistols hidden beneath his jacket.

A number of natives assembled on the shore as the boat approached, but they seemed to be attracted by curiosity, only. Just as the boat touched the beach, the chief came down to meet them, attended by a dozen armed followers. He invited Harry to follow him to his own house, where the two messengers were awaiting him. They were both men in the prime of life -- strong, active-looking fellows. Harry, through his interpreter, explained exactly what he wished done.

"If you carry out your mission well, and quickly," he said, "I shall make you a present, in addition to what has been agreed upon. You will notice the rajah's manner, when he reads the letter; and tell me, when you return, whether he appeared to be pleased or not, whether he hesitates as to giving me a guarantee, and whether, in your opinion, he means to observe it. I shall rely much upon your report."

Three days passed, and then a boat brought the messengers off to the ship.

"So you have made your journey safely?" Harry said, through the interpreter.

"We met with no trouble by the way. This is the answer that the rajah has sent."

The letter was a satisfactory one. The rajah expressed willingness to receive the officer whom the English lord had sent to him, and to guarantee his safety while at his town; but said that, owing to the troubled state of the country, he could not guarantee his safety on the road, but would send down an escort of twenty men to guard him on his way up, and the same on his return to the coast.

"And now," Harry said, when the interpreter had read the document, "tell me what passed."

"When we said that we were messengers from an English lord, on board a ship with great guns, we were taken to the rajah's house. He took the letter from us, and read it. Then he asked some of those with him what they thought of the matter. They answered that they could see no harm in it, and perhaps you might bring presents. He then asked us how many would come up with you; and we told him four soldiers, as escort, and an interpreter. He nodded, and then talked in a low voice to those around him, and told us to come again, that afternoon, when a letter would be given us to take to you."

"Do you think that he means treachery?" Harry asked.

"That we cannot say, my lord. We have talked as we came down. It seems to us that he could have nothing to gain by hindering you; but that perhaps he might detain you, in order to obtain a ransom for you from the lord of India."

Harry had already enquired, from the chief of the town, as to the character of the rajah.

"He is feared, but not liked," the chief said. "He knows that there are those who would prefer that the old family should reign again, and he has put many to death whom he has suspected as being favourable to this. This is the reason why the tumangong, and other chiefs, have revolted against him. The loss of so much territory has not improved him and, in his fits of passion, he spares none."

"What has become of the family of the former rajah?" Harry asked.

"His wife and child are prisoners in the palace," he said. "Their friends are surprised that their lives should have been spared; but the rajah is crafty, and it is thought that he holds them so that he could, if his position became desperate, place the young prince on the throne and declare for him; in which case some, who are now his enemies, might come over to his side. I am told that, except that they are kept prisoners, the late rajah's wife and boy are well treated."

The account was not satisfactory, but it did not shake Harry's determination. Questioning the Malays further, he found that they had heard, at Johore, rumours that one of the chiefs on the border of Pahang was collecting a large force, with the intention of attacking the rajah; that the people of Johore were erecting strong palisades round the town; and that the fighting men of the villages round had all been called in for its defence.

"When is this escort to come down?" he asked.

"They started at the same time as we did, my lord, and will be here by this evening."

"Very well. In that case I will land, tomorrow morning at daybreak, and start at once; so that we shall reach Johore tomorrow. Will you hire four men, to act as carriers for us?"

At the time appointed, Harry went on shore with the Malay, Abdool, and four troopers. They had put on full uniform, and Harry had brought with him, to shore, an assortment of presents similar to those he had given to the tumangong. The two messengers and the four natives, as carriers, were awaiting him and, as he went up the beach, he was joined by twenty Malays with an officer of the rajah, who saluted him profoundly. The chief of the village was also there, and accompanied the party until beyond its boundary.

After passing a few plantations, they entered a dense forest. The road was a mere footway, apparently but little used. The ground ascended rapidly and, when they had gone a short distance, some of the Malay soldiers went scouting ahead; the rest following in absolute silence, stopping frequently to listen.

"It is quite evident, Abdool," Harry said, in a whisper, "that what they said at the village is true, and these people from Johore consider the journey to be a very dangerous one. They are evidently expecting a surprise; and I am afraid that, if we are attacked, we shall not be able to place much reliance on them."

Abdool shook his head.

"What are we to do, sahib, if we are attacked?"

"It depends on what these Malays do. If they make a good fight for it, we will fight, too; if not, and we see that resistance is useless, we will remain quiet. It would be of no use for six men to fight fifty, on such ground as this. They would creep up and hurl their spears at us and, though we might kill some of them, they would very soon overpower us.

"Drop back, and tell the four troopers that on no account are they to fire, unless I give them the order."

Presently the Malays came to a stop, and the officer hurried back to Harry.

"We have heard the sound of footsteps in the wood, and one of my men says he saw a man running among the trees."

"It may have been some wild beast," Harry said. "There are plenty of them in the wood, I hear, and your man may have been mistaken in thinking that he saw a human figure. And even if it was so, it might be some villager who, on hearing us, has left the path, thinking us to be enemies."

"It may be that," the officer said, when the words were translated to him. "But it is more likely that he was posted there to watch the path, and that he has gone to tell his band that a party is approaching."

"Even if it were so," Harry said, "the band may be only a small one."

The officer moved forward, and joined his men. Half an hour later, without the slightest warning, a shower of spears flew from among the trees; followed immediately afterwards by a rush of dark figures. Several of the Malay escort were at once cut down. The rest fled, at full speed.

Harry saw that resistance would be hopeless, and would only ensure their destruction. He therefore called to his followers to remain quiet. The four bearers, however, threw down their burdens, and fled at full speed down the path, just as a number of Malays poured out on either side.

They were evidently struck with the appearance of Harry and his followers; but were about to rush upon them, when a chief ran forward and shouted, to them, to abstain from attacking the strangers. Then he walked up to Harry, who was evidently the chief of the party.

"Who are you, white man?" he asked, "and where are you going?"

The interpreter replied that they were going on a visit of ceremony to the Rajah of Johore.

"We are his enemies," the chief said, "and now you must come with us."

"This lord -- " the interpreter began, but the chief waved his hand for him to be silent.

He waited for a quarter of an hour, by which time he was joined by that portion of his followers which had pursued the Malays. Many of them carried human heads in their hands and, by the number of these, Harry saw that very few of his native escort could have escaped. The chief ordered his men to pick up the packages that had been thrown down by the bearers, and then turned off into the forest.

After a quarter of an hour's walk, they arrived at the spot where a still-smoking fire showed that the band had halted. No pause was made, however, and the party kept on their way and, in two hours' time, reached the foot of a high range of mountains that had been visible from the coast. The climb was a severe one but, in another hour, they came out upon a flat plateau. Here, in a small village, a considerable body of men were gathered; who hailed the arrival of their comrades, with their ghastly triumphs of victory, with loud shouts.

The chief of the band led his captives to a hut, somewhat superior in appearance to the others, in front of which stood a man whose bright attire and ornaments showed him to be a chief of importance.

"Who is this white man," he asked, "and these soldiers who are with him?"

The officer repeated the description that he had received from the interpreter, whom he pointed out.

"Why was this white man going to Johore?" he asked.

"He was sent by the white lord of India, my lord."

"Ask him why he was sent?"

"I was sent to Johore to ask the rajah if he would grant a trading station to the English."

"We want no English on our coast," the chief said. "There are the Dutch, at Malacca -- some day we will turn them out.

"So he was bringing presents to Johore, was he?"

"Yes, my lord; these are the parcels," and he beckoned up the men who carried them.

These approached, and humbly laid them at the rajah's feet.

"I have to report, my lord, that there were twenty of Johore's men with him. These we killed."

"Did the white man and his soldiers aid them?"

"No, my lord. They stood quiet, and offered no resistance, therefore I brought them to you."

"You did well. You are sure that none of the Johore men escaped, to carry off the news that we were here?"

"Quite certain. We have the heads of twenty men, and their officer."

"Good! I will examine these things. Put the white man and this Malay into a hut, and the four soldiers into another.

"Who is this other man, who is dressed differently?"

"He is the white officer's servant," the interpreter said.

"Well, he can go with his master, then."

The four troopers were led off in one direction, and Harry and the others in another. It was a hut roughly constructed of bamboos, thatched with broad leaves, while the entrance had no door. The interpreter did not carry arms; those of Harry and Abdool had been removed.

"Things have turned out badly, Abdool," Harry said.

"Very badly, sahib. I do not like the look of that rajah."

"Nor do I, Abdool. I am convinced that he means mischief, and we must get away as soon as we can.

"Have you got your knife with you? So have I. We must make a way out of the back of this hut."

A group of half a dozen Malays had taken their seats on the ground, at a distance of some fifteen yards from the entrance; but had posted no sentries. Behind it, as they were taken in, Harry noticed that there was a patch of grain, and beyond that rose the forest.

"These knives are no good against bamboo, sahib."

"No, I know that; but we might cut these rattans which bind them together. In the first place, dig down with your knife, and see if the bamboos are sound underneath. They may have rotted there.

"You and I will stand at the entrance," he went on to the interpreter, "then they cannot see in."

"Bamboos are quite sound, sahib."

"Then we must try another way. First cut the rattans -- but not in a line with the entrance, a few feet on one side."

The wood was extremely tough, and it was half an hour before Abdool could cut through them, and free three or four of the bamboo poles. While he was doing this, Harry and the interpreter stood talking together, apparently watching the movements of the Malays.

"We are going to try and escape," Harry said. "Will you go with us, or remain here? They will certainly kill us, if they overtake us; there is just a chance that they will not kill us, if we stay."

"They will kill us," the man said, confidently. "It may not be today, because the rajah will be looking over his presents, and will be in a good temper; but tomorrow they will come in and kris us. Assuredly I will go with you."

When Abdool announced that he had cut through the rattans, Harry joined him, telling the interpreter to wait at the entrance till he called him.

"What next, master?" Abdool asked.

"The next thing will be to pull up the bamboos. If you have cut all their lashings, this ought not to be very difficult; but it will make it easier if we cut the ground away, as deep as we can, on this side of them."

Kneeling down, they set to work with their knives and, after half an hour's work, they had laid bare the bottoms of four of the bamboos, which were sunk two feet into the ground.

"Now, Abdool, we ought to get them up easily enough."

With their united strength they pulled up a bamboo, replaced it in its position and, one by one, got the other three up, put them in again, and lightly filled in the earth.

"Now we can go, at a minute's notice," Harry said. "At any rate, we had better wait till it is dark."

The sun had just set, when they saw the rajah come out of his hut. He gave an order, and the four troopers were brought out, and placed in a line. Four natives took their places behind them, kris in hand.

"They are going to murder them!" Harry exclaimed, in horror.

"Now, Abdool, there is not a moment to be lost; it will be our turn, next."

Their guards had all risen to their feet, watching what was going on. Three of the bamboos were plucked up in a moment. This afforded an opening sufficiently large for them to pass through and, keeping the hut between them and the guard, they made their way through the plantation, and dashed into the forest. They heard yells of satisfaction in the village, and Harry had no doubt that the four troopers had been murdered.

They ran at full speed through the forest and, ten minutes later, heard loud shouts of dismay; and had no doubt that a party had been sent to take them out to execution, and had discovered their escape. It was already almost dark, under the thick shade of the trees; but for half an hour they ran on, the Malay in advance, for he could see any obstacles better than they could, the habits and training of his youth having given him experience in such work.

For a time they had heard loud shouts behind them. These had been useful, in enabling them to keep a straight course. The Malay now turned, and struck off at right angles to the line that they had been pursuing.

"We must keep on, for a time," he said. "When they do not overtake us, they will scatter through the forest in all directions."

For hours they toiled on, sometimes at an easy walk, sometimes breaking into a run. At last the Malay admitted that, for the time, they were safe; and they threw themselves down upon the ground.

"Tomorrow," he said, "they will take up the search in earnest, and will track our footsteps. We had better take to a tree, now. It will not be safe to stay here."

The others cordially agreed as, for some time, they had heard the roars of wild beasts, which abounded in these forests; and Harry and Abdool had run with their open knives in their hands, prepared for a sudden attack.

"The others will have gone back to the village, long ago," the Malay said, when they had made themselves as comfortable as they could, in the forks of the tree, "except the men who were guarding us. They will not dare venture into the village, for they would fear the rajah's anger, even more than death from a tiger. They will be first in the search, tomorrow morning.

"Which way do you wish to go, my lord?"

"I have been thinking it over, as we came. I think that our best plan will be to go on to Johore. Doubtless the road down the coast will be watched. How far from Johore do you think we are?"

"Not very far," the Malay said. "We have been going in that direction, ever since we first turned -- not very straight, perhaps, but certainly in that direction. I think that we cannot be more than five or six miles from the town. It lies between the hills we crossed, and the higher ones beyond. We have been descending a little, all the time."

"I am afraid that Johore will not be very pleased to see us arriving empty handed, and to learn that the escort he sent us have all been killed. Still, the news that we bring him, that his enemies are not far off, will be useful to him; and we will offer to aid him in the defence of his town, if he is attacked. At any rate, it is a satisfaction to know that we have not very far to go, and have got so good a start of the fellows behind us that they are not likely to overtake us, before we get there."

More than once, during the night, they heard angry growling at the foot of the tree. Towards morning there was a scraping sound.

"That is a leopard, sahib," the Malay said, in alarm; "he is climbing the tree to get at us."

Abdool was sitting immediately below Harry, and the latter called to him to come up beside him.

"Mount as high as you can, my lord," the Malay said. "The trunk is not so rough, when you get higher; and the beast will find it harder to climb."

"We shall do better, here," Harry said. "These two arms, nearly opposite to each other, are just the thing for us.

"You go out to the end of one, Abdool, and I will go out to the end of the other. We will climb out as far as we can, and then he will have to follow us very slowly, whichever way he chooses. If he goes for you, I will follow him. If he comes my way, you follow him. When the bough gets thin he won't be able to turn round, and the one behind can give him a sudden stab, which will make him leave go his hold."

By the time he had finished speaking, they were each far out on their respective branches, and the leopard was close to the fork. It paused a moment, looked at the two men and, after a moment's hesitation, began to crawl out towards Abdool. Harry at once made his way back to the trunk, and then followed the animal.

Abdool had gone out as far as he dared and, holding on tightly, swayed the end of the branch up and down. The leopard, as it approached him, was evidently disconcerted; and clung to the bough, which was scarcely six inches in diameter at the point it had reached. It snarled angrily, as it became conscious that it was being followed.

Harry, feeling convinced that it could not turn, came fearlessly up to it, and then struck his knife into its loin. As the blade was but some four inches long, he had no hope of striking a vital point.

The leopard uttered a roar, and tried to turn and strike at him with one of its forepaws; but the blade again penetrated to its full depth, this time on the other side and, with a start, it lost its footing, clung for a moment to the branch with its forepaws, and strove to regain its hold; but Harry brought his knife down, again and again, on one of its paws.

Abdool, crawling in, quickly struck it under the shoulder and, a moment later, it released its hold and fell heavily through the foliage to the ground. For a time it was heard roaring, and then the sound came only at intervals, and at an increasing distance.

"That was a good business, Abdool," Harry said, as they returned to their former post, where the Malay rejoined them.

"It was well done, indeed, sahib. When I heard the beast climbing the tree, it seemed to me that, as we had no weapons except these little knives, he would surely make an end of one of us."

The interpreter did not understand Mahratti, in which Abdool and Harry always conversed; but he said in Hindustani:

"I have seen fights with leopards, my lord, but even with krises, two of my people would hesitate to attack one -- they fear them more than tigers -- but little did I think that two men, with small knives, could save their lives from one. My blood turned to water, as I saw the beast climbing out on that bough, and you going out after it."

"I have done a good deal of tiger and leopard hunting, in my time," Harry said, "and know that a leopard cannot spring from a bough, unless it is a fairly stout one -- stout enough for it to stand with all its paws upon it.

"Well, the day is beginning to break. In half an hour's time the sun will be up, and the wild beasts will have all retired to their lairs. I hope we shall see no more of them. It is all very well to fight under such advantages; but on foot, were a tiger hiding near a path, he would be sure to have one of us as we went along. Our knives would not do more than tickle him."



Chapter 12: The Defence Of Johore.


Half an hour later, the little party were on their way. They were stiff, at first, from passing the night in a sitting attitude; but it was not long before they were able to break into a trot. This they kept up for an hour then, to their great satisfaction, the forest abruptly ceased, and they saw, at a distance of about a mile and a half, the little town of Johore, lying in cultivated fields that extended to the edge of the forest.

They broke into a walk, for a short distance; and then continued at their former pace, for they could not tell how close their pursuers might be behind them. It was not long before they saw men at work in the fields. The interpreter shouted to them that a party of the enemy were not far behind and, throwing down their tools, they also made for the town, spreading the alarm as they went. Fresh and fleet footed, they arrived some minutes before Harry's party and, as these entered the place, they found the whole population in the street, the men armed with spears and krises.

Asking the way, they soon reached the rajah's palace, which consisted of a central house, round which a number of huts were built; the whole surrounded by a stone wall, some eight feet high. The rajah, when they arrived, was questioning some of his people as to the cause of this sudden alarm. He was greatly surprised at the sight of Harry, in his full uniform, attended only by one soldier and a native.

"How comes it that you arrive like this?" he asked, angrily.

"Explain what has happened," Harry said, to the interpreter.

The rajah's brow darkened, as he heard how the escort he had sent down had been slain, to a man, on the previous day. But his excitement increased, when told that a strong force of his enemy was gathered within a few miles of the town; and that an assault might be immediately expected.

"Will you tell the rajah that I am used to warfare, and shall be glad to assist him, to the best of my power, in the defence of his town?"

"How many men were there?" the rajah asked.

"I should think there were a couple of thousand," Harry replied. "Some of them had matchlocks, but the greater part of them only spear and kris."

"And we have not more than five hundred," the rajah said. "We cannot hope to resist them. What think you?"

"I will at once go round the town, and see," Harry said. "It may be that, being accustomed to war, I can suggest some means of so strengthening the defences that we may hold them against the enemy."

The rajah, having heard many tales of the fighting powers of the whites, said:

"I will go with you. I would defend the place if I could for, if Johore were lost, I should be but a fugitive. All within it would be killed, and I should have to beg an asylum from those over whom I was once master."

Calling a party of his men to follow him, the rajah accompanied Harry to the edge of the town. It was already surrounded by a palisade; but this was of no great strength, and its circumference was fully a mile and a half.

"Tell the rajah that we could make a first defence, here, but his fighting men are not numerous enough to hold so large a circuit against four times their number. I should suggest that the whole population should be set to work to build another palisade, much nearer to the palace. All the women and children should be sent inside this, all the provisions in the town be taken into the palace enclosure, and a large supply of water stored there.

"As soon as the new palisade is finished, all who can be spared from its defence should set to work to throw up a bank of earth against the wall; and upon this the fighting men can take their places, and should be able to defend the palace against any assault."

The rajah listened attentively to the interpreter.

"The English officer's words are good," he said, "but we have no timber for the palisades that he speaks of."

"Tell the rajah," Harry said, when this was interpreted to him, "that there is plenty of wood and bamboos in the huts that stand outside the line of the new palisade; and that if we pull these down, we can use the materials. Moreover, in any case it would be well to level these houses for, if the enemy fired them, it would be almost certain to fire the houses inside the palisade."

The rajah's face brightened. The tone of assurance in which Harry spoke reassured him, and he said to the interpreter:

"Tell the officer that my people shall do just as he tells them, if he will point out where the defence must be erected."

Harry was not long in fixing upon the line for the entrenchments. It was some two hundred yards in diameter and, at the rajah's orders, the whole of the men and women of the town set to work, to pull down the huts standing within fifty or sixty yards of this. This was the work of a couple of hours, and the materials were carried up to the line. The stronger timbers were first planted, in holes dug for them; and the intervals between these were filled with bamboo poles. On the inside face other bamboos were lashed, with rattans across them. As fast as these were used, more houses were pulled down, until the defence was completed, the crossbars being some nine inches apart.

This work performed, the men, women and children brought up what provisions they had, and their most precious belongings. These were carried inside the wall of the palace. It was two o'clock before the work was finished, and there was then a rest for half an hour.

Then all were set to work to dig a trench, three feet deep with perpendicular sides, at a distance of two feet from the palisade. A large store of bamboos that had been too slender for use in the palisade were sharpened, and cut into lengths of two feet; and these were planted, thickly, in the bottom of the trench. Others, five feet long, were sharpened and then thrust through the interstices between the upright bamboos; the ends being fixed firmly in the ground inside, while the sharpened points projected like a row of bayonets, at a height of some two feet above the edge of the ditch.

It was nightfall before the work was finished. The rajah had, himself, been all the time upon the spot; and was delighted when he saw how formidable was the obstacle that had been raised. One small entrance, alone, had been left; and through this all the women and children now passed, and lay down in the space between the new palisade and the wall of the palace.

The men were ordered to take post behind the stockade, and a number of boys were sent out, to act as scouts and give notice if an enemy approached. The rajah, however, was of opinion that, as the enemy would know that the alarm would have been given by the fugitives, on their arrival, and that the inhabitants would be on their guard, they would not attack till daylight.

Harry had, at his invitation, gone up at midnight to his house, and partaken of food; which was also sent out to Abdool and the interpreter. The rajah would have continued the work all through the night, had not Harry dissuaded him; saying that, after six hours' sleep, everyone would work better.

At one o'clock a horn was sounded and, with the exception of a few men left at the outer palisade, all set to work again. The men were employed in digging a trench, a foot in depth, inside the inner palisade; throwing up the earth in front of them, so as to lie protected from arrows and spears, until it was time for them to rise to their feet to repel an actual assault. The women and children filled baskets with the earth thrown from the outer trench, on the previous day, and carried it inside the wall where, by five o'clock, a bank two feet high had been raised; and on this a platform of bamboos, three feet high and eighteen inches wide was erected.

The work had scarcely been finished when a horn was sounded, outside the town; and the boys came running in, while the men ran down to the outer palisade. As day broke, great numbers of dark figures were seen, making their way through the fields on three sides of the town.

"The band we saw must have been joined by another. There are certainly more than two thousand men there. They will undoubtedly carry the outer palisade. Many of our men will be killed, and many others will be unable to join us here. I think that it will be much better to rely on this defence, alone."

Having now great confidence in Harry's judgment, the rajah at once ordered a horn to be sounded and, in a short time, the whole of the men were assembled in their stronghold; and the entrance closed by bamboos, for which holes had been already dug, close together. Then short lengths were lashed across them, and they were further strengthened by a bank of earth piled against them.

Before this was quite finished, yells of triumph were heard as the enemy, finding the palisade unguarded, poured in; expecting to find that the inhabitants had fled at the news of their approach. They paused, however, in surprise, at seeing another line of defence outside the palace. Quickly the numbers increased, until a thick line of dark figures was gathered at the edge of the cleared space.

Inside the defence, all was quiet. Not a man showed himself. Doubtful whether the town had not been entirely evacuated, the Malays paused for some little time, while some of the chiefs gathered together in consultation. Then a few of the men advanced, with the evident intention of examining the defences.

They were allowed to approach within ten yards of the ditch, when a shower of arrows flew from the openings in the palisade; and two, only, of the Malays fled back to their companions. The fall of the others provoked wild yells of anger. A horn sounded, and the assailants rushed upon them from all sides. When within a few yards of the ditch they hurled their spears, and shot a cloud of arrows. A large proportion were stopped by the bamboos, but such as passed through flew harmlessly over the heads of the defenders; who replied with a far more deadly shower of arrows.

Leaping over those who had fallen, the enemy dashed forward. Those in front endeavoured to check their course, on arriving at the edge of the ditch; but they were forced in by the pressure of those behind, and the long spears of the defenders gleamed out through the openings of the bamboos, inflicting terrible damage.

In vain the assailants endeavoured to climb out of the ditch. The bayonet-like line of bamboos checked them; and the arrows of the concealed defenders told, with terrible effect, on the struggling mass. At last, at many points, the ditch was literally filled with dead; and the assailants were enabled to leap upon the line of bamboos which had so long checked their passage.

The advantage was but slight. The slippery poles were some six inches apart and, slanting as they did, afforded so poor a foothold that the Malays were forced to stand between them, on the narrow ledge between the palisading and the ditch. Here they thrust their spears between the palisade; but these were wrenched from their hands, and scores fell from the blows of kris, spear, and arrow; until at last their leaders and chiefs, seeing how terrible was the slaughter, and how impossible it was to climb the bamboo fence, called their men off; and they fell back, pursued by exulting cries from the women, who were standing on the platform behind the wall of the palace, watching the conflict, and by the yells of the defenders of the stockade.

Of these but few had fallen, while some five hundred of the assailants had perished. The rajah was almost beside himself with joy, at this crushing defeat of his enemy.

"I do not suppose it is over yet, Rajah," Harry said, through his interpreter. "There are still some five times our number, and they will surely not retire without endeavouring to avenge their defeat. But I hardly think they will attack the stockade again. Possibly they will try fire, next time; and it will be harder to fight that than to keep men at bay."

The rajah looked serious.

"Yes," he said, "they cannot return to their homes, and say that they have left five hundred dead behind them. What do you advise?"

"They will hardly attack again today, Rajah; therefore I shall have time to think it over. But at present, it seems to me that our only course is to shoot down as many of those who bring up firebrands as possible. We have still a number of long bamboos left, and with these we might thrust away any burning faggots that might be cast against the palisade."

The rajah nodded.

"That might be done," he said, "and with success, no doubt."

"With success at many points, Rajah; but if they succeed, at only one point, in establishing a big fire against the stockade; we must retire within the wall. They cannot burn us out there, except at the gate; and against that we must pile up earth and stones. But I should certainly recommend that the roofs of all the buildings inside should be taken off unless, indeed, you have sufficient hides to cover them. Still, we need not do that until we are driven inside the wall. It takes but a short time to take off the broad leaves with which the roofs are covered."

During the fight, Harry had taken no active part in the conflict. He had divided the circle into three, and had taken charge of one division, Abdool taking another, and the rajah a third. They had each encouraged the men under them, and had gone where the pressure of the attack was most severe.

On leaving the rajah, Harry joined Abdool.

"They will try again, Abdool; but I don't think they will try to carry the stockade by assault again."

"They will try fire, sahib."

"That is just what I am afraid of. The archers will shoot down a good many of them, but in such numbers as they are, this will make little difference; and we must calculate that, at at least a dozen spots, they will place blazing faggots against the palisade."

Abdool nodded.

"I have been telling the rajah," Harry went on, "that the men must provide themselves with long bamboos, which they can thrust through the openings in the stockade, and push the faggots away. But even if we do so, we must calculate upon the enemy succeeding, in some places, in setting the palisades on fire."

"That would be very serious; but of course we should go in behind the wall."

"I do not want to do that, as long as we can possibly stay here. I think that, when night comes, we ought to make a sortie."

"But are we not too few, sahib?"

"Too few to defeat them, Abdool, but not too few to beat them up. You see, the wind always blows, in the evening, up from the sea. I noticed it last night. It was quite strong. What I should propose would be to pull up enough bamboos for four men to go out, together, on the side facing the wind. Two hundred men should first sally out; remaining, as they do so, close to the ditch. When all are ready, they should crawl across the cleared ground and then, at a signal, attack the enemy who, taken by surprise, would be sure to give way, at first.

"As they attack, fifty men with torches should rush out and follow them, and set fire to as many huts as they can. As soon as they had done their work, all should run back, when the signal is given.

"There will be two advantages: in the first place, the sudden attack will disconcert the enemy, and render them less willing to expose their lives, by storming a place so desperately held; in the second place, the wind will carry the flame over the whole town, and I hope the burning fragrants will carry the flames over all the fields where the crops are dry; thus causing them much more difficulty in obtaining dry wood for faggots, and they will be exposed to our arrows, much longer, before they throw them against the stockade."

"It would be excellent, sahib; but do you think the men would go?"

"Just at the present moment, they would do anything; they are half wild with excitement and triumph."

Harry presently went with the interpreter to the rajah's house.

"I have a plan to propose to you," he said, "that will render it much more difficult for the enemy to set fire to the stockade;" and he then explained his scheme.

The rajah's eyes glistened with excitement.

"Nothing could be better," he said; "and there is but one fear, and that is, that the enemy will follow us so hotly, that they will enter through the breach before we can close it."

"I have thought of that," Harry said, "and the order must be that, when the signal is given, the men must throw down their torches; and then each man must run, not for the hole in the stockade, but to the nearest point, and keep along outside the ditch, and enter by it. In that way the point at which they entered would not be known and, moreover, they would be able to enter more rapidly, and with much less confusion, than if they all arrived together in a crowd. A party would, of course, be left at the breach when they sally out and, the moment the last man entered, would replace and lash the bamboos in their position.

"If, however, we are hotly pursued, you and I, with your own guards, should remain outside, and keep them at bay until all the bamboos but one are replaced. This will leave an opening sufficient for one man, and we must fall back fighting. They certainly would not venture to follow us through so narrow a passage."

Two hundred and fifty of the men were brought inside the wall, and the rajah explained to them the duty upon which they would be employed. He told off fifty of them as torch bearers; explained to all, carefully, the plan Harry had devised; gave strict orders that no sound, whatever, must be made until they reached the houses and, at Harry's request, impressed upon them the absolute necessity for not allowing their ardour to carry them too far; but that torches must be thrown down, and everyone run back, as soon as the horn sounded.

There was no doubt that the order was a satisfactory one. The men raised their krises and spears, and shouted with joy. In their present mood, nothing could please them more than the thought of an attack upon their assailants.

All remained quiet, on both sides, until darkness fell; then the crash of falling huts showed that the enemy intended to use fire, and were about to begin the work of making faggots.

"They will attack an hour before daybreak," the rajah said; "or may, perhaps, wait till the sun is up for, in the daylight, those who carried the torches would not be so conspicuous, but would advance in the midst of their whole force."

"At what time are they likely to sleep?"

"Many will sleep early," he said, "in readiness for the fight. Others will sit up and talk, all night; but those who intend to sleep will probably do so, in a couple of hours."

"Do you think that they are likely to place guards?"

"No; they will not dream that we should have the boldness to attack them."

"Let us give them three hours," Harry said, "the sea wind will be blowing strongly, then."

The greater portion of the men who were to remain behind were to be stationed on the side on which the sortie was to be made, so as to cover the retreat of the others, by showers of arrows. The rajah's principal officer was placed in command here. His orders were that, if the enemy came on too strongly, he was to issue out with a hundred men, and aid the party to beat back their assailants. However, Harry did not think it likely that this would be the case. The Malays would be scattered all over the town -- some, perhaps, even beyond the outer palisades -- and before they could assemble in force, the party ought to be safe within the palisade again.

Just before ten, the two hundred men who were to make the attack sallied out. They were led by the rajah, while Harry was to lead the firing party. He chose this part, because he would not be able to crawl across the open space as noiselessly as the Malays could do.

During the day, a number of hides had been hung on the palisades, so that the enemy should not notice that a gathering of men, with torches, was assembled there; and in order that the light might not be conspicuous at this spot, fires had been lighted at other points, in order to give the impression that the defenders were holding themselves in readiness to repel another attack. The bamboos had been removed, ten minutes before the party issued out. So noiseless was their tread that Harry, though close to the entrance, could not hear it; and when he looked out, as soon as the last man had passed, he could neither see nor hear anything. The men had all thrown themselves on the ground, as soon as they had passed out, and were crawling forward without a sound being audible.

Harry and Abdool had both armed themselves with a kris and spear. Behind them were the torch bearers, arranged four abreast.

It seemed an age before the sound of a horn rose in the air. Instantly they dashed through the opening, followed by the men and, at full speed, crossed the cleared ground. Already the sound of shouts, violent yells, and the clashing of blades showed that the rajah's men were at work.

Scattering as they reached the houses, the torch bearers ran from hut to hut; pausing for a few seconds, at each, till the flame had gained a fair hold. In less than a minute, sixty or seventy houses were in flames. Harry had the man with the horn with him and, as soon as he saw that the work was fairly done, he ordered the signal to be blown. The torches were thrown down, and their bearers ran back at full speed and, half a minute later, the rajah's men poured out from the town. There was no pursuit, and the whole band re-entered the stockade before, with yells of fury, numbers of the enemy ran forward.

As soon as they did so, arrows began to fly fast from the stockade and, knowing that they could effect nothing, without means of breaking through, the Malays retired as rapidly as they had advanced.

Short as was the interval that had elapsed since the first signal was given, the town was, at the point where the attack was made, a sheet of flame, which was spreading rapidly on either hand. The hubbub among the enemy was tremendous. Upwards of a hundred had been killed, by the rajah's party -- for the most part before they could offer any resistance -- and not more than five or six of their assailants had received severe wounds.

Loud rose the shouts of exultation from the defenders, as the fire spread with ever-increasing rapidity; flakes of fire, driven by a strong wind, started the flames in a score of places, far ahead of the main conflagration and, in half an hour, only red embers and flickering timbers showed where Johore had stood. Beyond, however, there were sheets of flame, where the crops had been dry and ready for cutting; and the garrison felt that their assailants would have to go a long distance, to gather materials for endeavouring to burn them out.

While the position had been surrounded by a zone of fire, the rajah had, at Harry's suggestion, sent the whole of the men and women to cast earth over the dead; piled, at four or five points, so thickly in the ditch.

"If the matter is delayed another day," he said, "the air will be so poisoned that it will be well-nigh impossible to exist here."

The rajah admitted this; but urged that his men would want to cut off the heads of their fallen enemies, this being the general custom among the Malays.

"It may be so, Rajah, but it could not be carried out, here, without great danger. Our own lives depend upon getting them quickly buried. We have no such custom of cutting off heads, in our country, but that is no affair of mine. But the bodies now lie in what is, in fact, a grave; and a few hours' labour would be the means of saving the town from a pestilence, later on.

"When the enemy depart, I should advise you to build a great mound of earth over the trench. It will be a record of your grand defence and, by placing a strong stockade along the top, you would strengthen your position greatly. I should recommend you, in that case, to clear the space within it, as far as the wall, of all houses; and to build the town entirely outside it."

There was great dissatisfaction, among the natives, at being prevented from taking what seemed to them their natural trophies. But when the rajah informed them that the order was given in consequence of the white officer's advice, they set about the work readily and, before morning, the dead were all hidden from sight by a deep layer of earth.

The next day passed without incident. At nightfall a sharp lookout was kept, not only on the palisade but from the top of the rajah's house. It was thought that the enemy, of whom considerable numbers had been seen going into the forest, would bring up the faggots as closely as possible, before lighting them. Still, it would be necessary to carry brands for that purpose and, now that the ground was cleared of huts, some at least of these brands could be seen, even if carefully hidden.

With the exception of the guards, all slept during the day; as it was necessary that they should be vigilant at night, for the enemy might, on this occasion, approach at an earlier hour, hoping to find the garrison unprepared. Harry and Abdool paced round and round on the platform of the wall but, although a few fires burned among the fields, no glimmer of light could be seen where the town had stood.

"I wish I knew what they were up to, Abdool," Harry said, about midnight. "I don't like this silence."

"Perhaps they have gone away, sahib."

"No, I can hardly think that. I believe we shall have another attack, before morning. They may bring ladders with them, for climbing the palisade; they may try fire; but I am convinced that they will do something.

"The position is not so strong as it was. If we had had more bamboos, I should have set our men to dig another ditch, and defend it like the first; but they are all used up, now. I wish we had some rockets; so that we could send up one, from time to time, and see what they are doing."

Another hour passed, and some of the Malays declared that they could hear a sound as of many men moving. Harry listened in vain, but he knew that the Malays' senses were much keener than his own.

He went at once to the rajah. The chief had been up till midnight, and then retired; leaving orders that he was to be called, directly an alarm of any sort was given. He was seated with two or three of his councillors, talking, when Harry, with the interpreter, entered.

"Your people say they hear sounds, Rajah. I can hear nothing, myself, but I know their hearing is keener than mine. I am uneasy, for even they cannot see the faintest glow that would tell that a fire is being brought up. In my opinion, we had better leave only two hundred men at the palisade, and bring the rest in here. We can lead them out, at once, if any point is hotly attacked; and it would prevent confusion, if the stockade were suddenly forced. The enemy may be bringing up hundreds of ladders and, in the darkness, may get up close before they are noticed."

"Do as you think best," the rajah said and, at once, went out and sent officers to bring in three hundred of the men; and also, at Harry's suggestion, to tell the others that, when the rajah's horn sounded, all were to leave the stockade and make at once for the entrance through the wall.

Another half hour passed. Even Harry was conscious, now, that there was a low dull sound in the air.

"I cannot think what they are doing," the rajah, who was now standing on the wall, close to the gate, said to Harry. "However numerous they may be, they should have moved as noiselessly as we did, when we went out to attack them."

"I don't think that it will be long before we know, now, Rajah."

He had scarcely spoken, when there was a loud shout from the palisade in front of them. It was on this side that the men had been posted so thickly, as it was of all things necessary to defend this to the last, in order to enable those at other points to make their way to the gate. The shout of alarm was followed, almost instantly, by the sound of a horn and, immediately, a tremendous yell resounded on all sides.

It was answered by the shouts of the garrison and, a moment later, a score of balls composed of matting, dipped in oil or resinous gum, were thrown flaming over the palisades. These had been prepared the previous day, and the men charged with throwing them had each an earthenware pot, containing glowing charcoal, beside them. Their light showed groups of men, twenty or thirty strong, advancing within twenty yards of the palisade.

"They are carrying trees, to batter down the stockade, Rajah!" said Harry.

Behind the carrying parties was a dense crowd of Malays, who rushed forward as soon as the fireballs fell, hurling their spears and shooting their arrows, to which the defenders replied vigorously.

"The stockade will not stand a moment against those trees," he continued. "'Tis best to call the men in, at once."

The rajah ordered the native beside him to sound his horn and, in two or three minutes, the men poured in at the entrance. As soon as the last had come in, the bamboos were put in the holes prepared for them, with some rattans twined between them. Scores of men then set to work, bringing up the earth and stones that had been piled close at hand.

In the meantime, the three hundred men on the walls kept up a shower of arrows on the enemy. The battering rams, which consisted of trees stripped of their branches, and some forty feet long and ten inches thick, did their work and, by the time the entrance was secure, the Malays poured in with exultant shouts.

A large supply of the fireballs had been placed on the platforms and, as these were lighted and thrown down, the assailants were exposed to a deadly shower of arrows as they rushed forward. At this moment the rajah's servant brought up four double-barrelled guns.

"They are loaded," the chief said, as he handed one of these to Harry.

"How long is it since they were fired?" the latter asked.

"It is three months since I last went out shooting," the rajah replied.

Harry at once proceeded to draw the charges.

"I should advise you to do the same, Rajah. A gun that has not been fired for three months is not likely to carry straight, and is more dangerous to its owner than to an enemy."

The rajah called up two of his men, and one of these at once drew the charges of the guns, and reloaded them from the powder horn and bag of bullets the servants had brought.

The enemy did not press their attack, but retired behind the palisades and, from this shelter, began to shoot their arrows fast, while a few matchlock men also replied.

"It would be as well, Rajah, to order all your men to sit down. There is no use in their exposing themselves to the arrows, and they are only wasting their own. We must wait, now, to see what their next move will be. Fire will be of no use to them, now; and the wall will take some battering before it gives way and, brave as the men may be, they could not work the battering rams under the shower of spears and arrows that would be poured upon them.

"I should send the greater part of your men down to get off the roofs of the huts. Those up here must place a man or two on watch, at each side, and throw a fireball occasionally."

In a few moments the enemy ceased shooting their arrows, for the light of the fireballs showed them that the garrison was in shelter.

"There is no occasion for you to stay here, any longer, Rajah. I will look after matters until morning, and will send to you, as soon as there is any stir outside."

In half an hour, the huts were stripped of their most combustible material. This was heaped up under the platforms, where it would be safe from falling arrows. The women drew pots of water from the well, and a hundred men were then left in the courtyard, with orders to pull up or stamp out any flaming arrows that might fall. But as the time went on, it was evident that the assailants had not thought of providing themselves with the materials requisite, and the greater part of the garrison lay down quietly and slept.

Harry had waited until he saw the work in the courtyard completed; and then, with the interpreter, entered the rajah's house. The room he generally used was empty. Some lamps were burning there, and he laid himself down on a divan, while the Malay curled himself up on the floor.

Harry had slept but a short time when he was awakened by a light touch on his shoulder and, springing up, saw a woman, with a boy some six years old, standing beside him. The woman placed her finger on her lips, imploringly. Harry at once roused the interpreter. Through him, the woman explained that she was the widow of the late rajah, and that her son was the lawful heir to the throne.

"I have come to you, brave white lord," she said, "to ask you if your people will grant us protection."

"That would be impossible," Harry replied; "my people are busy with their own wars in India and, even were they not so occupied, they could not interfere in a domestic quarrel between the Malay chiefs."

"Why are you fighting here, then?"

"I am fighting in my own quarrel. I was attacked, and my followers killed, by the rajah now assailing this place. I, myself, should have been murdered, had I not made my escape; and should certainly be killed by him, if he were victorious.

"I think it likely that, before very long, there may be an English trading station at Singapore and, if you and your son were to go there, you would certainly be well received. I shall, of course, relate your story, which I have already heard, on my return to Calcutta; and on my explaining that your son is entitled to the throne of Johore, it may be that some sum would be granted for your maintenance; for it may well be that, in time, the throne may again become vacant, and that the people, tired of these constant wars, will unite to accept your son as rajah. I may tell you that I am sure the tumangong will grant us a trading station, and possibly the whole island; but as he is not the Rajah of Johore, although at present independent of him, we should like to have his assent to the cession. It is for this purpose I have come here although, up to the present time, I have not said anything about it to the rajah, as we have both been much too busy to talk of such matters.

"It may be years before the English come to Singapore; but my report will certainly be noted and, assuredly, an asylum would be granted you, and you would be kindly received. I can say no more than that."

"Thanks, my lord, I could have hoped for no more. Forgive me for having thus disturbed you but, as all in the house save ourselves are asleep, I thought that it was an opportunity that would not occur again. I will teach my son that the English are his friends and, should aught happen to me, and should he ever become rajah here, he will act as their friend, also."

When this had been interpreted to Harry, she and the boy left the room, as noiselessly as they had entered. Harry was well pleased with the interview. Probably the present man would, when the result of this struggle became known, regain much of the power he had lost. Assuredly, as long as he remained rajah, he would now be ready to grant anything asked for and, as Singapore was virtually lost to him, his assent would be given without hesitation. If, on the other hand, he were dethroned, or died, it was likely that this boy would in time become rajah and, in view of this possibility, doubtless the Governor would order that if, at any time, he and his mother arrived at Singapore, they should be well received.



Chapter 13: The Break Up Of The Monsoon.


The night and early morning passed quietly. The chatter of many voices showed that a portion, at any rate, of the assailants were beyond the stockade; but it was not until nine o'clock that numerous parties were seen coming from the forest.

"I suppose they have been making ladders all night," Harry said to Abdool, who was with him on the wall; from which, owing to the fact that the house stood on a rising knoll of ground, which commanded a good view over the stockade, the assailants could be seen.

"Well, I have no doubt we shall be able to beat them off. We have as many men as we want for the circuit of the walls and, while we shall be partly sheltered, they will have to advance in the open."

The Malays had, indeed, been busy since daybreak in manufacturing arrows from thin reeds and bamboos, used in the construction of the huts demolished on the previous evening; tipping them with chips of stone and winging them with feathers, of which plenty were found in the houses and scattered about the yard. All felt that this would be the decisive attack; and that the enemy, after one more repulse, would draw off. That the repulse would be given, all felt confident. Already the slaughter of their assailants had been very great, while very few of their own number had fallen.

An hour later, large parties of the enemy advanced to the stockade. This they did unmolested, as the distance was too great for anything like certainty of aim. The rajah again took his place by Harry's side. Presently, at the sound of a horn, a great flight of arrows rose high in the air from behind the stockade.

"They are fire arrows!" the rajah exclaimed. "I will send a hundred men down, to help the women to extinguish them;" and he himself descended, an officer following, with the men.

The women were all seated close to the platforms and, as the arrows came raining down, they ran out; being joined by the rajah and his men. Had the leafy roofs remained in their place, the whole would have been in a blaze in two or three minutes. As it was, the vast proportion of the arrows stuck in the earth, and burnt themselves out; while the few that fell among the debris that had not been cleared away were extinguished, immediately. For two or three minutes the showers of arrows continued; and then ceased as, to the surprise of the assailants, there were no indications of the palace being on fire.

Then the signal was given for the attack and, exasperated by the failure of the plan they had relied upon as being certain to cause a panic, the Malays, with loud shouts, rushed forward. A large number of them carried ladders and, in spite of the many who fell under the arrows of the defenders, the ladders were soon planted against the walls; and the Malays swarmed up on all sides.

A desperate struggle took place. Some of the ladders were high enough to project above the wall. These, with the men upon them, were thrown back. On others the Malays, as they climbed up, were met by the spears of the defenders or, as their heads rose above the walls, with the deadly kris. Their leaders moved about among the throng below, urging the men forward; and Harry, seeing that things were going on well, all round, took the guns from the hands of the soldier who attended him, and directed his aim against these.

Three fell to his first shots. As the soldier handed them to him, reloaded, his eye caught a group of chiefs, behind whom stood what was evidently a picked body of men. In the midst of the group was the rajah to whom Harry had recently been a prisoner. With a feeling of deep satisfaction, that his hand should avenge the murder of his four troopers, Harry levelled his gun between two of the defenders of the wall, took a steady aim, and fired.

As the chief was but some twenty-five yards away, there was little fear of his missing and, without a cry, the rajah fell back, shot through the head. A yell of consternation rose from those around him. Two more shots then rang out, and two more chiefs fell.

The others shouted to their men, and a furious rush forward was made. Harry snatched up a spear, lying by the side of a native who had fallen; shouted to the rajah's guard of twenty men -- who were in the yard below, as a reserve in case the enemy gained a footing at any point of the wall -- to come up, and then joined in the fight.

The assailants fought with such fury that, for a time, the issue was doubtful. Several times, three or four succeeded in throwing themselves over the wall; but only to be cut down, before they could be joined by others. At last the Malays drew off, amid the exultant shouts of the defenders.

In a short time, the attack became more feeble at all points. The news of the death of their leader had doubtless spread, and its effect was aided by several other chiefs falling under Harry's fire and, ere long, not one of their followers remained inside the palisade. Half an hour later, the lookout from the top of the rajah's house shouted that the whole of the assailants were retiring, in a body, towards the forest.

Excited by their victory, the rajah's troops would have sallied out in pursuit; but Harry dissuaded him from permitting it.

"They must have lost, altogether, over a thousand of their men; but they are still vastly more numerous than your people, and nothing would suit them better than that you should follow them, and give them a chance of avenging the loss they have suffered."

"But the rajah will come again. He will never remain quiet, under the disgrace."

"He will trouble you no more," Harry said. "I shot him myself, and six or seven of his principal chiefs."

"You are indeed my friend!" the rajah exclaimed, earnestly, when the words were translated to him. "Then there is a hope that I may have peace. The death of the rajah, and of so many of the chiefs that have joined him, will lead to quarrels and disputes; and the confederacy formed against me will break up and, while fighting among themselves, they will not think of attacking, again, a place that has proved so fatal to them."

The rajah had some difficulty in allaying the enthusiasm of his men; but he repeated what Harry had said to him, and added that, since it was entirely due to their white guest that they had repulsed the attack, there could be no doubt that his advice must now be attended to, since he had shown himself a master in war.

"Be content," he said. "Wherever our language is spoken, the Malays will tell the story of how three thousand men were defeated by five hundred; and it will be said that the men of Johore surpassed, in bravery, everything that has been told of the deeds of their fathers. There is no fear of the enemy returning here. The rajah and many of his chiefs have fallen, by the hand of our white friend. Henceforth, for many years, you will be able to rest in peace.

"In a month you will have rebuilt the houses, and sown again the fields that have been burnt. After that, we shall have leisure, and a treble stockade shall be built, stronger and firmer than that into which they forced an entry. Your first task must be to carry the bodies of our enemies far out beyond the town, where their skeletons will act as a warning as to what welcome Johore gives to its foes. A present of money will be given to each man, this afternoon, to help him to rebuild his house, and make good the damages that he has suffered."

The interpreter had rapidly translated the speech to Harry as it went on and, as the rajah ended, and the applause that greeted him subsided, Harry said a few words to the interpreter, which he repeated to the rajah. The latter held up his hand, to show that he had more to say.

"My white friend warns me that, for a day or two, we must not leave the town. It may be that the enemy have halted near the edge of the forest, in the hope of taking us unawares. This, however, can only be for a day or two, at most; for I have no doubt that the provisions they brought with them are, by now, exhausted and, if they stop in the forest, they will perish from hunger; therefore let no one go beyond the town, for two days. A watch shall be kept on the roof of my house and, if any of the enemy make their appearance in the forest, a horn will summon all to retire within the walls."

There was feasting that night at the rajah's house. All his officers and men of importance were present. Sacks of rice and other grain were distributed among the soldiers and women; some buffaloes that had been driven inside the wall to serve as food, should the siege prove a long one, were also killed and cut up; and very large jars, containing the fermented juice of the pineapple, and other fruits, were served out.

During the day the breaches in the palisades had all been repaired and, at night, the whole population were told to remain within its shelter, while numerous guards were posted by the rajah. While the meal at the rajah's was going on, a party of native musicians played and sang, the Malays being very fond of music.

Harry sat at the rajah's right hand, and was the subject of unbounded praise and admiration among the company. Speaker after speaker rose and addressed him and, afterwards, the interpreter said a few words to them in his name, thanking them for the goodwill they had shown, and praising them highly, not only for their bravery, but especially for the manner in which they had carried out the orders given to them. The proceedings did not terminate until a very late hour, and Harry was heartily glad when at last he could retire to rest.

In the morning, the rajah said to him:

"Now, my friend, you have not told me why you have come here. We have been so busy that we have not spoken on other subjects, save the war. The message you sent up to me was that you came from the great white lord of Calcutta, and desired to see me. You may be sure that whatever you desire of me shall be granted for, were it not for your coming, I should now be a hunted fugitive, and my people slain."

"It is not much that I desire, Rajah. The tumangong is willing to grant to us a trading station, on the island of Singapore and, possibly, we may acquire from him the whole island; but we are aware that he is not the rightful lord of the island, and it may be that, in time, you may recover possession of all Johore. Thus, then, I come to you to ask you if you are willing to consent to this privilege being granted to us; which assuredly will benefit your kingdom by providing a market, close to you, at which you can barter your produce for goods that you require, with us or with native traders from the east. At present, we are not in a position to plant this trading station in Singapore, being engaged in serious wars in India; and it may be a considerable time before things have so settled down that we can do so. I have, therefore, only to ask your assent to our arrangement with the tumangong, whenever it can be carried out; and we shall certainly be willing to recognize your authority, by a gift of money."

"I willingly consent," the rajah said; "it is, indeed, but a small thing. So long as I live, I shall be ready to enter into any treaty with you; and doubtless my successor, whoever he may be, knowing what you have done for us and our state, will also agree."

[It was not, indeed, until the year 1819 that the British took possession of the island, paying sixty thousand dollars to the tumangong. Shortly after they had settled there the young prince, who had escaped from Johore, came down there. He was awarded a pension and, at the death of the rajah, was placed on the throne by the British, to the general satisfaction of the inhabitants.]

The next day, a number of men came in from villages scattered among the hills, who had not heard of the approach of the enemy until too late to enter the town, and take part in its defence. By this time, scouts had penetrated far into the forest, and brought back news that, although there were many dead there, there were no signs of the enemy. The work, therefore, of rebuilding the town was commenced; every available man of the garrison, and those who had come in, being engaged in cutting wood and bringing it in.

In the course of the next day or two several chiefs, whose attitude had before been threatening, came or sent members of their families to congratulate the rajah upon the defeat that he had inflicted upon his enemies, and to assure him of their loyalty to his rule.

Harry had stayed on, at the earnest request of the rajah; but he now declared that he must return to the coast. The rajah's approval of the cession of a trading port, and of the island itself, was written both in the Malay and the English languages, and signed by the chief. Copies were also made and signed, by Harry, to be kept in the palace, in order that on any future occasion they could be consulted.

A great number of presents, of krises and other articles of Malayan manufacture, were offered to Harry; but he excused himself from accepting them, saying that, in the first place, it was not customary for commissioners of the Governor to accept presents; and in the second that, being constantly employed on service, he had no place where these could be deposited, during his long absences.

On the third morning after the retreat of the enemy Harry started, with his two companions, for the coast; attended by an escort of twenty men of the rajah's own guard, commanded by a high officer. There was now no fear of molestation, but the escort was sent as a mark of honour. Starting early, they reached the coast town in the afternoon.

They were received with great joy by the inhabitants, who had been in a state of abject terror. A runner, who was the bearer of a message to the rajah from the headman, had left on the morning after Harry's party had started; and had returned with the news that he had found the headless bodies of all the escort, but had seen no traces of the white man nor his followers, who had doubtless all been carried off by the enemy. The news caused terrible consternation, as it was thought that the town might be attacked, at any moment. Those of the inhabitants who possessed canoes, took to them and paddled away down the coast. The others fled to the mountains.

Finding, however, from scouts who had been left, that four days had passed without the appearance of the enemy, most of them had returned, on the evening before Harry arrived there. On hearing, from his escort, of the defeat of the invaders and their enormous loss, the most lively joy was manifested; and Harry was treated with almost reverential respect, the men of the escort agreeing that it was solely due to him that the victory had been gained. He made, however, but a very short stay in the village; and the headman at once ordered the largest canoe to be prepared. This was decorated with flowers and flags and manned by twenty rowers who, as soon as Harry and his two companions took their seats in it, rowed off to the brig.

"Welcome back, Lindsay!" Fairclough shouted, as the canoe approached; "we could hardly believe our eyes, when we saw you come down to the canoe. We have been in a terrible fright about you. The natives brought off news that the escort that had been sent down to take you to Johore were, every one, killed; and that, as there were no signs of any of your party, it was certain that you had been carried off. We sent a boat ashore, every morning, armed to the teeth; but they reported that the place was almost entirely deserted, and the two or three men left there said that no news, whatever, had been received of you."

By this time, Harry had gained the deck.

"Where is your escort?" Fairclough asked.

"I am sorry to say that they were all murdered. However, my story is a long one and, although the rajah sent down some food with the escort he gave me, I am desperately thirsty, and will tell you all that happened when I have wetted my whistle."

Fairclough told Hardy to come with them below, and Harry's story was told in full, over sundry cups of tea, which Harry preferred to stronger beverages.

"That was an adventure, indeed," Fairclough said, when Harry had brought his story to an end. "I would have given anything to have been with you in that siege. I own I should not have cared about being a prisoner in that fellow's camp, especially as you were disarmed, and could not even make a fight for it. That affair with the leopard would have been more to my taste; though, if I had been in your place, with nothing but your knife and Abdool's, I doubt whether I should have come out of it as well as you did; but the other business was splendid, and those Malays of the rajah's must have fought well, indeed, to beat off a force six times their own strength."

"The great point is that I have obtained his ratification of the tumangong's grant, whenever it may be made."

"That is satisfactory, of course; but it would not have, to my mind, anything like the importance of your series of adventures, which will be something to think over all your life. I wish I had been there, with my crew, to have backed you up; though I am afraid that most of them would have shared the fate of your Malay escort, in that sudden attack in the forest."

"Yes; with all their pluck, they could scarcely have repulsed such a sudden onslaught though, certainly, the killing would not all have been on one side. I am glad, indeed, that Abdool also came safely out of it; as I should have missed him, fearfully.

"The interpreter showed himself a good man, and I hope that Lord Mornington will, when I report his conduct, make him a handsome present. If he had not got away with me, it is hardly likely I should ever have found my way to Johore and, if I had done so, I could not have explained to the rajah that he was going to be attacked, or have got him to erect the stockade that was the main cause of our success. In fact, he would probably, in his anger at the slaughter of his escort, have ordered me to be executed on the spot. As it was, he did not take either that, or the loss of his presents, greatly to heart."

"You saved his kingdom for him, there is no doubt. It is not likely that he would ever have ventured to defend himself, had it not been for the confidence that he felt in you, and in the steps you took."

"No; he told me, himself, that he would have taken flight at once and, in that case, his kingdom would have been lost; and he himself, sooner or later, hunted down."

"And now, I suppose we can start as soon as we like?"

"Certainly; the sooner the better. I shall be very glad to be back again, for there is no saying what is going on there. Assuredly, the friendship of the Mahrattas cannot be relied upon. I know that we are not likely to make any fresh move, except in self defence, until Mysore is completely pacified, and a firm government established. Still, there is never any saying what will happen. Having been in the thick of the Mahratta business, all along, I should not like to be out of it, now."

"Well, we will get up anchor at daybreak, tomorrow."

All on board were glad, when the news that they were to sail for Calcutta, the next morning, was circulated through the ship. To the crew, the voyage had been a monotonous one; the weather having been uniformly fine, since they started; and they had had no adventures, such as they had hoped for, with hostile natives.

Nothing was talked of that night, between decks, but Harry's story; which had been told by Lieutenant Hardy to the midshipmen, who had retailed it to the petty officers, and it had rapidly spread. Abdool and the interpreter were made as much of as was possible, considering that neither could understand English; and deep were the expressions of regret that none of the sailors had taken part in so tough a fight.

By the time the sun was up, next morning, the vessel was under weigh and, with light breezes, sailed round Singapore, and then headed northwest. The winds, as before, were light and, as the northeast monsoon was still blowing, the rate of progress was slow.

"I wish we could have got into the Hooghly," Fairclough said, as he walked impatiently up and down the quarterdeck, "before the monsoon broke; but I don't see much chance of it. It generally changes about the middle of April, and we are well on in the first week, now. At the rate at which we are sailing, we shall take at least three weeks before we get there. You see, we are only just clear of the northern point of Sumatra; and it is already a month since we got up anchor."

"But we shall have the wind almost behind us, Fairclough."

"Yes, when it has settled down. It is the change that I do not like. Of course, sometimes we have only a few days of moderately rough weather; but occasionally there is a hurricane at the break up, and a hurricane in the bay of Bengal is no joke. I shall not mind, much, if we get fairly past the Andamans; for from there to the mouth of the Hooghly it is open water, and I should be under no uneasiness as to the brig battling her way through it; but to be caught in a hurricane, with these patches of islands and rocks in the neighbourhood would, to say the least, be awkward."

"Are there any ports among the islands? I recollect hearing an officer say that there was a settlement made there, some years ago."

"That was so. In 1791 an establishment was started in the southern part of the island and, two years later, it was moved to a harbour on the northwest side of the bay. It was called Port Cornwallis; but was abandoned in 1796, being found terribly unhealthy. It was a pity, for it afforded good shelter when the northeast monsoon was blowing, and partially so from the southwest monsoon. No doubt it could have been made more healthy, if the country round had been well cleared; but it was not found to be of sufficient utility to warrant a large outlay, and the natives are so bitterly unfriendly that it would require a garrison of two or three hundred men to overawe them. We should have been always losing life -- not from open attacks, perhaps, but from their habit of crawling up, and shooting men down with their arrows."

A week later, they were some seventy or eighty miles to the west of the Andaman group. Directly the brig weathered the northernmost point of Sumatra, the course had been laid more to the west, so as to avoid the dangerous inside passage. When Harry went on deck, in the morning, he found that the wind had dropped altogether.

"There is an end of the monsoon," Fairclough said. "I am just going to shorten sail. There is no saying which way the wind will come. The glass is falling fast but, of course, that is only to be expected. I think, if you are wise, after breakfast you will take off that drill suit, and get into something better calculated to stand rough weather; for that we are sure to have, and any amount of rain. That is always the case, at the changes of the monsoon.

"You see, it is a sort of battle between the two winds; the southwesterly will gain, in the end, but the other will die hard; and it is this struggle that causes the circular storms which, when they are serious, are called hurricanes, though at ordinary times they are simply called the break up of the monsoon, which generally causes bad weather all over the Indian Ocean."

Towards evening, low banks of cloud were seen to the south, and the sky looked dim and misty in the opposite direction.

"They are mustering their forces, you see, Lindsay; and the glass has fallen so far that I fancy the fight will be a hot one. At any rate, we will make all snug for the night."

Sail after sail was taken in, until only a storm jib, a small fore stay-sail, and a close-reefed main top-sail were left standing. The bank of cloud to the south had risen considerably and, when darkness closed in, the upper edge was lit up by the almost incessant flicker of lightning. The upper spars were sent down on deck and then, there being nothing more to be done, the crew, who had all donned rough-weather clothes, awaited the outburst.

That it would be more than ordinarily severe there could be no doubt, and the men, clustered in little groups by the bulwarks, talked in low tones as they watched the slowly-approaching storm from the south; with occasional glances northwards, where indeed no clouds could be seen, but the sky was frequently lit up by the reflections of lightning below the horizon.

"What do you think of it?" Harry asked the interpreter.

"I do not like it," the Malay replied. "I think that there will be a great hurricane. I have seen many changes of the monsoon, but never one that looked so threatening as this."

"It does look bad," Harry said, "though, as I have never been at sea before, at the change of the monsoon, I am no judge at all; but it certainly looks as if we were in for a bad gale. At any rate, we shall be safer, here, than we were in that hut in the mountains."

The Malay made no reply, for some time. Then he said:

"Yes, sahib, but there was something to do, there. Directly we got in, you began to prepare for an escape. It was not certain that we should succeed. They might have come in and killed us, before you were ready but, as we were busy, we had not much time to think of the danger.

"Here we can do nothing."

"No. But, as you see, everything has already been done. You and I have not been working, but the sailors have been busy in taking off sail, and getting down all the upper spars. We are ready for the worst, now; just as we were when we had opened the passage for our escape, and we felt fairly confident -- although we might meet with many dangers, we had a good chance of getting safely away."

"There are the danger signals, Lindsay," the captain said, as a pale light suddenly shone out above.

Looking up, Harry saw a ball of fire on the main-mast head. Presently, this seemed to roll down the mast, till it reached the top-sail yard; then it broke into two, and these rolled out until they remained stationary, one at each end of the yard. Harry had never seen this phenomenon before.

"What is it?" he asked Fairclough, in an awed voice.

"They are often seen, before the outburst of a severe tempest. Of course, they look like balls of phosphorus; but in reality they are electric, and are a sign that the whole atmosphere is charged with electricity. Sailors have all sorts of superstitions about them but, of course, excepting that they are signs of the condition of the air, they are perfectly harmless."

He raised his voice.

"Don't stand near the foot of the masts, lads; keep well away from them. There is nothing to be afraid of, in those lights; but if we happened to be struck by lightning and it ran down the mast, some of you might be knocked over.

"I don't know why," he continued, to Harry, "the first flash of lightning at the beginning of a storm is always the most dangerous. I can't account for it, in any way, but there is no question as to the fact. I always feel relieved when the first clap of thunder is over; for I know, then, that we are comparatively safe from danger, in that way."

Gradually the stars disappeared.

"Mr. Hardy," the captain said to the lieutenant, who was standing near, "will you go down to my cabin, and see how the glass stands?"

Harry did not hear the answer, when Hardy returned, but Fairclough said to him:

"It has gone down another quarter of an inch since I looked at it, half an hour ago; and it was as low, then, as I have ever seen it.

"Mr. Hardy, you had better send the men aloft, and furl the main top-sail, altogether; and run down the fore stay-sail. We can get it up again, as soon as the first burst is over. Put four men at the wheel."

There was still no breath of wind stirring. The stay sail was run down, but the men hung back from ascending the shrouds of the main mast.

"They are afraid of those lights," Fairclough said, "but I do not think there is the slightest danger from them."

"I will go up, myself, sir," Hardy said; and he ran up the starboard shrouds while, at the same moment, one of the midshipmen led the way on the port side. The sailors at once followed their officers.

The latter had nearly reached the yard, when the two balls of fire began to roll along it, joined in the centre, and then slowly ascended the topmast. The fireballs paused there for half a minute, and then vanished.

"Now, Eden," the lieutenant said, "let us get the work done, at once, before that fellow makes his appearance again."

The men followed them out on the yard, and worked in desperate haste, with occasional glances up at the mast head. In a couple of minutes the sail was firmly secured in its gaskets, and all made their way below.

"Thank goodness, here it comes, at last," Fairclough said; "the suspense is more trying than the gale itself."

A low murmur was heard, and a faint pale light was soon visible to the south.

"Get ready to hold on, all!" he shouted to the men.

The sound momentarily increased in volume, and the distant light brightened until a long line of white foam was clearly discernible. It approached with extraordinary speed. There was a sudden puff of air. It lasted but a few seconds, and then died away.

"Hold on!" the captain again shouted.

Half a minute later, with a tremendous roar, the wind struck the brig. Knowing which way it would come, Fairclough had, half an hour before, lowered a boat and brought the vessel's head round, so that it pointed north. The boat had then been hoisted up.

In the interval of waiting, the ship's head had slightly drifted round, again, and the wind struck her on the quarter. So great was the pressure that she heeled far over, burying her bows so deeply that it seemed as if she were going to dive, head foremost. The water swept over the bulwarks in torrents, and extended almost up to the foot of the foremast. Then, very slowly, as she gathered way, the bow lifted and, in a minute, she was scudding fast before the gale; gathering speed, every moment, from the pressure of the wind upon her masts and hull, and from the fragment of sail shown forward. At present there were no waves, the surface of the water seeming pressed almost flat by the weight of the wind.

Then there was a deafening crash, and a blaze of light. The fore-top mast was riven in fragments, but none of these fell on the deck, the wind carrying them far ahead.

"You had better make your way forward, Mr. Hardy," Fairclough shouted, into the lieutenant's ear, "and see if anyone is hurt."

Fortunately the precaution which had been taken, of ordering the men away from the mast, had prevented any loss of life; but several of the men were temporarily blinded. Three or four had been struck to the deck, by the passage of the electric fluid close to them; but these presently regained their feet. Hardy returned, and reported to the captain.

"You had better send the carpenter down, to see that there is no fire below."

In a minute the man ran up, with the news that he believed the foot of the mast was on fire. Mr. Hardy went to a group of men.

"Get some buckets, my lads," he said quietly, "and make your way down to the hold. I will go with you. As was to be expected, the lightning has fired the foot of the mast; but there is no cause for alarm. As we have discovered it so soon, we shall not be long in getting it under."

The men at once filled the fire buckets and, led by Mr. Hardy, went below. As soon as the hatchway leading to the hold was lifted, a volume of smoke poured up.

"Wait a minute, till it has cleared off a little," the lieutenant said; and then, to the midshipman who had accompanied him:

"Go to the captain, and tell him that there is more smoke than I like, and ask him to come below. Tell him I think the pumps had better be rigged, and the hose passed down."

Fairclough, who was accompanied by Harry, joined him just as he was about to descend the ladder.

"I will go down with you, Mr. Hardy," he said.

"Mr. Eden, will you go up and send down all hands, except those at the wheel? Set a strong gang to rig the pumps, and pass the hose down."

He and the lieutenant then made their way along the hold. The smoke was very thick, and it was only by stooping low that they could get along. They could see, however, a glow of light ahead.

"We can do nothing with this," the captain said, "beyond trying to keep it from spreading, until we have shifted all these stores. The gang with buckets had better come down, empty them on the pile, and then set to work to clear the stuff away, as quickly as possible."

The men, who came along gradually and with difficulty, began to remove the barrels, coils of rope, and spare sails stowed there. Several of them were overpowered by the smoke, and had to be carried up again; and others came down and took their places.

In three or four minutes the hose was passed down, and the clank of the pumps could be heard. Mr. Hardy took the nozzle and while the men, now a strong party, worked at the stores, directed a stream of water upon the flames.

For a time, the efforts seemed to make no impression, and the steam added to the difficulty of working. Another gang of men were set to work, forward of the mast and, after half an hour's labour, the stores were so far removed that the hose could be brought to play upon the burning mass at the foot of the mast.

The lieutenant had been relieved by Harry, and he by the two midshipmen, in succession. Changes were frequent and, in another quarter of an hour, it was evident that the flames were well under control. The men engaged below relieved those at the pumps and, in an hour from the first outbreak, all danger was over, though pumping was kept up for some time longer.

The captain made frequent visits to the deck. The vessel was still running before the wind, and the sea had got up. The motion of the ship was becoming more and more violent but, as there was nothing to be done, the men below were not disturbed at their work, and this was continued until smoke no longer ascended.



Chapter 14: The Great Andaman.


Leaving a party below, to clear away the burnt barrels and debris, and to extinguish any fire that might still smoulder among them, the rest returned on deck. Terrible as was the storm, it was a relief, to all, to cling to the rail and breathe the fresh air, after the stifling atmosphere of the hold.

The scene, however, was a terrible one. Lightning was flashing overhead incessantly, although the thunder was only occasionally heard, above the howl of the storm. The sea was broken and irregular, leaping in masses over the bulwarks, and sweeping the decks. The force of the wind continually tore the heads off the waves, and carried the spray along in blinding showers.

"We are very near the eye of the hurricane," Captain Fairclough shouted, in Lindsay's ear. "The men at the wheel tell me she has been twice round the compass, already; but this broken sea would, alone, tell that. We must get a little sail on the main mast, and try to edge out of it."

A small stay sail was got out and hoisted, and the helm was put down a little. Though still running at but a slight angle before the wind, the pressure was now sufficient to lay her down to her gunwale. The crew gathered under shelter of the weather bulwark, holding on by belaying pins and stanchions.

Night had now set in, but it made little difference; for the darkness had, before, been intense, save for the white crests of the tossing waves. Sheets of foam blew across the deck and, sometimes, a heavy fall of water toppled down on the crew. A pannikin of hot soup had been served out to the men, and this would be the last hot refreshment they would obtain, before the gale broke; for the hatchways were all battened down, and it was impossible to keep the fire alight.

"The best thing you can do is to turn in, Lindsay," Fairclough said, after the former had finished his soup -- a task of no slight difficulty, under the circumstances. "You can do no good by remaining up."

"How long is it likely to last?"

"Probably for two or three days, possibly longer."

"I will take your advice," Harry said. "I shall be glad to get these wet clothes off."

For a time, he was sorry that he had lain down, for the motion was so violent that he could, with difficulty, keep himself in his berth. Being, however, completely worn out by the buffeting of the gale, the efforts required to hold on, the excitement of the fire and storm, it was not long before he dropped off to sleep; and he did not wake up until a ray of dim light showed that the morning was breaking. The motion of the ship was unabated and after, with great difficulty, getting into his clothes, he went up on deck.

Except that the clouds were somewhat more broken, there was no change. Dark masses of vapour flew overhead, torn and ragged. The wild tumble of waves rose and fell, without order or regularity. Forward, the bulwark on both bows had been carried away, and the deck was swept clear of every movable object.

One watch was below, the men of the other were for the most part gathered aft, and lashed to belaying pins. Fairclough was standing near the wheel. With some difficulty, Harry made his way to him.

"Not much change since last night," he said. "I feel quite ashamed of myself, for having been sleeping in my berth while you have all been exposed to this gale."

"There has not been much to do," the commander said. "In fact, there is nothing to be done, except to keep her as much as we dare from running straight before the wind. We have not had much success that way for, as you see, the tumble of water shows that we are still but a short distance from the centre of the gale. I sent the starboard watch below at four bells and, in a few minutes, we shall be relieved. Hardy wanted to stay with me, but I would not have it.

"The cook has managed, somehow, to boil some water, and served a pannikin of coffee to all hands, just before the watch turned in; and he has sent word that he will have some more ready, by the time they come up again."

He looked at his watch, and called out, "four bells."

One of the men made his way to the bell, with alacrity. The watch below did not come up, for a few minutes, as they waited to drink their coffee. As soon as they appeared, the men on deck went below.

"All the better for your sleep, Mr. Hardy?" Fairclough asked, as the other joined him.

"Very much better, sir. I think the cook ought to have a medal. The cup of coffee before we turned in, and that we have just drunk, have made new men of us."

"You will call me, instantly, if there is any change, Mr. Hardy.

"Mr. Eden, you had better come with us. The coffee will be ready, in my cabin."

There was no possibility of sitting at the table. But, sitting down on the floor to leeward, and holding a mug in one hand and a biscuit in the other, they managed, with some difficulty, to dispose of the meal. Then Fairclough, putting on some dry clothes, threw himself on his bunk. The midshipman retired to his own cabin, and Harry went on deck.

"How are we heading, Mr. Hardy?" he shouted, when he joined the lieutenant.

"At the present moment, we are running nearly due east but, as we have been round the compass, several times, since the gale struck us, there is no means of saying, with anything like certainty, where our position is. But I was talking it over with the captain, before I went down, and we both agreed that, as the centre of the hurricane is undoubtedly moving to the northeast, we must have gone a good many miles in that direction.

"Of course, there is no means of determining how far till we can get a glimpse of the sun; but there is no doubt that, if the gale continues, we shall soon be in a very perilous position, for we must be driving towards the Andamans. We may have the luck to pass north of them, or to go between them.

"We tried, last night, to get up a little more sail; but she would not stand it, and we were obliged to take it off again. So we can do nothing but hope for the best."

Two hours later, Fairclough came out again.

"I am afraid that you have not been to sleep," Harry said.

"No. I am all the better for the rest, but sleep was out of the question.

"How is she heading now, Mr. Hardy?"

"Northeast, sir."

Fairclough took his telescope from the rack in the companion and, slinging it over his shoulder, mounted the ratlines to the top.

"Have you made out anything?" he asked the sailor stationed there.

"I have thought, once or twice, sir, that I saw land ahead; but I could not say for certain. It is so thick that it is only when the clouds open a bit that one has a chance."

Although he had taken his glass with him, Fairclough did not attempt to use it, at present; but stood gazing fixedly ahead. A quarter of an hour later there was a sudden rift in the clouds, and a low shore was visible, some five or six miles ahead; and a dark mass, much farther off, rising into the cloud. Fairclough instantly unslung the telescope, and adjusted it. A minute afterwards the clouds closed in again and, telling the man to keep a sharp lookout, he descended to the deck.

"We must set the main top-sail on her again, close reefed, of course. We are running straight for land and, unless I am much mistaken, it is the great Andaman. There is a lofty hill, some distance back from the shore. I only caught a glimpse of its lower part, but none of the small islands have any hill to speak of. The shore is about six miles off and, as the peak lies about the centre of the island, and as this is a hundred and forty miles long, we are some seventy miles from the northern point.

"You know what that means. However, we must do all that we can, to keep her off."

"Ay, ay, sir," Hardy said, turning without another word, and then gave orders to the men to set the top sail.

This was done, and the ship's course was laid parallel to the shore. The wind was now nearly northwest, and she lay down until the water was several planks up her deck. The crew were all lashed to windward, clustering where they would be most out of danger, should the mast go.

Fairclough stood for a minute, looking at the shivering mast, and the shrouds stretched like iron bars.

"We must get the guns overboard, Mr. Hardy; she will never stand this," and indeed the waves, striking her broadside, were falling in a cascade over her.

Calling four of the men, Hardy made his way down into the lee scuppers, where the water was nearly up to their waists; opened the portholes and slacked the lashings, when the four guns disappeared overboard. It required much greater pains to get down the guns from the port side, as tackle had to be attached to each, so that they could be lowered carefully, one by one, across the deck; but all worked heartily, and these also were launched overboard.

"That has eased her, a bit," Fairclough said, when Hardy rejoined him. "They helped to pin her down, and I could almost feel the difference, as each gun went overboard."

"I am afraid that it will make no difference, in the long run," Hardy said. "She must be making a great deal of leeway, and I should say that she will be on shore in a couple of hours, at the latest. Still, we may have time to look out for a soft spot."

"We should not have much chance, in that case, Hardy; my only hope is in another shift of wind."

"But it will go round more to the north, sir, and then we sha'n't be able to lie our course, at all. It has gone round a point, since we got up the top sail."

"Quite so; and I doubt whether it will go round soon enough to save us. If it should go round a little more to the north, we must try and get her on the other tack; but I am afraid, in such a sea, she will not go about. Of course, our great aim is to reach Port Cornwallis; or, if we cannot get as far as that, I have just been having a look at the chart, and I see there are three narrow straits. How much water there is in them, I do not know. They are most vaguely marked on the chart. One of them is but thirty miles north of our present position and, if we find that we cannot make the northern point, I shall try to get in there. I am not sure that, in any case, it would not be the best plan; for if there is only water enough to run a mile or so up this passage, we shall ground in comparatively still water; whereas, as the wind has been blowing from every quarter, it is almost certain that there will be a tremendous sea in the open port."

Fairclough placed himself at the wheel, and told the two midshipmen to go round, and tell the crew that there was an inlet ahead, but the depth of the water was uncertain. When they approached it, all hands would come aft, so as to avoid being crushed by the falling masts. A dozen of the men were to take hatchets, and cut away the wreckage if the mast fell, leaving only a couple of the shrouds uncut. When this was done, directly the vessel began to break up, those who could not swim were to make their way by these shrouds to the floating mast. Those who could swim could make, at once, for the shore.

"When all have left the ship but Mr. Hardy and myself, we will cut the shrouds; and the masts will probably ground, ere long."

While before the sailors had, for the most part, been gazing at the coast, on which they had little doubt that their bodies would soon be cast up; they became lively and active, as soon as they received the order. It seemed that, after all, there was a chance for them.

Four hours passed. The wind had now so far headed them that the brig could no longer keep her course parallel with the shore. Twice they had endeavoured to put her about, but each time failed; and she was now making so much leeway that the coast was less than three miles away. A tremendous sea was breaking upon it. One of the midshipmen had, for the past hour, been in the foretop with a glass; and the captain himself now went up, and took his place beside him. He saw at once that, accustomed as he was to use his telescope in rough weather, it would be useless here; for the motion was so great that it was only by following the midshipman's example, and lashing himself to the mast, that he could retain a footing.

"You are sure that you have seen no break in the surf, Mr. Eden?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"We ought not to be far from it, now, if it is rightly marked on the chart."

Another hour passed, and they were within a mile and a half of the shore.

"I think that I can see a break, over there, sir," and the midshipman pointed to a spot a mile along the coast.

"Pray God that it may be so," Fairclough said, "for it is our only chance."

Two or three minutes later, he said:

"You are right, there is certainly a break there. There is a line of surf, but it does not run up the shore, as it does everywhere else."

He at once descended to the deck.

"Thank God!" he said, as he joined Mr. Hardy and Harry who, on seeing him coming down, had made their way to the shrouds, "there is a break in the surf. It is not a complete break, but there is certainly an inlet of some sort. And though it looks as if there were a bar, there may be plenty of water for us for, with such a sea as this, it would break in three fathoms of water and, as we don't draw more than two, we may get over it. At any rate, it is our only hope."

"It gives us a chance, if we strike," the lieutenant said, "for it will be comparatively calm water, inside the bar. Those who can swim should have no difficulty in getting ashore. The others might do so, on wreckage. Her masts are sure to come out of her, if she strikes heavily."

"I shall be obliged if you will go up to the foretop, Hardy, and con the brig in; but mind you, come down before we get to the white water. You may as well send Mr. Eden down."

Mr. Hardy was not long before he came down again and, at the captain's suggestion, both he and Harry went below, and armed themselves with pistols. As soon as they came up again, they took their places by Fairclough. The seamen had all gathered aft. The boatswain had cut the lashings holding the spars -- that had been sent down from aloft -- in their place by the bulwarks. The boats had all been torn from their davits, or smashed; with the exception of the largest cutter, which lay bottom upwards in the middle of the ship, securely lashed to the deck.

"Now, men," the captain said, raising his voice almost to a shout, so that all might hear him, "you have behaved as well as men could do, during this storm; and I have no doubt that you will continue to do so, to the end. Remember that no one is to leave the ship, till I give the order. If you are cool and calm, there is good ground for hope that all may be saved.

"If the mast falls, you who have hatchets run forward at once, and stand in readiness to cut the lanyards; but don't strike until I give the order."

They were now fast approaching the line of surf.

"Let everyone take hold of something," Mr. Fairclough shouted. "If we strike, we are sure to be pooped."

Another minute, and she was close to the breaking waves. Everyone held his breath as, impelled by a great breaker, she dashed into the surf with the swiftness of an arrow. There was a shock, followed by a grating noise, and then the brig slowly came to a standstill.

"Hold on, hold on for your lives!" the captain shouted, as a wave even larger than the last came towering up behind them, in an almost perpendicular wall. It struck the vessel with tremendous force, and swept waist deep along the deck; while the vessel, herself, surged forward. There was another shock, but this time much slighter and, as the next wave carried them on, there was a general cheer from the sailors.

"She has floated, she is through it, hurrah!"

She was, indeed, over the bar.

"There are men in the water," Fairclough shouted. "Get ready to cast ropes to them."

Four men, who had been swept overboard by the rush of water, were rescued; two others were found dead on the deck, having been dashed against the stanchions, or other obstacles.

The brig continued her course, four or five hundred yards farther then, as the banks of the inlet closed in, Fairclough gave orders for the anchors to be let go. Everything had been prepared for this order, and the anchors at once dropped and, as soon as fifty fathoms of chain had been run out, the brig swung round head to wind.

"Muster the men, and see if any are missing."

This was done, and only one, besides three found dead, did not answer to his name. The general opinion was that he had struck against something, as he was swept overboard, and had been killed or disabled; for all who had been seen in the water had been rescued.

"Serve out an allowance of grog, all round, Mr. Eden," Fairclough said, "and tell the cook to get his fire alight, as soon as possible. We shall all be glad of a good meal.

"Well, thank God, everything has ended far better than we could have hoped for!"

Two hours later the crew, having got into dry clothes, were sitting down, enjoying a plentiful allowance of pea soup and salt junk; while the officers were partaking of similar fare, in the cabin. None who saw them there would have dreamt of the long struggle they had been through, and that the ship was well nigh a wreck. It was now late in the afternoon, and Fairclough gave orders that all might turn in, as soon as they liked; except that an anchor watch, of four men, must maintain a sharp lookout, for the natives of the island were bitterly hostile to the whites.

"I don't think there is any real danger," he said to Harry, "or that they will attempt to take the ship. Their habit is, I have heard, to lie in hiding, and to shoot their arrows at any stranger who may land."

They sat chatting, for an hour, after the meal was concluded. Then the conversation flagged, and Fairclough said, presently:

"I think that we may as well follow the men's example, and turn in. I can hardly keep my eyes open."

The gale was still blowing strongly, in the morning, though its force had somewhat abated. But inside the bar there was but a slight swell, and the brig rode easily at her anchors; for the wind was now several points west of north, and they were consequently protected by the land.

The work of repairing damages began at once for, owing to the length of the voyage, the stores of provisions and water were beginning to run very short. Two or three buffaloes had been bought, at the village where Harry had landed but, with the exception of some fruit, and the meat sent off by the tumangong, no other fresh food had been obtained, since they sailed from Calcutta. The boat was turned over and launched; and the work of making a new fore-top mast, and overhauling the rigging, proceeded with.

During the day, several of the natives were observed at the edge of the forest by Harry who, having no special work to do, had been asked by Fairclough to keep his eye on the shore, and to ascertain whether they were being watched; as he intended, when the repairs were finished, to see if any spring of fresh water existed in the neighbourhood. He therefore kept a telescope directed on the shore and, soon after daybreak, made out two little men at the edge of the trees.

The natives of the Andaman Islands are among the lowest types of humanity known. Their stature does not exceed five feet and, with their slender limbs and large heads, their appearance is almost that of a deformed people. They use no clothing whatever, plastering their bodies with clay, or mud, to protect the skin from the sun's rays. Animals are scarce on the islands, and the people live chiefly on fish. They carry bows and arrows, and heavy spears; to which, in most cases, are added shields. They inhabit roughly-made arbours, and seldom remain long at any spot; moving about in small communities, according to the abundance or scarcity of food. They use no cooking utensils, and simply prepare their food by placing it on burning embers.

The men first made out soon disappeared but, later on, Harry could see that there were many of them inside the line of forest.

"It is a nuisance," the captain said, when he told him the result of his examination of the shore. "I suppose, in a day or two, we shall have hundreds of them down here. I don't think they will try to interfere with us, as long as we are at work; but they will certainly oppose us, if we attempt to enter the forest, and will effectually prevent our wandering about in search of water. We could only go in a strong body and, even then, might lose a good many lives from their arrows.

"Of course, we should be able to beat them off; but I should be sorry to have to kill a lot of the poor little beggars. One can hardly blame them for their hostility. Naturally, they want to have the place to themselves, and are just as averse to our landing as our forefathers were to Julius Caesar and his Romans.

"Of course they would be, if they only knew it, very much better off by being civil. We have numbers of things that would be invaluable to them. For instance, I would willingly give them a dozen cooking pots, and as many frying pans, if they would let us obtain water peaceably. I suppose that, at some time or other, Malays landed here, and carried off a number of heads; or they may have been shot down by some reckless ruffians of traders, and have so come to view all strangers as deadly enemies. However, so far as I have heard, there is no chance of their being friendly; and native traders say that, of vessels that have been wrecked on the coast, none of the crew ever escaped.

"By the way, I believe that fish are extremely plentiful here. We have a good supply of fishing lines on board, for we generally fish when we are at anchor."

"If you will let me have them, tomorrow," Harry said, "Abdool and I will look after that. I hate having nothing to do and, certainly, fish would be a very agreeable change, after such a long spell of salt meat."

"You shall have them, the first thing in the morning."

Accordingly, the next day the lines were got out; and the Malay interpreter, who knew a great deal more of fishing than did Harry or Abdool, took the matter in hand. The hooks were baited with pieces of meat, or shreds of white or scarlet bunting. The fish bit eagerly, and all three were kept actively employed in drawing them up, and rebaiting the hooks. They were of all sizes, from a quarter of a pound to four or five pounds and, by dinner time, there were enough to furnish an ample meal for all on board.

"I will keep three or four of the men at work, this afternoon," Fairclough said, "and we will have night lines down. We can salt down those we do not eat and, at any rate, we shall not be drawing much on our stores."

By evening the new fore-top mast was in its place. As the heaviest part of the work was now done, orders were given for a boat's crew to start, in the morning, to cruise along the coast and see if any stream ran into it. Mr. Eden was to be in command. The crew were to be well armed, but were not to attempt to effect a landing.

The sea had now calmed down, and the southwest monsoon was blowing steadily.

"You had better go south. The land is much higher there, and there is more likelihood of there being streams. I think you will be able to lie your course or, at any rate, make a long leg and a short one. You are to go, as nearly as you can tell, twenty miles. If you do not meet with a stream by that time, turn back. You will have the wind free, then, and can be back here well before sunset. Of course, if you find fresh water, you will at once return.

"Would you like to go with the boat, Mr. Lindsay?"

"Very much. My hands are so sore, from hauling in the lines, that I am afraid I shall not be able to help in the fishing, tomorrow."

The party started early. It consisted of ten men, the coxswain, the midshipmen, and Harry. The surf was no longer breaking on the bar outside. There was a bright sea, with white-crested waves and, before starting, the captain ordered a reef to be put in the sails.

"She could carry full sail, well enough," he said to Harry, "but there is no occasion for haste; and it is always best to be on the safe side, especially when a middy is in command. Besides, it is just as well to keep dry jackets."

A keg of water and a supply of food, sufficient for two days, were placed on board.

"I expect you will be back by three o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Eden; but it is always well to provide against any accident."

With the sheets hauled tight aft, the cutter was just able to lie her course, outside the line of breakers. In a little over an hour there was a break in the shore, and a stream of some forty feet wide fell into the sea; and a general cheer broke from the sailors, who had been put on allowance for the past week.

"Put her about, coxswain," the midshipman said; "we need go no farther."

"Can't we land, and have a bathe, sir?" the coxswain asked.

"Certainly not. That is the very thing that we mus'n't do. For anything we know, there may be natives about; and some of us might get stuck full of their arrows before we could get out of range. This will be good news, and there will be no longer any need for your being kept on short allowance of water."

At ten o'clock the boat re-entered the inlet, and lowered sail by the side of the brig.

"You have been successful, I suppose, by your coming back so soon, Mr. Eden?" the captain said, when they were within easy hail.

"Yes, sir. There is a small stream, about seven miles from here."

"That is very satisfactory. Now you can come on board. There is plenty of work for all hands."

Everyone, indeed, was busy in repairing damages. The carpenters were engaged upon the bulwarks and the stern, which had been much damaged by the wave that had lifted them over the bar. As there were not sufficient planks on board for this work, canvas was utilized for filling up the gaps in the bulwarks; and this, after being nailed to temporary stanchions, was coated with pitch. All hands worked cheerfully. The change of diet already benefited them, and the news that there was plenty of fresh water near enabled the remaining supply to be freely used -- a matter of no slight consequence, to men working in the broiling sun.

Two days later the work was finished and, on the following morning, the anchors were weighed and the sails shaken out; and the brig left the inlet that had saved them from destruction and, after sailing out to sea a couple of miles, came about and laid her course for the mouth of the stream.

The fishing had been continued, without intermission. Watches had again been set, and the work of attending to the lines was very welcome, as helping to pass away the four hours of darkness. By the time they left the inlet, a sufficient quantity had been salted down to last the ship's company for a week, without recourse to the salt-meat casks.

The carpenter, with three or four assistants, had patched up the second cutter -- the boat that had been least injured. The others had been broken up for firewood, some of the pieces being reserved for the repairs of the cutter.

As soon as the brig reached the mouth of the stream she was anchored, two hundred yards off the shore. The water barrels had already been got up on deck, and some of these were lowered into the first cutter, of which Mr. Hardy took the command. It was not deemed advisable to employ the second boat in bringing water on board as, if heavily laden, the water would force its way in through the hastily-executed repairs. The captain, then, accompanied by Harry and an armed crew, took his place in her; and went ahead of the larger boat into the stream.

It was found to be but three or four feet deep, with a slow current and, for some little distance up, was too brackish to be used. It was not until they entered the line of forest that it was found fresh enough. The men in the first cutter proceeded to fill their casks, while those in the other boat laid in their oars and, musket in hand, watched the forest. In a few minutes the work was done, and the first cutter rowed straight for the brig; while the second cutter followed her, for some distance beyond the trees, and there waited for her return.

"So far, so good," Fairclough said; "but I am afraid that we shall be disturbed, before we have made another trip. No doubt, some of the natives followed the cutter along the shore, yesterday. I don't suppose they recognized what your object was, as you did not enter the stream; but when they saw the brig going the same way this morning, I have no doubt that they set off in this direction. However, with one more boat load we can manage, well enough, until we reach the Hooghly for, with this wind, we shall make a quick run."

In a quarter of an hour the cutter was seen returning and, when it approached them, Fairclough again took the lead. All appeared still in the forest, and the men had just begun to refill the casks, when a shower of arrows fell among the boats.

"Let half your men go on with their work, Mr. Hardy, and the others stand to their arms."

Not a single foe was visible, but the arrows still flew fast from among the trees.

"Open fire!" Fairclough said. "Fire anywhere among the bushes. I don't suppose that we shall hit them, but it may frighten them. They can't know much about firearms."

From both boats a scattering fire of musketry at once opened, the men loading and firing as quickly as they could. The effect was immediate. Arrows still fell, but only occasionally; and evidently shot at random, for but few of them came near the boats.

The men in the first cutter were working energetically, dipping breakers into the water and emptying them into the large casks. In three or four minutes these were filled, and Hardy hailed the captain.

"We are full up, now, sir, both casks and breakers."

"Then retire at once, Mr. Hardy. We will follow you."

As they issued from under the trees, the arrows again fell fast.

"Don't fire," the captain said; "perhaps they may issue out, and then we will give them a lesson -- that it is better not to interfere with men who are doing them no harm."

This proved to be the case. No one had been hit by the fire from the boats and, now that the shooting had ceased, the natives, with shouts of triumph, ran out from the forest. There were some hundreds of them.

The captain hailed the boat in front.

"Stop rowing, Mr. Hardy, and open fire on them.

"Now, lads," he went on, to his own crew, "fire steadily, and don't throw away a shot."

The rattle of musketry broke out again.

As the rattle of musketry broke out again from both boats, many of the natives dropped. The others stopped, at once. A shower of arrows was discharged; and then, as the fire was kept up, they fled back into the woods; and the men, again taking to their oars, rowed out without further molestation to the brig. None of the crew had been killed, but four were wounded by the arrows.

"I hope they are not poisoned," Fairclough said, in a low voice, to Harry. "I don't know whether they use poison, on these islands; but we must hope not. However, we will not frighten them by even hinting at the possibility of such a thing."

Happily, however, no evil symptoms resulted. The wounds were, for the most part slight and, the next day, all were able to return to their duty. The fair weather now set in and, ten days later, the brig dropped anchor in the river, opposite Calcutta.

Harry at once went ashore, and handed to the Governor a full report of what had taken place.

"I have not time to read this rather bulky report of yours, at present, Captain Lindsay," the latter said, with a smile. "Please give me the pith of it, as shortly as possible."

"The island, sir, is well adapted for a trading station; and would, I should think, when the forests are partly cleared away, be a healthy one. I have interviewed the tumangong, who has signed a document agreeing, at any time in the future that it may be desired, to cede either a trading station or the whole island to us. He was greatly pleased with the presents that you sent; and is, I believe, thoroughly in earnest in his desire for a trading station to be established so close to him. The Rajah of Johore has ratified this agreement, and has given his cordial consent for the cession of the island to us.

"It seems that he, himself, is an usurper. The rightful heir is a boy of seven or eight years old, and I think it is possible that, either at the present man's death, or possibly even before that, he may ascend the throne. At present, he and his mother are in the hands of the reigning rajah; but I have promised her that, if we take possession of Singapore, she and her son can find an asylum there, and a small pension for her maintenance; and she, on her part, has promised that she will bring up her son to regard us as his best friends; and that he, if he ascends the throne, shall also ratify the treaty, and will become our warm ally.

"As to the Dutch, the reply of their Governor is with the report, but certainly it is an unfavourable one; and no cooperation, in the work of repressing piracy, can be expected from them."

"I did not expect it, Captain Lindsay; and indeed, as I told you at the time, only sent you to Batavia in order to account for the presence of one of our ships of war in those waters.

"Well, sir, your mission has been, in all respects, most satisfactory. I shall read your report, and give it full consideration, at my leisure. For the present you will remain here, available for any office, military or civil; but at present, at any rate, you will retain your civil employment.

"I will not ask you to dine with me, today, as it is hardly likely that I shall have time to read your report, this afternoon; but I shall be glad if you will do so, tomorrow, and you can then answer any questions that may suggest themselves to me."



Chapter 15: Assaye.


While the Deccan had been torn by civil war, the Government of Bombay had extended their territory. The Nabob of Surat, who had been under their protection, had died; and they had taken the government of the province into their own hands. A civil war having broken out, at Baroda, they had supported one of the rival princes; and had, after a good deal of fighting, placed their candidate on the throne -- various districts being assigned to them, in return for their assistance.

Holkar, on hearing of Bajee's arrival at Bassein, placed his brother Amrud on the musnud, and commenced a series of atrocities, in Poona, equal to that which it had suffered at the hands of Ghatgay; respectable inhabitants being robbed and ill treated, many tortured, and some killed, in order to wring from them the treasures that they were supposed to have concealed.

During the months that followed his return to Calcutta, Harry remained attached to the staff of the Marquis of Wellesley -- for to this title Lord Mornington had succeeded, during his absence, on the death of his father -- and was sent on various missions; among others accompanying the Governor General's brother, the Honorable Henry Wellesley, to the court of Oude. He could now speak Hindustani, as well as Mahratti; and was very useful in acting as an interpreter, and in aiding to carry on the negotiations.

In February, 1803, he was sent by the Governor General to join the force that Major General Wellesley was preparing, in Mysore, to aid Bajee Rao to recover his throne. The treaty that the latter had concluded with the Government, on his arrival at Bassein, was a most advantageous one to the English. In return for their assistance, he agreed that a force of infantry, with guns and European artillerymen, should be stationed within his territories; their maintenance being paid by handing over to the Company a large amount of territory. The two parties were to support each other in case of war, and the Peishwa bound himself not to make aggressions against other states, nor to negotiate with them without the Governor's consent. The Peishwa agreed, also, to abandon the Mahratta claims on Surat, and other districts that had been occupied by the English.

On arriving at General Wellesley's camp, Harry reported himself to that officer for service.

"I am very glad to have you with me, Captain Lindsay. I have frequently heard my brother speak of your services, and your perfect knowledge of Mahratti, and your acquaintance with its people will be of great value to me.

"You know the Peishwa well. Do you think that he will be faithful to the engagement that he has made with us?"

"Certainly not, sir. He has been intriguing, ever since he ascended the musnud. His duplicity is only equalled by his treachery and, as soon as he is restored, in Poona, he will again begin his intrigues with Scindia and the other Mahratta chiefs."

"That is the opinion that I have formed of him, from what I have heard," the general said. "However, the terms of the treaty will render him practically our servant; for we shall maintain a body of troops near Poona, which will effectually prevent any scheme of his from succeeding.

"What course Holkar will take, we cannot say; but the other Mahratta chiefs have all entered into a confederacy against us, and we shall have the forces of Scindia, of the Rajah of Bhopal, the Rajah of Berar, and the Rajah of Kolapoore to deal with."

The partition of Mysore had, indeed, done much to unite the Mahrattas together. The ever-increasing power of the British was a serious source of alarm for, in addition to Mysore, Lord Wellesley had, without a shadow of justification, obtained the control of Oude.

"I am sorry, sir, that the Rajah of Berar has declared against us. I was nearly three months with him; and should, after the news of the capture of Seringapatam, have fallen a victim to the fury of the Mohammedans in the city, had he not taken me under his protection. But at the same time, I have no doubt in my mind that he was ready to join whichever side was victorious."

"You have, then, no good opinion of the Mahrattas, Captain Lindsay?"

"I have met but one honest man among them. Nana Furnuwees was not only an extraordinary man, but devoted his talents wholly to the good of the state. His word could always be relied upon. His life was simple, and his habits frugal. I honoured and esteemed him, greatly."

"Yes, it was owing to you, as my brother told me, that he was released from prison. I was greatly struck with the story, when I heard it; because it showed how much can be accomplished, even by the youngest officer who is active, and enterprising, and ready to act on his own initiative. I saw a copy of Mr. Uhtoff's report of the affair.

"Well, you will be attached to my staff, with no particular duties, at present; but doubtless we shall find plenty for you to do, when we once cross the frontier into the Mahratta country."

Harry found that, in addition to the eight thousand infantry and seventeen hundred cavalry, under the command of General Wellesley, the Nizam's force of eight thousand regular troops and fifteen thousand irregulars were advancing towards the frontier, the whole commanded by Colonel Stephenson. On the 25th of March these forces advanced, and were joined by numerous small Mahratta chiefs in the Peishwa's interest. General Wellesley's army advanced straight on Poona, which was evacuated at once by Holkar's force and, as it was stated that he intended to burn the town, before he retired, the general hastened forward with his cavalry and, on the 20th of April, took possession of the place. Colonel Stephenson, whose cooperation was no longer required, moved north towards the Godavery, to protect the country against the irruptions of Holkar.

Four weeks later Bajee Rao arrived from the coast, and resumed his seat on the musnud amid great rejoicings by the inhabitants; who had suffered terribly, both at the hands of Ghatgay and Holkar.

Scindia, having recovered from the effects of his defeat by Holkar, had returned, crossed the Nerbudda, and encamped on the Nizam's frontier. He was busy preparing for war, in conjunction with the Rajah of Berar; and had even made overtures, to Holkar, to join in opposing the English. Bajee Rao himself, as was afterwards discovered, was also in friendly communication with Scindia.

The Resident at Scindia's court was ordered to leave it, unless that prince retired from his position on the Nizam's frontier. Scindia, when summoned, sent a defiant reply and, as it was now evident that war was impending, General Wellesley was invested with full powers; and Lord Lake, who commanded the army of Hindustan, was ordered to advance to attack the formidable force of French infantry, under Perron, and take possession of Delhi, Agra, and other places held by the Mahrattas. Another attempt was made to persuade Scindia to retire; but evasive answers were returned, and it was not until the 3rd of August that the Resident quitted Scindia, and Wellesley prepared to attack Ahmednuggur.

The possession of this place was of great importance, because it was situated close to the Nizam's frontier, and afforded great facilities for future operations. The town was surrounded by a wall, flanked by towers; and was defended by a number of Arabs, and a battalion of Scindia's regular infantry. These offered a vigorous resistance for, after a breach had been made in the walls, and the troops had entered, they retired; fighting from house to house, and keeping up a heavy fire. However, by nightfall they were driven inside their fort.

A battery of four guns was erected, within four hundred yards of it; and these opened with such effect that the governor surrendered, on being allowed to depart with the garrison and their private property.

On the 24th, General Wellesley crossed the Godavery; Colonel Stephenson moving in the direction of Aurungabad. Scindia and the Rajah of Berar were now within forty miles of him; but they suddenly turned off, as if intending to make a dash for Hyderabad, where the Nizam had expired, three weeks before.

Wellesley followed close after them, and they then turned and took up a position to the north of Julnapoor, a town lying east of Aurungabad. On the 2nd of September, Julnapoor was captured by Colonel Stephenson; who afterwards made a night attack upon Scindia's camp, inflicting considerable loss.

On the 21st the whole Mahratta army, with sixteen battalions of regular infantry, were encamped twenty-two miles north of Julnapoor and, the next day, the army marched against them by two routes; Colonel Stephenson taking the western road, and General Wellesley the eastern.

The next afternoon, when about to halt, General Wellesley learned that the Mahrattas were encamped about six miles from him, on the banks of the Kaitna. He determined to attack them at once, without waiting for Colonel Stephenson; for in another day they would, in all probability, send off their infantry, and begin to carry on a desultory warfare with their horse.

Plan of the Battle of Assaye.

The general rode on, with his staff and an escort of cavalry, and obtained a view of the Mahratta host from rising ground. They were in the fork formed by the junction of the Kaitna with the Juah. Their right consisted wholly of cavalry, and was protected by the high and rocky bank of the stream; which was, at one or two points, impassable for guns. Their left, consisting of the infantry and artillery, was posted in the village of Assaye, which lay near the fork of the river.

The general determined, at once, to attack at this point. The force under his command consisted of four battalions of Sepoys, and the 74th and 78th Regiments; with the 19th Dragoons, and three regiments of native cavalry -- in all, four thousand five hundred men. Opposed to them were ten thousand five hundred disciplined troops, taught and commanded by European officers; Scindia's irregulars, and the infantry of the Rajah of Berar; with a well-appointed train of artillery, of over a hundred guns, and some forty thousand cavalry.

From the position in which the British force arrived they had to march, for some distance, parallel with the river; and exposed to a terrible artillery fire, which created such havoc, especially among the bullocks drawing the guns, that the cavalry could not move forward. The infantry therefore proceeded alone, crossed the Kaitna by a ford; and then, swinging round, advanced against the village. While they were crossing the river, the Mahratta cavalry were brought up from their former position, and took post behind Assaye.

The steadiness with which the little force advanced to the attack, against so immense an army, had already had the effect of shaking the Mahrattas. It seemed to them that their opponents must be conscious that they were invincible. Pouring in a volley, the first British line charged with the bayonet. The Mahratta infantry at once wavered, and then gave way; and fell back on their second line, posted near the Juah.

As the 74th Regiment passed through the village, a body of Mahratta horse charged them; but they were met by the British cavalry, who drove them, with great slaughter, into the river. The second Mahratta line gave way, with scarcely any resistance; and the British cavalry, pressing hotly after them, cut them up terribly. The infantry followed, as quickly as possible.

But suddenly there was a roar of guns, behind them; and the flying Mahrattas at once rallied, and faced their pursuers. As they advanced, the force had captured the Mahrattas' guns; but numbers of the artillerymen had thrown themselves down, lying as if dead. As soon as they saw that the British line was still pressing forward in pursuit, the artillerymen leapt to their feet and, turning the guns, opened fire.

The general at once put himself at the head of the 71st Regiment and the native cavalry and, after a desperate conflict, in which the general had his horse shot under him, succeeded in recapturing the guns. In the meantime, Colonel Maxwell with the cavalry had, again and again, charged the fugitives who had rallied; and succeeded in completely breaking them up, but was himself killed.

The battle had lasted three hours. One thousand five hundred and sixty-six of the British force were killed, or wounded, being rather more than a third of the troops engaged. The enemy left twelve hundred dead on the field of battle, and the country through which they retreated was covered with their wounded. The camp, with a number of bullocks, and a large quantity of military stores and ninety-eight cannon, fell into the hands of the victors.

Scindia, in great alarm, sent an ambassador to the British camp and, after various conferences, a truce was agreed upon between him and the general; the conditions being that Scindia should not approach within forty miles of his frontier, and that the British should not enter his dominions.

On the day after the battle of Assaye, the general sent for Harry.

"Captain Lindsay, I have a mission which you can carry out better than any of my other officers. I wish you to make your way across the country, to inform General Lake of the victory we have won; and to point out that, at present, Scindia is paralysed, and will be unable to send troops to aid his force in the northwest for, should he do so, I shall at once enter his territory.

"Do not run the risk of returning, but tell Lord Lake that my orders are that you shall remain with him. I do not think that we shall have much fighting here though, no doubt, later on, Holkar and the Rajah of Berar will reform their armies and try conclusions with us again; while, on the other side, there is likely to be heavy fighting. You must, of course, travel in disguise, but you are already accustomed to that."

"I will willingly undertake the mission, sir."

"Would you like to take anyone with you?"

"I should be glad if you will give me four troopers, from one of your native cavalry regiments. I shall, of course, ride as a petty chief, but I might be interrupted in small villages, were I alone with only my servant; whereas, if I had four followers, it would appear natural to them, as even the pettiest leader is always accompanied by a party, however small, of horsemen."

"Certainly. I will give orders to the colonel of the 1st Cavalry to choose four well-mounted men, who can speak Mahratti. There are many such in his regiment."

There was no difficulty about disguises, for a large quantity of native clothing had been found in the camp. Harry chose a dress suitable for a native in command of some fifty or sixty men; and the four troopers attired themselves in the garments of native soldiers, which indeed differed in no way from those worn by the peasantry. Harry had packed his uniform in his native saddlebag; and also his cocked hat, after taking out the stiffening so that it would lie flat; and had exchanged his own saddle for that of one of Holkar's horsemen. He advised the men to do the same so that, when they joined Lord Lake, they would be able at once to appear in uniform. There was an abundance of native swords and spears lying where the Mahratta force had been defeated.

Abdool had at once been sent into the village, and had there succeeded in buying some brown dye, used in colouring the clothes; and with this Harry stained his face and hands and, two hours after receiving the order, rode out from camp, followed by Abdool and the four troopers.

He considered that there was but little danger in the journey as, for the greater portion of the distance, he would ride through the dominions of the young Nizam. He would, however, have to pass through the territory of the Rajah of Berar; beyond this, he would enter the country in which the British were already supreme. While in the Nizam's dominions, he experienced no difficulties; the news of the victory of Assaye had already spread, and the inhabitants were relieved of the fears they had been entertaining of a great raid, by Holkar. The passage, therefore, of a petty chief with four followers was regarded with indifference; and indeed, he was generally supposed to be one of the Nizam's irregular cavalry, on his way with some message to Hyderabad.

Still less attention was paid to him in the villages of Berar. Many bodies of the rajah's troops had already passed through, on their way to Nagpore, and they were naturally taken to be some of the fugitives.

They travelled as rapidly as possible. The horses were all inured to long journeys, and they had made from fifty to sixty miles a day. They halted at a village, twenty miles east of Nagpore. Nothing unusual had happened, and Harry had just lain down to sleep, when there was a sound as of people gathering in front of his hut.

He was about to rise, to see what was going on; when the door was opened, and a number of armed villagers at once poured into the room, and he was seized before he had time to leap to his feet. He made no attempt at resistance but, believing that some mistake had been committed, he angrily demanded the reason of this assault.

He was dragged out into the street. As this happened he heard pistol shots and, a moment later, the four troopers rode up.

One of them had remained at the door of the hut, while the others had lain down. Seeing a number of people moving about, he had roused his companions. They had got out of the window at the back of the hut. Here their horses had been picketed and, mounting at once, they rode out, just as a body of men made a rush at the door of their hut. By the use of their pistols and swords they had broken through these and, seeing the crowd in front of the hut that Harry had occupied, they charged without hesitation.

The villagers, unprepared for such an attack, fell back; losing their hold of Harry, and Abdool, whom they had also captured. The latter darted away and, in a few seconds, returned leading the two horses.

"Shall we set the houses alight, before we start, sahib?" one of the troopers asked.

"No; they may rally in a minute or two, and the sooner we are out of it, the better."

He turned and started at once and, as he did so, a dropping fire from matchlocks and guns was opened upon them. The villagers' arms were, however, wholly untrustworthy, and the powder bad. One of the troopers was hit in the arm but, with that exception, they rode out unharmed.

"What does it all mean, Abdool?" Harry asked as, after riding fast for a quarter of a mile, they broke into a slower pace. "Of course, they must in some way have recognized me, for I heard some of them saying, 'Death to the English infidel!'"

"It was through me that they recognized you, sahib," Abdool said. "They seized me before they entered your hut, and tied a bandage round my mouth, to prevent my giving any alarm. As they took me out into the road, one of them said:

"'Son of Sheitan, I knew you directly I saw you. You were with that English officer, in Nagpore. Then, when I looked at the head of your party I saw that, though he had changed his dress, and stained his face to the colour of ours, it was the same man who came as an envoy to our rajah, and whose house we attacked.

"'We shall hear what the rajah says to him when we take him to Nagpore.'"

"I understand now, Abdool. I have thought of my own disguise, and that of the troopers; but as you always, except when riding behind me, dress in your native clothes, it seemed to me a matter of course that you would pass without difficulty; and it never occurred to me that you must, during our three months' stay at Nagpore, have become known by sight to most of the people there. It is a bad blunder, and it will be a lesson to me, in future."

Then he turned, and spoke to the troopers.

"You have done well, indeed, tonight," he said, "and I owe it to you that I have escaped, if not death, an imprisonment of months. If I had been taken to Nagpore, and handed over to the rajah, he would doubtless have imprisoned me; but would not have ventured to take my life, for he would have known that the part that he had taken against us would be more readily forgiven, than the murder of a British officer. But I do not think I should have reached the palace. Furious as the people must be at their crushing defeat at Assaye, they would have torn me to pieces, the moment they heard from my captors that I was an Englishman; therefore I feel that you have saved my life.

"How was it that you were not also surprised?"

When he heard how the alarm had been given, and how they had at once mounted and ridden out, just as a party were about to enter the hut, he said:

"It was well done, and shows that you are quick fellows, as well as brave. I shall report your conduct when we join the army, and shall myself give you a batta of six months' pay.

"Now, we will ride on for a few miles, and then leave the road and take shelter, till morning, in a wood. The horses have had five hours' rest at the village, and there will be time for them to have as much more, before we mount again.

"It is lucky that you bought some grain for them, this evening, instead of waiting till the morning, so they can have a good feed before starting."

Henceforth they avoided the villages as much as possible, and passed unquestioned until they reached the Hustoo river which, at this point, formed the eastern boundary of Berar. They swam the horses across and, after stopping for a few hours at Dundava, rode on; and continued their journey due north, and crossed the Sone river at Maunpoor, having accomplished a journey of nearly a thousand miles in twenty days.

On arriving there Harry found that General Lake had left, six weeks before, and had encamped at Secundara where, on the 26th of August, despatches had been received from the Governor General, authorizing active operations against Scindia and his allies; and two days later the force halted on the Mahratta frontier, within sight of the mosque at Coel, where Perron was encamped.

Perron, a French officer in Scindia's service, commanded no less than forty-three thousand men, and four hundred and sixty-four guns. About half of these were with Scindia in the Deccan, and the force encamped at Coel numbered about twenty thousand.

Perron, an active and ambitious man, had assumed an almost independent position. A large grant of territory had been given him by Scindia, and in this he ruled with absolute authority and, had it not been for the interposition of the British, it is probable that he would, ere long, have assumed the position of an independent prince. Indeed, his army of partially disciplined men was more than a match for the whole force of Scindia.

At a short distance from Coel was the fortress of Alighur, which was considered to be almost impregnable. It was defended by a triple line of walls and fortifications, so that an enemy entering it would have to advance by a devious route from one gate to another, exposed all the time to a terrible artillery fire. It was almost surrounded by a swamp, and the only approach was along a narrow strip of firm ground, leading to the gate.

Early on the morning of the 29th, the British troops advanced to attack Perron's force; but it at once drew off, although the infantry were supported by twenty thousand horse. Believing that Alighur was impregnable, Perron left a strong force there under one of his officers, named Pedron, and marched with his army towards Agra.

On the 4th of September a storming party, commanded by Colonel Monson, left the British camp; and was accompanied by two batteries, each consisting of four eighteen-pounders. A portion of the defenders was posted on the strip of dry ground, outside the gate, where a battery with three guns had been mounted. Before daybreak, Colonel Monson moved forward, with two companies of the 76th Regiment. The enemy took the alarm before he reached their battery, and fled towards the gate, without waiting to discharge their guns.

Monson pressed after them, in the hope of being able to enter before the gate was shut; but he was too late. The entrance was raked by the guns on the walls, which opened with a destructive fire of grape. Ladders were applied to the walls, but these were manned by so strong a body of pikemen that it was found impossible to gain a footing. So bold were the defenders that, as the soldiers fell back, they ran down the ladders and pursued them hotly; but were soon beaten off.

A six pounder was brought up to burst open the gate, but its fire did but little damage; and a twelve pounder was then employed. The gates yielded, and the storming party rushed in. But during the twenty minutes that had elapsed, between the guns opening fire and the time at which the gate yielded, the troops had been exposed to a terrible fire, both of grape and musketry. Colonel Monson was wounded, and the loss was heavy.

The second gate was forced with comparatively little difficulty, although a terrible fire of artillery and musketry was kept up, from the walls on either side of the road, and from the bastion commanding it. The assailants pressed so hotly, upon the defenders of the second gate, that they gained the third before the enemy had time to close it.

But another and stronger gate had still to be passed, and here a desperate stand was made. The troops were obliged to take shelter, close to the wall, until the twelve pounder was brought up. It was of little avail, for the artillerymen were shot down as soon as they endeavoured to work it. At length, two or three officers gathered a party, and made a rush at the wicket gate. Half a dozen muskets were discharged, together, at the lock; and the gate at once gave way.

The whole party rushed forward into the interior of the fortress, gained the ramparts, and opened fire on the enemy, who in vain attempted to drive out the force gathered near the gate; and Pedron, finding further resistance impossible, surrendered.

The loss of the victors, in killed and wounded, amounted to two hundred and twenty-three; while that of the garrison, in killed alone, exceeded two thousand. An enormous quantity of military stores was found here, the French having made it their chief depot. The number of guns captured was two hundred and eighty-one.

On the 7th of September, the army marched for Delhi. On the way, General Lake received a letter from Monsieur Perron, saying that he had quitted the service of Scindia, and requesting a free passage to Lucknow. The easy capture of a fortress that he and his engineers had rendered, as they believed, impregnable, and the loss of all his military stores, sufficed to show him that he could not hope to withstand the progress of the British; and that it was better for him to resign, at once, than to continue a hopeless struggle, especially as the loss of Alighur would excite the fury of Scindia, and possibly lead to his arrest and execution. He had, indeed, received information that he had already lost Scindia's confidence; and that intrigues were being carried on, with some of his officers, to deprive him of his jagheer and command.

His request was therefore granted and, escorted by a party of his own bodyguard, and by some British dragoons, he proceeded to Lucknow and, afterwards, settled in the neighbourhood of Chandernagore.

The capture of Alighur had indeed made a tremendous impression upon the native mind and, as the army advanced, several fortresses that might have made a long defence were abandoned.

On the 11th, General Lake's army encamped within six miles of Delhi; but the tents were but just pitched when intelligence was received that a large force of the enemy was in position, two miles distant. It consisted of sixteen battalions of regular infantry, six thousand cavalry, and a large train of artillery; commanded by Monsieur Bourquieu, Perron's second in command.

General Lake at once, with the whole of his cavalry, reconnoitred the position that the enemy had taken up. It was two miles from the camp, and consisted of a low hill, covered by broken ground on each flank. Seeing that the enemy could only be attacked in front, General Lake ordered the infantry and artillery to come up.

While waiting for their arrival, the cavalry suffered some loss from the enemy's artillery fire. The general, seeing that it was doubtful whether an attack on so strong a position would be successful, determined to attempt to draw the enemy from it. The cavalry advanced a short distance and then, as the fire upon them redoubled, they were ordered to fall back. Their line had hidden the approach of the infantry from the enemy; and the latter, believing that the cavalry were retreating, left their entrenchments and started in pursuit, with shouts of victory. The cavalry opened right and left, and the enemy found themselves face to face with a steady line of infantry; who at once advanced, the general himself leading them, at the head of the 76th Regiment.

A tremendous fire was opened upon them by the Mahratta guns but, when within a hundred paces of the enemy, the whole line fired a volley, and then charged with the bayonet. The enemy did not stand for a moment but, seized by a panic, fled in all directions, pursued by the cavalry and the horse artillery battery. These followed them as far as the banks of the Jumna, and great numbers of the enemy lost their lives in endeavouring to cross the river.

The British loss, in killed and wounded, was nearly six hundred men; while that of the enemy was estimated at two thousand. Sixty-eight pieces of cannon, two waggons laden with treasure, and thirty-seven with ammunition fell into the hands of the victors who, on the 14th, crossed the Jumna, and took possession of the city without opposition; being welcomed enthusiastically by the population, who had long groaned under the terrible oppression of their Mahratta masters.

Two days later, General Lake paid a visit to the unfortunate emperor, who was now eighty-three years old. He had been blinded by his brutal conquerors, and lived in a state of misery, and poverty, greater than that of any of the tillers of the fields of the wide empire over which he had once ruled. He lived for another three years, and was succeeded by his son, Mirza Akbar.

Leaving a force at Delhi, General Lake marched southward, as the strong town of Agra was still in the possession of Scindia's troops. He arrived before the city on the 4th of October and, in three days, had cut off their communication with the surrounding country; his cavalry being assisted by five thousand horse, sent by the Rajah of Bhurtpoor, who had, as soon as he heard of the fall of Alighur, hastened to enter into an alliance with the British.

The garrison was strong, and seven battalions of Scindia's regular infantry were encamped on the glacis, and held possession of the town. The garrison, however, refused to admit them into the fort; as they had determined to share, among themselves, the large amount of treasure deposited there.

Inside the fort great confusion prevailed. The troops had been commanded by English officers, in Scindia's service, and these had been imprisoned as soon as the war broke out. No answer was, therefore, made to the summons to surrender.

On the morning of the 10th, Scindia's infantry were attacked. They fought stoutly, but were finally defeated, and their twenty-six brass guns captured. Two days later, two thousand five hundred of them, who had retired when defeated, and taken shelter under the guns of the fort, came over in a body and took service with the British.

Siege operations were at once commenced and, on the 17th, a battery of eight eighteen-pounders opened fire, with such effect that a breach was almost effected; when the garrison released the British officers, and sent them to the camp to offer to surrender. They were allowed to do so, and to leave the fort with their clothes, but without arms. Six thousand then marched out under these conditions.

One hundred and sixty-four pieces of cannon, with a vast quantity of ammunition and stores, were found in the fort; together with twenty-two lakhs of rupees, which were divided among the captors.

On the 20th, Harry, with his little party, joined the army. He and his troopers had, at Benares, resumed their uniform. He at once waited on General Lake, and handed him the despatch in which General Wellesley had described the victory at Assaye.

"This is great news, indeed, sir," the general said, "but I cannot understand how you have brought it here so speedily."

"I rode in disguise through Berar, sir, and of course the troopers were also disguised. Except that I was attacked in one village -- where I was recognized by a peasant who had seen me, when I was staying as the Governor General's envoy at Nagpore, before the capture of Seringapatam -- I got through without difficulty."

"Yes; I heard from the Marquis of Wellesley that the rajah had been kept from declaring against us, by a young officer of great ability, whom he had sent to Nagpore for the purpose, and who narrowly escaped assassination there when the news of the fall of Seringapatam was received. I think he said that you had a perfect knowledge of Mahratti, and also of Hindustani; and that he had sent you to accompany his brother, General Wellesley.

"Well, the news of Assaye is welcome, indeed, and Scindia will be very chary of weakening his army in the Deccan by sending reinforcements in this direction.

"I see, sir, that General Wellesley has begged me to temporarily place you on my staff as, in the present troubled state of the country, it would be dangerous to endeavour to make your way back to him. Of course, I will gladly do so, for your knowledge of the languages will be very useful to me, for none of my staff can speak either of them well."

General Lake sent for the head of his staff, introduced Harry to him, and informed him of the news that he had brought; and then ordered a general salute to be fired, by all the available guns in the fort and artillery batteries. It was not long before the roar of cannon began, telling the army that a splendid victory had been won in the west; and a short time later notices were affixed to the gates of the forts, and other public places, relating how General Wellesley, with but four thousand five hundred men, had routed the army of Holkar and the Rajah of Berar -- amounting in all to over fifty thousand, of whom ten thousand five hundred were disciplined troops, commanded by Frenchmen. The news excited the utmost enthusiasm among the troops, as the disproportion of numbers was far greater than it had been at the battle of Delhi.



Chapter 16: A Disastrous Retreat.


A few days later, the news was received that seven of Scindia's regular battalions had just arrived, from the Deccan, under the command of a French officer; and had been joined by five others, the whole amounting to nine thousand well-trained infantry, with five thousand cavalry and seventy-five guns. As it was understood that they were intending the recapture of Delhi, General Lake marched against them on the 27th of October and, pressing forward with all speed, came up with them on the morning of the 1st of November. They at once retreated; and General Lake, whose infantry was still some distance in the rear, determined to attack them, at once. As they retired, the enemy cut the bank of a large tank and flooded the ground, thereby impeding the advance of the cavalry, and giving time to Scindia's men to take up a strong position between the villages of Laswaree and Mohaulpore.

Plan of the Battle of Laswaree.

Their right was protected by a deep ravine; their rear by a rivulet; their front was lined with their seventy-five guns, chained together so as to protect the artillerymen from a charge of horse. The ground in front of them was covered with deep grass, which partially concealed their disposition.

The three brigades of cavalry charged boldly up, but were received with a terrible fire, and fell back with much loss and, seeing the impossibility of carrying the enemy's position without infantry, General Lake deferred making another attack until they came up. As soon as these and the artillery reached the spot, he prepared for an assault.

The Mahrattas had, in the meantime, changed their position; and drawn up one line in front and one in rear of the village of Mohaulpore. The French officer who had been in command of their army had, two days before, left their camp and ridden to meet General Lake's army; and had there surrendered, and a Mahratta officer had succeeded him in command. Shaken by the repeated successes of the British, he now offered to surrender his guns. An hour was given him to do so but, as no movement was made at the end of that time, orders were given for the advance.

The infantry consisted of the 76th Regiment and six battalions of Sepoys. One of the three brigades of cavalry was directed to support them; another was sent to the right to watch the enemy, and to take advantage of any confusion that might appear among them; the third brigade formed the reserve. The four batteries of artillery were to support the attack. General Lake's plan was to turn the enemy's right flank, and he moved off his infantry along the bank of a rivulet which ran round near the right angle of the enemy's new position. The high grass, for a time, concealed the movement but, as soon as the Mahrattas perceived it they threw back their right flank, and opened a tremendous fire upon the village.

The British artillery now opened, but the enemy's cannon were far superior in number, and were well served; and the ranks of the 76th, who were in front of the advance, were terribly thinned. The general was with them and, as soon as a battalion and a half of Sepoys had come up, led them against the enemy's position.

The latter now opened with canister and, the ground being of a broken character, the formation of the assailants' line was to some extent disordered and the Mahratta cavalry charged. They were repulsed by heavy volleys from the infantry, but they rallied and, being reinforced, were about to resume the attack, when the general ordered the 29th Dragoons to charge. They burst through both lines of the enemy's infantry, wheeled round and charged the cavalry, and drove them from the field; and then turning again, fell on the rear of the second line, which was now hotly engaged with the British infantry who, following the Dragoons at the double, had rushed forward on the guns, captured them, and driven the first line back on the second.

The rest of the British infantry had now come up; but Perron's regular infantry, who were all drawn from hill districts, and had been victorious in many a fight, resisted to the last. Two thousand were surrounded and made prisoners, but the rest all fought until they fell.

The victory of Laswaree cost the British eight hundred and twenty-four men, killed and wounded; but it completed the overthrow of the whole of the regiments trained by Perron and de Boigne, and laid the tract of country watered by the Jumna under the power of the British.

Harry, who had accompanied the general, having carried the order to the Dragoons to charge, rode with them and came unhurt out of the desperate fight.

A few days later the army quitted Laswaree and moved towards Agra, resting for a fortnight at Besawur. The great successes gained by both the British armies had had their effect, and a number of rajahs came in to make a treaty of alliance. General Lake's force, after a short rest, then marched southward, and took up a position at Biana.

While these events had been going on, a detachment from the army had entered Bundelcund. This had been under the control of the Peishwa but, by an agreement made with him in August, it was ceded to the Company; he receiving, in exchange, grants in the southern Mahratta country, and near Surat. He sent orders to this effect to his officers.

Shamsheer, a descendant of the first Peishwa, refused to obey him; and the British force entered Bundelcund and, being joined by a powerful chief -- with eight thousand irregular infantry, four thousand horse, and three regular battalions of infantry, commanded by a European officer -- captured several strongholds. Shamsheer then treated for peace but, after having delayed the advance for two months, finally broke off negotiations, suddenly; and the British at once laid siege to Calpee, which capitulated on the 4th of December. Finding himself unable to resist the farther advance of the British, Shamsheer then surrendered.

In October, Ambajee Inglia, who had acted as Scindia's representative and held, under him, extensive territories, had offered to renounce his dependence on Scindia, and become a tributary of the British. Negotiations were, as usual, spun out to a great length; but a treaty was concluded with him, on the 16th of December, by which he agreed to surrender Gwalior and the lands to the north of it, and to remain as an independent sovereign of the other territories in his possession.

A corps, under Colonel White, was sent to take possession of the fortress. The commandant refused to recognize the arrangement but, upon batteries being erected, a breach was soon effected, and the garrison surrendered.

The news came that Scindia had broken his treaty, and had been defeated with great slaughter by General Wellesley, who afterwards besieged the strong fortress of Gawilghur. Guns were brought up, with great difficulty, over thirty miles of mountains and ravines. They opened fire on the 13th of December and, as soon as a breach was practicable, the place was carried by storm, and a large quantity of guns and ammunition fell into the hands of the British.

The Rajah of Berar, terrified at the defeat of Scindia, now sent to ask for peace, and ceded the district of Cuttack; thereby placing the whole of the maritime provinces, between Madras and Calcutta, in the hands of the British. Scindia, finding himself forsaken by his ally, also made peace, surrendering a considerable portion of his territories.

1804 opened quietly, but peace was not long maintained. Holkar had, after his expulsion from Poona, made peace with Scindia and, when hostilities commenced, had waited to see the result before committing himself. At first he viewed with satisfaction the misfortunes that had befallen Scindia and the Rajah of Berar but, when he saw that they were threatened with annihilation, he prepared to aid them. He had, however, delayed too long and, when Scindia and the Rajah of Berar had been obliged to crave for peace, he kept his army on the frontier of the Rajah of Jaipore, now a British ally.

General Lake addressed a letter to him, saying that the British Government were willing to leave him unmolested; but requiring, as a pledge of his good intentions, that he should withdraw into his own territory. Holkar sent back a long list of demands, which were impossible to satisfy; and also addressed a letter to General -- now Sir Arthur -- Wellesley, threatening to overrun the whole country, unless some of the districts in the Deccan were ceded to him and, after sending off this letter, he began raiding the territory of Jaipore. Colonel Murray was therefore sent to aid the rajah, and to march in the direction of Holkar's capital; while Lord Lake marched westward, until he neared Jaipore.

On the 15th of May a detachment captured the strong fort of Rampoora, the sole fortress which Holkar possessed north of the Chumbul river; and Holkar immediately fell back. The heat being now intense, the general left Colonel Monson, with five battalions of Sepoys and three thousand irregular horse, sent by Rajpoot allies, and returned to Agra, losing numbers of his men on the march, by sunstroke.

Harry had been left with Colonel Monson. The latter, intending to cooperate with Colonel Murray, entered Holkar's territory and, on the way, captured a strong hill fort. He afterwards advanced fifty miles beyond the range of mountains that formed the frontier.

On the 7th of July he heard that Holkar was advancing, with his whole army, to meet him. Monson's force was much weakened by the absence of two detachments, one of which had garrisoned the hill fort that had been captured, and another had gone to fetch a supply of grain. Almost at the same time he heard a report that Colonel Murray intended to fall back.

After consulting with Harry, who, as one of Lord Lake's staff, was considered as his special representative, it was agreed that it would be madness, with so small a force, to give battle to Holkar and, at four in the morning on the following day, Monson sent off his baggage and stores; and remained, with his troops drawn up in order of battle, until nine o'clock; leaving the irregular cavalry, under Lieutenant Lucan, to follow in half an hour, and bring him intelligence of Holkar's movements.

Monson marched twelve miles when a trooper of the irregular cavalry overtook him, with the news that they had been completely defeated by Holkar's army, and that Lucan had been made prisoner. The retreat was continued, and the force reached the pass across the mountains on the evening of the following day, and took up a position there. Holkar's cavalry appeared next morning and, on the 11th, Holkar himself arrived and sent in a demand for the surrender of the cannon and muskets. This was refused, and Holkar, dividing his horse into three bodies, charged the detachment vigorously in front and both flanks; but the defenders again and again repulsed the attack. Holkar then drew off about four miles, and was joined by the artillery and infantry.

"What is your opinion, Captain Lindsay?" Colonel Monson said.

"If we had a regiment of British infantry with us, sir, I should say that we might attack them, with success; but with only four battalions of Sepoys, it seems to me that a retreat would be the better choice of two evils. We shall undoubtedly suffer heavily. The rain is pouring down unceasingly, and I doubt whether we shall be able to get the guns along; but we ought to be able to march as fast as Holkar's infantry and, as to his cavalry, we can certainly beat them off."

Two long marches were made. The enemy's cavalry swarmed round them, but dared not attack; and the force arrived safely at Kotah, where they expected to find food and shelter. The rajah, however, closed the gates and refused to admit them; and the force pressed on towards a ford on the Chumbul. The distance was only seven miles but, from the incessant rain and the state of the road, a whole day was spent in accomplishing it.

The ford was impassable, but during the night it subsided a little, and they were able to cross. A day's halt was necessary, in order to procure some grain; and on the 15th, when the march was continued, the guns sank so deep in the mud that they could not be extricated, and they were therefore spiked and abandoned.

Two days later the force reached another river, but it was so swollen that it was unfordable. The artillerymen were sent across, on elephants; but ten days were spent in carrying the rest of the troops over, partly on elephants and partly on rafts. Terrible privation was suffered, and many men were drowned in crossing; while the wives and children of the Sepoys who, by some gross mismanagement, were left to the last, were slaughtered by the enemy under the eyes of their husbands and fathers.

On the 29th the corps reached Rampoora; where a reinforcement of two battalions of Sepoys, six guns, and a body of cavalry, together with a supply of grain forwarded by Lord Lake from Agra, awaited them. Notwithstanding this reinforcement, Colonel Monson considered it his duty to continue his retreat and, on the 22nd of August, reached the Banass, which was also in flood. Some boats, however, were found, and a portion of the troops were carried across.

Early the next morning Holkar's cavalry appeared, and encamped at a distance of four miles. The next day the river was fordable, and most of the baggage and four battalions crossed. The enemy's cavalry also crossed in great numbers, both to the right and left of the British position.

Their artillery and infantry arrived in the afternoon, and opened fire on the battalions still left on the bank. Harry was with these. Seeing that they were being decimated by the guns, he called upon the Sepoys to charge. This they did with great spirit, drove back the enemy, and captured some of the guns; but the Mahrattas soon rallied and, led by Holkar himself, charged in such overwhelming numbers that the handful of troops was nearly annihilated. Harry, seeing that all was lost, cut his way through the enemy's horse and succeeded in crossing the river.

Harry succeeded in crossing the river.

Colonel Monson continued his retreat, and reached Kooshalpur on the night of the 25th. He found that the native officer in command there had declared for Holkar; but that the fort, which contained the elephants and baggage, still held out. That evening Monson learnt that some of his Sepoy officers were in communication with Holkar; and two companies, and a large portion of the native cavalry deserted.

The whole of the enemy's cavalry now encamped round the detachment. At seven in the evening Colonel Monson continued his march, forming his troops into an oblong, which the enemy in vain attempted to break. On the night of the 27th, after halting for a few hours, he moved again, at one in the morning; but had no sooner cleared the broken ground than the enemy's cavalry made a desperate charge. This was repulsed with great coolness, the Sepoys reserving their fire till the enemy were within bayonet reach.

At sunset the troops, worn out by fatigue and hunger, arrived at the Biana pass; but the enemy brought up their guns, and the retreat was continued. The confusion in the ranks, which had been increasing all day, now extended; and the troops broke and fled to Agra, pursued by straggling parties of the enemy for the greater portion of the distance.

In consequence of this disastrous affair, it was decided that Lord Lake should immediately take the field; although the wet weather still continued, and a large tract of country was under water. Four weeks after the arrival of Monson, with his fugitives, the army marched out of their cantonment, and encamped on the right bank of the river.

The situation was critical. Holkar's army numbered ninety-two thousand men, of whom sixty-six thousand were cavalry, and he had with him ninety-two cannon. He had advanced to Muttra, which had been abandoned at his approach.

Lord Lake sent for Harry.

"I have another dangerous mission for you, Captain Lindsay. I consider it more than possible that Holkar will make an attempt to recapture Delhi. Colonel Ochterlony, in command there, must be warned of the probability of an attack. He may be in ignorance of what is passing here. You will bear this despatch, urging on him to do all that he can to place the town in a state of defence, and to summon to his assistance as many irregulars as possible from the neighbouring chiefs. The distance is a hundred and twenty miles. I leave it to you whether to go in uniform, or in disguise."

"I think, sir, that I had better disguise myself as, doubtless, Holkar's cavalry are spread all over the country intent on plundering and, should I fall in with them, I ought to have no difficulty in passing myself off as one of themselves. I will leave my uniform here, to be brought on with the baggage. They might take it into their heads to search my saddlebags."

"I think that would be the wisest plan," the general said. "You will, of course, remain at Delhi till reinforcements arrive there. The despatches will be ready for you, in an hour's time."

There was no difficulty in obtaining dye at Agra, and Harry stained himself from head to foot, put on the disguise in which he had ridden with the news of Assaye and, after receiving the despatch, started at once. The direct road lay through Muttra but, as Holkar's main body was at this town, he rode to the northeast as far as Secundara. There was no occasion for any great haste, for it was certain that some little time must elapse before Holkar could march from Muttra; and he accordingly stopped for the night at Coringunga, having ridden about fifty miles. He speedily secured a room, and Abdool at once set to, to prepare a meal. While it was being cooked, there was a sound of a body of horse entering the village.

"It is unfortunate that we have stopped here, Abdool," he said. "We are sure to be questioned."

Ten minutes later the door opened, and an officer of Holkar's irregular horse entered.

"I hear that you have just arrived," he said.

"Yes; I rode in but half an hour ago."

"Where are you going?"

"To Sambol. There seems no chance of fighting, at present; and I therefore left the army to pay a visit, for a day or two, to some friends. My man has just prepared a meal. Will you share it with me?"

"I will, with pleasure," the officer said, "for I have ridden from Muttra, and may have to wait an hour before my supper is ready for me. What may be your name?"

"Puntojee. And yours?"

"Wisnas."

The officer unbuckled his sword, and seated himself on the ground, the room being entirely unfurnished.

"Were you in that affair, when we chased the English dogs from beyond the mountains to Agra?"

"Yes, I was in it; and never wish to campaign in such weather again. I was wet through for three weeks; and hardly feel that I have got dry, yet."

"They are brave fellows, those Sepoys in the English service."

"They are, indeed," Harry agreed. "It seemed that we must destroy them; and yet they withstood our attacks, weary and exhausted as they must have been. The worst of it was that, after all our exertions, there was no booty to be obtained."

"Yes, that was bad. One doesn't feel so disposed to risk one's life, when there is nothing to be gained. We did not even succeed in capturing their treasure chest. If we could have brought our infantry up, we should have destroyed them; but they had to march at the same rate as the guns; and in such weather they could get along but slowly, for it often required the bullocks of four guns to drag one through those quagmires.

"That was where the English had the advantage over us. The road was, no doubt, bad enough for them; it was infinitely worse for us, after they had cut it up in passing.

"It was a mistake when Scindia began to form regiments of infantry, and Holkar and the Peishwa imitated him. Before that, we had India at our mercy. What power could withstand a hundred thousand horsemen, here today, there tomorrow? Then, we had it in our power to waste all the country, and to starve out the fortresses from Cuttack to the north. Our territory extended from the great mountains on the east, to the sea in the west.

"Now we can only move at the pace of footmen; and while, formerly, no infantry would venture to withstand our charge; now, as you see, a handful of Sepoys set us at defiance, repulsed our charges, and gained Agra simply because our guns and infantry could not arrive to help us."

"There can be no doubt that you are right," Harry agreed; "but I cannot blame Scindia and Holkar for forming regiments of infantry, trained by foreign officers. They had seen how the regiments so raised, by the English, had won great victories in the Carnatic and Bengal; and they did not think at that time that, ere long, they might become formidable to the Mahrattas. Scindia and Holkar raised their regiments, not to fight against the strangers, but against each other. It was their mutual hostility that so diminished the strength of the Mahrattas. When dogs fight dogs, the wild boar ravages the land."

"It is true enough," the other said. "As a nation we might have ruled Asia but, divided among ourselves, wasting our forces against each other, we have allowed the stranger to wrest province after province from us.

"Now, I will go out and see that the men have all got quarters, and that the people of the village are feeding them, as they should. In truth, we have been having a bad time, lately."

"Yes, indeed; I thought myself lucky, sometimes, to get a handful of grain after twenty hours in the saddle.

"It cannot be helped, comrade. We must drive the strangers back towards Allahabad; recover Benares, Agra, and Delhi; and then we shall be able to rest in peace, for a time, before we settle accounts with Scindia, and the others who have made a disgraceful peace with the English. We shall never have peace in the Deccan till we sack and destroy Bombay, and force the last Englishman to take to his ships."

Harry started with Abdool before daybreak the next morning and, riding all day, reached Delhi late in the evening. Putting up the horses, he proceeded to the house occupied by Colonel Ochterlony, the Resident.

"Will you tell the colonel," he said, "that I am an officer with despatches from General Lake?"

He was at once shown in. Colonel Burns, the commander of the garrison, was with the Resident. Neither was surprised that the messenger should be a native, for they knew the difficulties a British officer would encounter in travelling from Agra.

"I have ridden with a despatch for you, Colonel, from General Lake. I am Captain Lindsay, and have the honour of serving on the general's staff."

"I am glad to see you, sir," Ochterlony said, kindly. "Your name is pretty well known, to all of us, as that of an officer who has successfully carried out several dangerous enterprises; and this cannot have been one of the most dangerous of them, for indeed, in that disguise I do not think that anyone would entertain the slightest suspicion that you are not what you appear to be.

"I am told you speak Mahratta perfectly."

"I was brought up among the Mahrattas, sir. I have got through easily, and only once came upon a body of Holkar's cavalry."

"You have just arrived, Captain Lindsay?"

"Yes, not ten minutes ago."

The colonel rang the bell, and directed a servant who came in to bring in wine and refreshments. He then opened the despatches which, after reading, he passed across to Colonel Burns.

"Of course, we have heard reports of the disaster to Monson's force. Was it as serious as they say?"

"It was very serious, sir. I was with them, and they suffered terribly. They lost their guns and baggage, and at least a third of their infantry."

"It is unfortunate, very unfortunate, Captain Lindsay. We have had so many victories, of late, that the natives must have almost concluded that we were invincible; but this check will encourage them, and will doubtless bring many waverers over to their side."

"I don't think that it was, in any way, Colonel Monson's fault. His column was to join that of Colonel Murray -- who, however, doubtless learning the great strength Holkar had with him, fell back -- and with only five battalions of Sepoys, and a dozen guns, it was practically impossible that Monson could, single handed, resist the attack of ninety thousand men. If he had had with him a couple of British battalions, and a regiment or two of our cavalry, he might have held the passes but, alone, it did not seem to me possible that he could do so; especially when the enemy's cavalry could have crossed the hills at other points, and taken them in the rear. Even if he had resisted all attacks, he must have been starved out.

"As being, in a sort of way, representative of General Lake, Colonel Monson was good enough to ask my opinion; and I quite agreed with him that the best plan was to fall back. We believed, of course, that we should find shelter at Kotah, but two days' march in the rear and, had not the rajah declared for Holkar, and shut his gates, all would have been well; for we beat off all attacks, on our way there. It was his treachery, and that of the commandant of Kooshalpur, that caused the disaster."

"Holkar is at Muttra, and Lake is about to march against him?"

"Yes, sir. If Holkar gives battle there he will, no doubt, be defeated but, as this despatch will have informed you, General Lake feared much that, as he advances, Holkar will content himself with harassing him on the march with a cloud of horsemen while, with the main body of his army, he marches rapidly north, to endeavour to recapture Delhi and obtain possession of the Emperor's person. It is to warn you of that danger that I have ridden here."

"The danger is, no doubt, serious," the Resident said; "and the town is certainly in no position for defence. The walls are in a most dilapidated condition, and would crumble after a few hours' cannonade. Colonel Burns's force is wholly inadequate to defend a city of some ten miles in circumference. The irregular troops cannot be relied upon, in case of need. However, we must do what we can and, as we may be sure that General Lake will hasten on with all speed, we shall not have to hold out for many days.

"Now, Captain Lindsay, as you say that you only left Agra yesterday morning, and have ridden some eighty miles, today, I am sure you have need of rest. The general has told me to employ you on any duty that I may think requisite; therefore, if you will come here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I shall be glad, indeed, of your services. Where did you leave your horses?"

"I left them at a khan, a few minutes' walk from here."

"Then if you will go down, and tell your man to bring them up, they can be put up in the stables here. I have already ordered a room to be prepared for you. My servants will give your man some food."

The next morning Harry, after taking the early breakfast a servant brought to his room, went down to Colonel Ochterlony's office.

"I have not brought my uniform with me, Colonel," he said, "for I might have been searched."

"That does not matter. Two of my escort shall ride with you, which will be sufficient to show that you represent me. Here is a list of the zemindars within fifteen miles of the city. You will, today, visit as many of them as possible, and request them to ride in to see me, tomorrow morning. I have directed that you are to have one of my horses for, after the work yours has just had, it will need two or three days' rest.

"Say nothing about the possibility of Holkar's coming here. They might hang back, if you did so. I would rather meet them as a body, and open the matter to them, myself. You will be able to see, by their manner, if any of them have thought of the possibility of the city being besieged. If they have, some of them will possibly excuse themselves coming; though I think that the great majority will come, for they must know well enough that, if Holkar took the city, his troops would ravage the country, as they have done all the villages through which they have passed; and that, therefore, it is to their interest to aid in its defence.

"I am going now to see the Emperor, and to obtain from him an order for all the able-bodied men of the city to set to work, under my orders and those of Colonel Burns, to repair the fortifications at the points where an enemy would naturally attack them.

"In any case, where you see that those you call upon make excuses for not coming in, you have my full authority for telling them that all who do not do so will be regarded as our enemies, and will be severely punished, and their estates forfeited. No excuse, whatever, will be accepted unless, on your arrival, you find that a man is seriously ill; in which case you will order that his son, or some near relation, be sent to represent him."

For the next three days, Harry spent his whole time on horseback and, although it was evident to him that several of those he visited were averse to going into Delhi, none of them ventured to incur the displeasure of the English Resident by an absolute refusal. Each morning, therefore, Colonel Ochterlony received those Harry had visited on the previous day. He told them, frankly, that it was possible that Holkar might appear before the walls; but assured them that he had no doubt of being able to resist all attacks, until General Lake arrived, which he would be sure to do in a few days.

In the meantime, great numbers of men laboured at the walls. The battlements had in some cases fallen, and the gaps were filled up with sandbags. The moat, which had been neglected for many years, was cleared out; and the side made steeper, so that an attacking party would have to use ladders, both for descending into it and climbing out. The bastions were repaired, as far as could be done; and the houses in the lane that ran round, inside the wall, were all loopholed for musketry.

Many of the irregular cavalry had deserted; but the Sepoys stood firm, knowing how terrible were the cruelties perpetrated, by Holkar, on all who fell into his hands. Their number was small; but they were, to some extent, strengthened by the levies brought in by the zemindars.

There was no time to be lost for, on the 2nd of September, General Lake had approached to within a mile of Muttra; which had already been abandoned by Holkar, whose horsemen made their appearance before Delhi on the 7th. The irregular cavalry and those of the zemindars were ordered to attack them but, as soon as they left the town, they dispersed and rode away.

The next day the enemy's infantry and artillery came up, and a heavy fire was immediately opened on the southeast angle of the city wall. In twenty-four hours the whole of the parapet was demolished, and some partial breaches made in the wall itself. The Sepoys, encouraged by the presence and efforts of Ochterlony and Burns, stood their ground with great courage and, at nightfall, laboured incessantly at repairing the breaches, and in making a new parapet with sandbags.

Towards morning they formed up; passed out through one of the breaches, led by their officers; made a rush at the battery that had been doing so much damage, bayoneted or drove off the enemy stationed there, and spiked the guns.

In the meantime, some guns had been playing against the southern walls. Here they were able to approach, through gardens and the ruins of a village, until near the defences and, establishing a powerful battery, opened fire, and soon made a breach in the walls between the Turkoman and Ajmere gates.

Unable to hinder them the Sepoys, aided by a portion of the population, worked from the morning of the 10th until that of the 12th to form an inner defence. The houses near the breach were pulled down, and the materials used for forming strong barricades at the mouths of the streets leading from it. The houses themselves were loopholed, and everything was prepared for a desperate defence. During that day the guns continued to enlarge the breach; and the Sepoys, who had laboured almost incessantly for four nights and days, were able to lie down for some hours.

That night passed quietly. Holkar had probably heard, from adherents in the town, of the retrenchment that had been formed; and Colonel Ochterlony believed that the absence of any movement towards the breach was a sign that he was making preparations for a sudden attack at some other point. Sentries were placed along the walls facing the encampment of his army and, just before dawn, the discharge of a musket, at the Lahore gate, showed that it was against it that the enemy's attack was directed.

The Sepoys had been bivouacked in an open space, in the centre of the city, and they at once proceeded to the point threatened. In the dim early morning light, a great mass of men could be made out approaching and, at the same moment, fifty guns opened fire on the gate, to cover their advance. The cannon on the bastion by the gate replied, directing their fire on the infantry column. These, however, pushed forward with loud shouts. Many of them carried ladders and, although suffering heavily from the musketry fire -- opened as soon as they came within easy range -- they placed the ladders against the wall, and strove to climb them. The face of the wall was flanked by the bastion and, from this, an incessant fire of musketry was maintained by a strong force of Sepoys; while others repulsed, with the bayonet, the efforts of their assailants to gain a footing, and hurled backwards many of the ladders. Holkar's men, who had expected to effect a surprise, and carry the wall before its defenders could arrive there, soon lost heart and in a short time fled, leaving most of their ladders behind them.

The little garrison remained under arms all that day and the next night, expecting another assault. But, on the morning of the 15th, Holkar and his army were seen marching away in the distance and, on the 18th, Lord Lake arrived.

Harry had not taken part in the defence of Delhi. He had, on the day before Holkar's army arrived before the city, ridden out to Sekerah, some five-and-twenty miles away. It was some distance beyond any point he had hitherto reached; but the petty rajah, who held a wide jagheer, could put five hundred men in the field. A small British force had been stationed there; but it had been recalled, at once, when Harry brought the news of the probable approach of Holkar. The rajah then promised to send three hundred of his troops, to aid in the defence of the city; but none had arrived, and Harry's mission was to urge him to send them off, instantly.

The rajah had, however, heard that Holkar's force was within a day's march of the capital and, entertaining no doubt that he would carry the feeble defences without difficulty, had resolved to throw in his lot with him. Harry was now riding in uniform, having obtained the loan of a jacket, trousers, and cap from one of the British officers of the garrison. The rajah received him in his palace; and Harry saw at once, by the scowling faces of the men who gathered round him, that he had only waited for the news that Holkar's army was near Delhi before throwing off the mask of friendship.

"I have come over, Rajah," he said, "to tell you that Colonel Ochterlony requests that you will send every available fighting man to Delhi, at once. He prays you to despatch as many as you can possibly gather together."

The rajah replied coldly:

"Why should I do so? By tomorrow night Holkar, with his great army, will have captured the town. Why should I send my men there to die, fighting for strangers? I take no orders from them. I have received the Emperor's, it is true; but he is old and infirm, and is a prisoner in your hands."

"I deny that he is a prisoner, Rajah. He is treated with all honour, and is in a very different position from that which he occupied when he was imprisoned by the Mahrattas."

"The Mahrattas are a great people," the rajah answered, angrily. "Has not Holkar driven a force of the infidels into Agra? And soon, when he has captured Delhi, he will defeat the rest of them, and carry his arms to Benares."

"In that case," Harry said quietly, "it is a pity that he did not first crush the English army, and then march to Benares, and finish with Delhi at his leisure. Instead of so doing he has avoided a battle, and is retiring north with his army."

"It is not true!" the rajah shouted. "He wishes first to gain possession of the capital, to liberate the Emperor and, after that, he will soon make an end of your people."

He made a sign to those standing round him, who immediately threw themselves upon Harry. The latter offered no resistance, seeing that it would only lead to his being killed, on the spot.

He was at once dragged out from the audience chamber to the courtyard beyond. He saw the bodies of the two native troopers who had accompanied him. Abdool, who had also been with him, was missing and, knowing how watchful and active he was, he hoped that he might have mounted and ridden off, before he could be attacked.



Chapter 17: An Escape.


Harry's arms were at once bound. He was placed on a horse and, escorted by ten natives, was taken out of the town and, after a ride of three hours, arrived at the foot of a strong hill fort, perched on a lofty rock. Here the party dismounted. Halfway up the hill they passed through a gate in the lower wall; and then mounted to the fort, where the officer in command received them and, on reading an order from the rajah, conducted the prisoner into a room at the summit of the highest tower. His arms were then unbound, and the governor and soldiers left the room, locking and barring the door behind them.

On the way, Harry had thought over his position. It did not seem to him desperate, if only Holkar failed to capture Delhi; and even if he did so, there was still some hope. He had no doubt that the rajah was waiting to see how matters went. If Holkar captured the city, he would probably send him in to him as a pledge of his goodwill; but he might still hesitate, until he saw the issue of the battle that was likely to be fought outside the walls, when the English army arrived there. He had hitherto affected friendship with the English; and had offered no objection, whatever, to the small force being stationed near his town. But, doubtless, the news of the disaster to Colonel Monson's force had shaken him; and convinced him that the English were not invincible, and that Holkar's immense army would inflict a decisive defeat upon them, in which case those who had shown any friendly feeling towards the English would be made to suffer for it -- by devastation of their lands, and the loss of their jagheer, if not of their lives. Harry felt, therefore, that the success of the attack on Delhi would probably be as disastrous, to himself, as to all the defenders of the city.

His first impulse was to look out from the loopholes of the tower. On the one side, as he had noticed, the rock fell sheer away from the foot of the wall, to a depth of two or three hundred feet. On the other side he looked down into a courtyard, sixty feet below him. This was surrounded by high and very strong walls, bristling with cannon; and with strong circular bastions at each corner.

Immediately below him was the flat roof of the house occupied by the rajah, when staying at the fort; and round the yard were low buildings, doubtless containing provisions and munitions of war; and some of them allotted to the picked corps who did duty there, the huts for the rest of the garrison being lower down the hill, near the second wall.

In one corner of the room was a door. On trying it, he found it to be unfastened and, opening it, he walked out. There was a flight of narrow stone steps, in what was evidently a projecting turret. Ascending these, he found himself on a flat roof, on the top of the tower. He spent half an hour here, examining carefully the features of the ground and the defences of the fort. The place, though strong, did not approach, in this respect, many of the hill forts that he had seen in the Deccan; and he concluded that a British force of moderate strength could easily effect its capture though, if stoutly held, it could defy native attack.

He then returned to the room below. Half an hour later, some armed natives entered. One of them carried a large bundle of straw, which he threw down in one corner; another bore a dish of rice, and a third a skin of water. They had evidently been told not to address him for, as soon as they had placed their burdens on the ground, they retired without any remark.

"This is bad," Harry said to himself, when they had left. "I would just as lief sleep on straw as on a bed but, if I had had some blankets, I might have made myself a rope; though I don't think it would have reached the roof of the house below, much less to the courtyard, so that idea must be given up. I have heard of fellows working their way through the floors of their cells; but they have taken away my knife, and there is not a scrap of furniture from which I could get some iron to manufacture a tool. There is no concealing a knife, when they bring my food; for it is sure to be as it is today -- rice, or some other grain, boiled, and not even a spoon to eat it with.

"The door seems the only possible way though, at present, I cannot see where the possibility comes in. It is of solid wood, and strong enough to cage a tiger. Still, if I am to get out, I fancy that it must be through the door."

A closer examination of it did not increase his hopes. Even when he pushed his hardest against it, it did not yield in the slightest degree. He sat down on the straw, and turned over every possible idea in his mind. No scheme of getting out of the difficulty presented itself.

"The only chance that I can see is that, instead of four fellows coming up with the man who brings my food, there may be only two. Taking them by surprise, and snatching a weapon from them, I might manage three of them; but I could not even hope to silence five, before they gave the alarm.

"I hope that Abdool got away safely. I think that if he did, he was likely, when he had once shaken off pursuit, to come back and try to find out what had become of me. His face could not have been particularly noticed, for I expect the troopers were attacked as soon as I entered that scoundrel's house; and if he took off his uniform, and went in in native dress, there would be little chance of his being recognized. When he finds out where I have been taken, he will no doubt go back to Delhi, and report; but with Holkar within two miles, they have too much on their hands to think of sending to demand my release. If Holkar fails to take the place, and retires as Lake approaches, there will no doubt be a hot pursuit; and certainly they could not send two or three hundred men here. Less than that would be of no good, whatever. The rajah has committed himself, by the murder of my troopers and, as he cannot hope for forgiveness, he would either fly to Oude, or else move in here with his force, with which he would think himself safe from anything short of an army.

"It is certain that, with such important work on hand, no men can be spared for a rescue expedition. No, there is not a shadow of chance, unless Holkar is defeated."

Having settled this matter in his mind, and decided that no amount of thinking would enable him to see a way of escaping; Harry dismissed the subject from his thoughts, ate his rice, and lay down as soon as it became dark, having had but little rest for the past week.

Two days passed. As he was sitting on the platform over his cell, he heard a distant boom, and knew that Holkar was besieging Delhi. The next day, to his satisfaction, the sound of cannonading was again distinct.

"At any rate," he said to himself, "Holkar has not carried the place by a sudden rush. There is a regularity about the fire that shows that it is deliberate. No doubt they are breaching one of the walls."

Going to the other side of the platform, he saw that a good many of the rajah's followers were standing on the wall, listening to the firing. The wall itself was some thirty-five feet below the spot where he was standing; neither loophole of his cell commanded a view of it, so that a prisoner could hold no conversation with the guard below.

Presently another man came up on to the walls, and approached the group there. He was, like the others, dressed in a small white turban, a short jacket made of unbleached hemp; underneath which was a loose tunic, bound at the waist with a sash, and coming down to the knees. He carried a spear and matchlock, and across his shoulder a small shield was slung. The others did not turn round and, when a few yards from them, he looked up at Harry; and the latter saw, to his delight, that he was Abdool.

Harry dared not make any gesture that might be noticed; but he nodded his head slightly, and walked to the other side of the platform, where he remained for a short time, and then returned. Abdool looked again in his direction; but continued to talk with the others as to the attack upon the town, and agreed with them that Holkar would make short work of its defenders.

Presently the whole party descended to the courtyard, together. Some of them went down to the lower wall, to talk to their comrades there; but whether Abdool accompanied them, or was still in the fort, Harry could not make out. He did not, indeed, remain long on the platform but, after looking towards Delhi for some little time, he went down to his room.

It was evident that Abdool had enlisted in the rajah's service; and had, no doubt, been engaged by the governor of the fort. The rajah would be uneasy in his mind, and would assuredly take on any men that presented themselves; in order to strengthen himself, if Holkar failed to take the town; and also to gain the latter's approbation, by joining him with as large a force as possible. Probably Abdool had only enlisted on the previous day; and would, of course, need time to acquaint himself with the fortifications, the position of the guards, and the manner in which he could best communicate with him.

Harry's meals were brought up twice a day, at seven o'clock in the morning and at nightfall. Hitherto he had been quiet and patient, as there was nothing to be done but to await the course of events. Now that he knew Abdool was there, and would certainly endeavour to open communications with him, it was difficult for him to keep quiet; and he passed hours in pacing round and round his room. Occasionally he went up to the roof, but he could see no signs of Abdool; and therefore remained but a short time on the lookout as, were he to keep on watching the courtyard, it might attract notice, and the idea might occur to someone that he was expecting some signal to be made to him.

Three days passed without a sign; and then, when the guard came in with his ration, Harry saw that Abdool was one of the number. As he glanced at him, Abdool, who was standing a little way behind the others, shook his head, and retired with them. Harry felt a momentary disappointment; but saw at once that nothing could be attempted in broad daylight; and that it was at night, only, that there was a possibility of success. He thought that Abdool had only come up in order to see the nature of the fastenings of the doors, and the general position.

He was not with the party who came up in the evening but, in the centre of his rice, Harry found a small piece of paper rolled into a ball. There was not, however, light enough to enable him to read it; but he lay awake half the night and, at the first gleam of daylight, went up on to the platform and, seating himself so that he was not visible from below, waited till he could see to read the letter. It was, of course, in Mahratti; and so badly written that he had difficulty in deciphering it. He finally, however, made it out.

"Tomorrow evening, when I come up, we will attack the others, if all goes well; if not, will try the next evening."

So intent was he, in deciphering the writing, that he had hardly noticed the outburst of heavy firing in the distance. He had feared the enemy had captured Delhi on the previous day, as he had heard no firing; but now the roar of cannon was very heavy, and he had no doubt that Holkar was trying to take the town by assault.

In less than half an hour the sound ceased, suddenly.

"They have either taken the town, or been beaten off decisively," he said to himself.

In the afternoon he saw a party of horsemen approaching, followed by some palanquins.

"That looks hopeful," he said to himself. "A messenger has probably brought the rajah news that the assault has failed, and he is bringing his zenana here for safety, until he hears the issue of the battle, which will probably take place in a day or two. I wonder whether this will upset Abdool's plans!"

The rajah's return was greeted by the discharge of matchlocks. Presently, however, this was succeeded by cries of rage and a clamour of voices.

"Holkar has been thrashed. Now it is a toss up whether the rajah will, in his anger, send up and have me brought down and executed. I think the chances are in my favour. The fellow is evidently crafty, or he would not have persuaded Ochterlony that he was friendly towards us; and I think he will hold me as a sort of hostage so that, if Holkar is defeated, he may make favourable terms for himself by offering to surrender me."

It was not until an hour later that Harry heard a party ascending the stairs. When the door opened, he saw that two of the men carried torches. Abdool, who was in the rear, closed the door behind him, and then said, "Now sahib!" and struck down the man in front of him with his tulwar.

Harry had risen to his feet, as he heard the men coming; and had braced himself up for a spring, when Abdool gave the word. With a blow straight from the shoulder, he struck the man carrying the dish senseless to the floor; tore the sword from his sash; warded off a hasty blow delivered by one torch bearer, who was too much astonished at the sudden attack to act with decision, and cut him down; while, at the same moment, Abdool almost severed the neck of the other.

"Thanks, Abdool," Harry said, grasping his follower's hand, "you have saved my life!"

"Not yet, sahib. Our work has but begun. There are other dangers to be met. However, the arrival of the rajah has been fortunate. The news he has brought has -- but first, let me finish the man you knocked down."

"There is no occasion for that. Tear his sash into strips, and bind his hands and feet; and gag him with his own turban.

"Now, what is our next step?"

"I have a rope round my body, sahib, to lower ourselves on to the ramparts. I am wearing an extra suit of clothes, so that you can get up as one of the garrison. I think we have plenty of time, for it is not likely that these men will be missed. Everyone is too excited by the news, that Holkar has failed to take Delhi, to notice whether we return or not."

He took off the outer garment that he had brought with him, while Harry removed his uniform and attired himself in it and, placing the turban of one of the soldiers on his head, possessed himself of a shield, spear, and dagger, and then said:

"What next, Abdool?"

"We will put out these torches, sahib," -- these were still burning on the floor -- "the light might be noticed from below, and they might wonder why we stayed here so long."

"Are there any guards on the walls?"

"No, sahib; they have them on the lower wall, but not here."

The torches were extinguished, and then they went up to the platform above. They fastened one end of the rope to the battlement, having first tied knots at short intervals.

"I will go down first on to the wall, sahib; and if by chance any man may have come up from below, which is not likely, I can hide," and he at once commenced to lower himself down.

In two or three minutes, Abdool was joined by Harry. The courtyard was dark, save that a few torches burned here and there. A great babble of talking was going on, and the windows of the rajah's house were lighted up.

"What are your plans, Abdool? I see that we shall be able to get through the gates, here, without fear of discovery. Is the gate through the other wall shut?"

"Yes, sahib, it is always closed at sunset. Except where the road comes up to the gate, there is only one place where the rock projects at the foot of the wall, and there is a possibility of climbing down. That was where I had intended we should cross the wall. The height is but twenty feet, there, and I have another rope of that length. There are no sentries placed, except over the gate.

"It is quite possible that, even there, there is none tonight. There is no order among these fellows, as there is among the Company's troops and, as there is no enemy near, they think that such a watch is unnecessary; and if any have been sent there, they are pretty sure to have gone to the huts, to talk over the news from Delhi. The matter should be easy enough.

"We may as well start at once. These fellows will quieten down presently, and will then be more likely to hear any noise we may make."

Looking about, they went down by the stairs leading to the courtyard and walked carelessly across. Taking care to avoid mingling with the excited groups and, at the same time, keeping as far from the torches burning in the courtyard as possible, they passed through the gate -- which was standing open without a guard -- and followed the zigzag road, with towers placed at its corners, each mounting two guns so as to sweep the approach.

There were two high walls on either hand, loopholed for musketry; and Abdool said that there was a platform, wide enough for two men to pass, along the whole length of it. The road terminated in a heavy gate, some forty yards above that through the outer wall. A bastion covered it so that, were the lower gate carried, an enemy would not be able to bring guns to bear against it. This gate stood open and, passing through it and behind the bastion, they came at once upon the low, stone-built huts where the majority of the garrison lived, in time of peace.

Several torches were burning here, and round each of these were groups of men, talking excitedly. Leaving Harry behind one of the huts, Abdool strolled up for a few minutes, to listen to the conversation, and then rejoined his master.

"What are they saying, Abdool?"

"They are saying, sir, that it was wrong of Holkar to attack the city, before he had defeated the English. It has cost many lives. But when the English are defeated he will be able, without doubt, to capture the city; which probably would open its gates to him, seeing that no assistance could come to them."

"No one doubts, then, that Holkar will defeat us?"

"Not in the least," Abdool replied. "They say that he has two hundred cannon. These will mow down the English. Then the cavalry will charge, and there will be an end of the matter."

"They seem to have forgotten all about Laswaree," Harry said. "But we had better be going. Where is the way up to the wall?"

"Close by, sahib."

They ascended the steps. As far as could be seen the wall was entirely deserted, and they made their way cautiously until close to the gate. Harry then stopped, and Abdool went on with noiseless tread. He soon returned.

"It is as I thought: no sentries are yet posted."

"But that tower over the gate, Abdool, is a great deal too high for us to descend by that rope that you have got."

"Yes, sahib. We go out by an entrance on to a bastion, flanking the gate. The rope will be long enough there or, at any rate, there will be but a very short drop."

They entered the tower through the door communicating with the wall. Abdool led the way.

"Keep close to me, sahib. I went down here this morning, and can find my way in the dark. I did not think that there was much chance of our coming this way, but it was better to find out all about it."

Moving slowly and cautiously, they came to a flight of steps. They descended some twenty feet, and found themselves at an open portal, leading on to the flanking bastion. The rope was soon fixed.

"I will go first, sahib, and will let you know how far you will have to drop; for the wall looks, to me, higher than it was at the point where I intended to descend."

Abdool at once slipped down.

It was tied round the neck of a gun, and Abdool at once slipped down. There was a pause, then a slight dull sound, and the rope hung loose.

"The knot at the end is ten feet from the ground," Abdool said, in a low tone.

"That is near enough," Harry replied, and then he swung himself over.

When he came to the last knot, he lowered himself to the full length of his arms and let go. The fall was not much more than a yard; and Abdool stood close by, ready to catch him, should he miss his foothold on alighting.

They at once started, at a rapid pace, down the hill. They had nearly reached the plain when the deep note of a horn was heard.

"That is the alarm!" Harry exclaimed. "They have found out that I have gone."

"They will soon be after us, but there is no fear of their catching us," Abdool said, as they broke into a trot. "No one will know, at first, what has happened. Everyone will run to his post; then they will have to search the fort, and all the ground between it and the lower wall. All that will take time. It may be an hour before horsemen start.

"I did not think that they would miss you till tomorrow morning."

"I suppose the rajah sent up for me, to amuse himself by threatening me. He would hardly venture to do more, until he is sure that Holkar has defeated us. However, as you say, there is very little chance of their catching us."

As soon as they were down on the plain, Harry went on:

"We had better strike north, for an hour or two. They are sure to ride across the plain in the direction of Delhi, thinking we shall make straight for the city."

"That will be best, sahib."

Fortunately the rain had ceased, and the sky was cloudless, so that they were able to direct their course by the stars. For two hours they kept due north, and then turned west. It was a long journey from the point where they turned. Harry calculated that it would be nearly fifty miles. The fort was some fifteen miles northeast of Sekerah, and they were now farther away from Delhi than they had been when they started. He felt the advantage of the light native dress, and the sandals that Abdool had given him instead of his boots.

When they came across cultivated ground they walked; but a great portion of the country was a sandy waste; with the ruins of villages and temples that had, in the palmy days of the empire, stood there. Across this they went at a trot, for the sand was generally compact enough to sustain their weight.

"We shall hardly get there before day breaks, sahib," Abdool remarked.

"No; but that is of little consequence. Probably, by this time, Holkar will have marched away -- either to give battle or, what is more likely, to recruit; and for many miles round Delhi the country will be rejoicing, at having been spared the ruin that would have befallen it, had he taken the city. So I have no fear that we shall be hindered on the way; for though they may wonder at my appearance -- for the dye has now almost worn off, and anyone can see that I am a white -- they will be all the more willing to render us any assistance.

"There is no fear of the rajah's horsemen keeping up the pursuit, beyond halfway between Sekerah and the city; for they must know that all the zemindars and people round it are in our favour, and that they might be attacked, when beyond the limits of the rajah's jagheer."

When morning broke they could see, in the distance, the minarets of Delhi.

"They must be ten miles away, Abdool, and I will enter the next house we come to. I fancy, from our position, we must be close to the residence of the zemindar who, at once, brought in a force of fifty men to aid in the defence of the town. There we are sure of hospitable treatment and, indeed, I sorely need rest and food. I have eaten nothing since yesterday morning and, counting the distance we made to the north after leaving the fort, we must have walked nearly fifty miles."

Half a mile farther they saw a house, and made straight for it.

"Is Shuja Khan within?" Harry asked an armed retainer standing at the entrance.

The soldier recognized Harry -- having seen him when he called upon his master -- and replied:

"He returned last night, my lord."

"Will you tell him that Captain Lindsay, who was treacherously captured by the Rajah of Sekerah, has just escaped, and is on his way to the city; and that he asks for his hospitality?"

"Enter, my lord," the man said, salaaming deeply. "Our master will, I am sure, gladly receive you."

He showed Harry into a large room where, a few minutes later, the zemindar joined him.

"Peace be with you, sahib! I am rejoiced to see you in safety; for I heard, at Delhi, that you had not returned, and there were fears that ill had befallen you and your escort."

"My escort were killed, and I myself carried a prisoner to the rajah's hill fort; and I have owed my escape to the faithfulness of my servant, who got away when the others were massacred and, disguising himself, got into the fort and contrived my escape."

"All honour be to him!" the zemindar said. "Then you have walked all night?"

"Yes; we went ten miles to the north first, knowing that we should be pursued; for we heard the alarm given, just after we started. We have walked fifty miles and, when I say that I have eaten nothing since yesterday morning, you may be sure that we are sorely in need of refreshment."

"It shall be got ready, at once, sahib; and, while it is being prepared, you can take a bath and a change of garments."

"I need the bath almost as much as I need a feed," Harry laughed. "I have just been looking into the glass, and I see that I am well-nigh as dark as when I came to you, nine or ten days ago."

His host led him to a room containing a bath, which was soon filled by the servants, one of whom brought in a handsome suit of the zemindar's clothes. It was more than half an hour before he went down again. As soon as he entered the room, a servant brought in a meal; consisting of slices of meat on a skewer, and a pillau of chicken.

The zemindar sat by while he ate his meal, and Harry gave him a short account of the manner in which he had effected his escape. The former, in turn, related the events of the siege; adding that spies had brought in the news, late in the afternoon, that Holkar would march away in the morning, as he had heard that the English army was but two days distant.

"Was he going to meet the English, or to retire towards Malwar?"

"That I cannot say, sahib, for the spies could not tell us. Doubtless he and his army are much dispirited, at their failure to take the city. But the general opinion of the townspeople was that he would give battle, be victorious, and would return and continue the siege."

"I have no fear of his being victorious. He knows, in the battles of Assaye and Poona, how Scindia was utterly routed; and how, at Laswaree and Delhi, the Mahrattas were scattered; and I do not think that he will venture upon giving battle. But if he does, I have no fear, whatever, of the result. It was more than his whole army could do to break up Monson's force, although composed entirely of native infantry, until it was near Agra. This time there will be British infantry and cavalry, and the Mahrattas will never stand against their charge."

Harry had already enquired about Abdool, and found that he had also had a meal, and was now asleep.

"Now, sahib," Shuja said, "it were best that you should rest, for a time. There will be nought doing in Delhi today and, after the heat of the day is over, we can supply you with horses and an escort."

Harry accepted the invitation, for he was stiff and sore from his exertions. The man showed him to a room that had been prepared for him, and he was soon fast asleep. He did not awake until the sun was getting low. He at once went downstairs.

"The horses are ready," the zemindar said, "but I pray you to take a meal, before mounting. It is ready, and will be served directly."

Harry, who had been too tired to do justice to his food in the morning, was by no means sorry to take another meal. As he rose to go, he thanked the zemindar most heartily for his kindness.

"It is an honour that you have bestowed upon me," the zemindar said, courteously. "You and your brave countrymen are fighting to free us from the oppression of the Mahrattas, and any one of your race would meet with a hearty welcome here."

The horses were now brought round. The one intended for Harry was a very handsome animal, richly caparisoned.

"It is a fine horse, indeed," he said, as he was about to mount.

"The horse is yours, sahib," Shuja Khan said. "He is of good breed, and will carry you far and fast. I shall esteem it a great honour that you should ride him.

"Do not thank me, I pray you. 'Tis but a little thing to do, for one of our brave defenders; of whose deeds one of your officers was telling me, when he was deploring your loss."

"I thank you most heartily, Khan; and, after the manner in which you have given it, I cannot refuse so handsome a present. I shall be proud to ride such an animal; and you may be sure that, as I do so, I shall often think of him who presented it to me; and shall assuredly mention, to Colonel Ochterlony, the very great kindness with which you have received me."

As he rode off, followed by an escort of four of the zemindar's retainers, he saw with satisfaction that Abdool was also attired in clean white garments.

"You have done well, I hope, Abdool?"

"I have been well treated, indeed, sahib, and the zemindar's head man told me that I was to consider the horse on which I ride my own. He will carry me well, for he is a stout and serviceable animal. I was wondering what we should do for horses; for there are but few in the city, as most of those owning them sent them away, with their valuables, on hearing of Holkar's approach."

"The zemindar is a generous man, indeed. He has, as you heard, presented me with the horse that I am riding. It is certainly a splendid animal and, though my own was a good one, this is far better. In fact, I have seen no handsomer horse, anywhere.

"I wish you had as good a one, Abdool, and then we need not fear being overtaken, though half the Mahratta army were in pursuit."

They entered the city by the northern gate, and saw nothing of the enemy, who were encamped on the other side of the city. Harry was most warmly received by Colonel Ochterlony.

"I have been in much anxiety about you," he said. "That you had been detained was certain; but I hoped that that petty rajah would not have ventured to harm you, for he would be sure that, sooner or later, we should have a heavy reckoning with him."

"I fancy, sir, that he was waiting for news from here. He was convinced that Holkar would take the city, and defeat Lord Lake. Had he done so, I have no doubt that he would either have sent me prisoner to him, or would have despatched me and forwarded only my head. As I felt certain that things would not turn out as he stated, I had no great fear for my life; but I thought that I might have been kept a prisoner for a very long time, for Lord Lake would have his hands full in other directions."

"Then he released you on the news that Holkar had failed to capture the city?"

"No, sir; I got away owing to the fidelity of my orderly who, after riding off himself, when the two troopers with me were attacked and killed, entered a hill fort where I was confined, took service there, and contrived my escape. I shall hand in a report with the details, for your perusal, when things have quietened down a bit. My man has rendered me other valuable services, and I should be greatly pleased if, in consideration of the fidelity and daring that he has shown, you would think fit to recommend him for promotion as a native officer. He belongs to the 3rd Bombay Cavalry."

"I should certainly have pleasure in doing so, Captain Lindsay. I shall, of course, be drawing up a list of the zemindars and others who have rendered service, and recommending them for reward to the Government. If you will give me the particulars as to the man's name and services I will include him in the list. He has been with you some time, has he not?"

"Yes, sir, for upwards of six years. He accompanied me from Calcutta to Nagpore, when I went on a mission to the rajah, whom it was desirable to keep neutral until the war in Mysore was brought to an end. He was at Assaye, and journeyed in disguise across the country with me, to carry the news of that victory to General Lake. He took part with me in the cavalry charge at Laswaree, and in the retreat of Colonel Monson's column."

"That is quite good enough," Colonel Ochterlony said. "But I should think that it would be the shortest and best way for you to recommend him direct to Lord Lake, who would be able to put him in orders at once. At the same time, I will send to Calcutta a recommendation that some special reward should be granted to him. There will be a large number of forfeitures of the estates of those who have sided with Scindia and Holkar. I make no doubt that, on my strong recommendation, he will obtain a grant of the revenue of a village or two. Such a grant would do good by showing that instances of fidelity, even in the case of a private soldier, do not go unnoticed or unrewarded. We expect the general's arrival here in a couple of days."

"I shall be very glad, sir, if only because my uniform is coming on with his baggage. At present, with my white face and this showy native dress, I feel that I am stared at by everyone I meet. The uniform that Captain Ewart lent me I had to leave behind, when I made my escape."

"It will not inconvenience him, poor fellow," the colonel said, "for he was almost cut in two, by a cannon shot, as the enemy advanced to the last assault."

When the general arrived within three miles of the city, Harry rode out to his camp and, having first obtained his uniform, went in to report himself.

"So you got through safely, Captain Lindsay? I supposed that you had, when the news reached us that Delhi was defending itself stoutly for, had they not had some days warning, they could hardly have held out for an hour."

"This is Colonel Burns's report of the military operations of the siege, sir; and this is a letter from the Resident; and this is my own report, of my doings since I left you at Agra."

"Thank you, Captain Lindsay. I shall have a communication to send to Colonel Ochterlony this afternoon, and should be obliged if you will carry it for me."

Harry bowed and left; and then joined the officers of the staff, who were just sitting down to lunch, and were all glad to see him again.

"So you managed to get through Holkar's lines, Lindsay?"

"Oh, yes! I met with no difficulty, and only fell in once with any of his troops. I spent an evening with their officer, and after that rode through without interruption. There was really no danger, and I do not think Holkar, himself, could have suspected me of being a British officer."

"And now, about the siege. You may imagine that we were all very anxious about it; for though, of course, we should soon have retaken the place, there would have been a general plunder and massacre by that brute Holkar."

"You must wait for particulars until you get there," Harry said, "for I know nothing about it whatever, except what I have heard."

"And how is that?"

"I was, at the time, a prisoner in the hands of the petty Rajah of Sekerah. He promised to send in three hundred men. The day before Holkar arrived, I was sent to urge him to despatch them instantly to aid in the defence. He was evidently impressed with the idea that Holkar was going to retake the place without any difficulty, and would afterwards annihilate our army; so, thinking that was the winning side, he arrested me, and sent me off to a hill fort, fifteen miles away, and murdered my two troopers."

"And how did you get away?"

Harry gave an account of the manner in which Abdool had managed his escape.

"Such a fellow as that is a jewel."

"He is indeed, Major; and I would not part with him for any money. He came round with me from Bombay to Calcutta, six years ago, and has ridden with me ever since. He fought most gallantly, in the Malay Peninsula and at many other places. In my report, to the general, of my last adventure I have mentioned his services with me in my various journeys, and have strongly recommended his promotion."

"He well deserves it," the major said. "He has, like you, carried his life in his hand for, if he had been detected, undoubtedly he would have shared your fate."



Chapter 18: An Awkward Position.


Three hours later, Harry was sent for by the general.

"I have read your report, Captain Lindsay, and thoroughly concur with you that the very meritorious conduct of the soldier of the 3rd Bombay Cavalry, who has so long been attached to your service, should be rewarded. I cannot, of course, promote him in his own regiment. He will therefore appear in orders, tomorrow, as appointed havildar in the 5th Bengal Cavalry, which is at present under my command; with a statement that, having now completed ten years' service in the Bombay army, and having for six years of it been serving chiefly in this presidency, and having distinguished himself by his fidelity and courage, he has now been specially singled out for this promotion; and will be henceforth in charge of an escort of twenty men, of his new regiment, attached to the general's staff.

"As to yourself, sir, I have, in a despatch that will be sent off this evening, strongly recommended you to the Governor General for promotion to the rank of major. You were, I see by our army list, promoted to the rank of captain, seven years ago, before being sent to Calcutta; and, considering the distinguished and dangerous services that you have rendered, I wonder that you have not received another step. That is, however, accounted for by the fact that you have now, for some time, been away from Calcutta with General Wellesley and myself. I am sure that my recommendation will at once be complied with."

"I am very grateful for your kindness, sir."

"You owe it to your own merits, and not to any kindness on my part," Lord Lake said. "You have an altogether exceptional record and, even in the comparatively short time that you have been with me, have performed most valuable services. Colonel Monson reports most highly of your conduct during his retreat; and the mission that you undertook, at my request, to Colonel Ochterlony was a most dangerous one and, in itself, sufficient to ensure your promotion. There are many zealous officers in the service; but few, indeed, so qualified, by their acquaintance with the native languages, as to undertake the missions with which you have been entrusted, and have so successfully carried out."

Harry took the despatches and at once mounted his horse; which Abdool had brought round, as soon as his master was summoned to the general's tent. After he had left the camp, he called Abdool up to his side. The latter was still in his native dress.

"Abdool, I shall have to look out for another cook and body servant; unless, indeed, I have another trooper told off to me."

Abdool looked at Harry in astonishment.

"How is that, my lord? Are you dissatisfied with me?"

Harry laughed.

"Not in any way, Abdool; upon the contrary. But your name will appear in orders, tomorrow, as promoted to the rank of havildar, in the 5th Bengal Cavalry, as a recognition of your faithful services.

"It is a great honour," Abdool said, "especially as I have not served as a soubahdar; but I would far rather stay with you. You have been a father to me, and I pray you to let me remain as I am."

"You are to remain with me, Abdool. If you had had to leave me I should, myself, have told the general that I was sure you would rather not do so; and that, when you left me, I should myself show my gratitude for your good services; but of his own accord he has arranged this. You are not to join your new regiment, but are to command twenty sowars of the 5th, which are to be attached to those of the general's staff, for escort duty. In this way you will still be with me, but as a native officer instead of a servant; and should I be sent on any special duty you will, I am sure, be able to go with me, as before."

Abdool's face brightened.

"That would be well, indeed, sahib. It will truly be a great honour to be an officer and, if I ever return to my native village in the Deccan, I shall be regarded with great respect, and the faces of my father and mother will be made white at the honour I have won. Still, I fear that I shall not be as much with you as I have been, before."

"Nearly as much, Abdool. I expect that Lord Lake, knowing how much I am indebted to you, will permit me to take you with me, when engaged on any detached service; and you and your troopers will form part of his escort, at all times. Besides, it is likely that, as matters stand, I shall not be sent away on any special duty for some time to come. You will, I know, be glad to hear that the general has recommended me for promotion, also; and that I shall shortly be a major."

"That pleases me more than my own promotion, sahib. I thought that you would have had it long ago, after that business at Nagpore."

"I had only been a captain then a few months, and was very young for that rank. It would have been unfair to others if I had been promoted then. I am still very young to be a major."

"It is not years, but what you have done," Abdool said. "Did you not obtain the release of Nana Furnuwees, and so change the state of affairs, altogether, at Poona?"

"Well, it was for that I got the rank of captain and, since then, though I have made a few journeys that would have been perilous, had I not been able to speak Mahratti like a native, I have had no opportunities of specially distinguishing myself.

"As soon as we get to Delhi, you had better order yourself a uniform. You know the dress worn by the native officers of the 5th; and you must hurry the tailor on, for you may be sure that the army will not remain long at Delhi; but will set off to meet Holkar as soon as provisions are collected, for there is no saying how far we may have to march before we meet him. I do not think that he will be in any hurry to give battle."

On the 18th of October, the army arrived before Delhi. Holkar's cavalry were still in the neighbourhood; but news came that the infantry, with a considerable number of his guns and a few thousand horsemen, had left him. On the 29th he crossed the Jumna, below Panniput, to attack a detachment of one battalion of Sepoys and some matchlock men who were, under Colonel Burns, returning to the station at Saharunpoor -- from which he had hastened, when a report reached him that Holkar meditated an attack on Delhi. He was overtaken by Holkar at Shamlee.

The inhabitants of the place joined Holkar, but Burns formed his camp into a square, and repulsed all attacks; until General Lake, with six regiments of cavalry, the horse artillery, and a brigade of infantry, arrived to his relief on the 3rd of November; when Holkar at once retired, and marched south into the district known as the Doab, where his horsemen plundered and burnt every village near his line of route. General Lake followed at once.

He had, before leaving Delhi, sent the rest of the British infantry, with two regiments of cavalry, under General Fraser, to attack Holkar's infantry and artillery; which had retired into the dominions of the Rajah of Bhurtpoor who, although he had been the first to enter into alliance with the British, after the capture of Agra, had now declared against them. They had taken up a position near the rajah's fortress of Deeg, which was believed to be impregnable.

Their position was a very strong one. An extensive morass and a deep tank covered their front. On their left was a fortified village; and on their right the fort of Deeg, which was supported by several lines of batteries.

Harry had been directed to accompany General Fraser, and was to take with him Abdool's little troop, to serve as escort and furnish messengers. Abdool -- now in his new uniform -- rode at its head, behind General Fraser's staff, as he reconnoitred the enemy's position; and felt no small pride in his changed position, especially as the British officers of the staff, all of whom had heard of the manner in which he had brought about Harry's escape, took special notice of him; and on the march one or other had often dropped behind to have a talk with him.

The next morning the British troops moved forward to the attack, in two lines. The 76th Regiment rushed impetuously against the fortified village, and drove its defenders out at the point of the bayonet. A tremendous fire was at once opened by the batteries behind it but, without for a moment hesitating, the 76th charged them, and were speedily in the thick of their enemies. The 1st Bengal European regiment, which followed, seeing them almost surrounded, ran down to their assistance; and were followed by the Sepoys; and Holkar's infantry, unable to resist the assault, fled to shelter of their next line of guns.

General Fraser himself led the attack upon these. They were also carried; but the general fell, mortally wounded. Colonel Monson, who now succeeded to the command, reformed the troops -- who were in some disorder, owing to the impetuosity of their charge -- and led them forward again. Battery after battery was captured. Numbers of Holkar's men tried to cross the morass, but sank in the mud and lost their lives. The rest took refuge under the walls of Deeg, whose guns at once opened fire upon their pursuers.

While the tide pressed forward, unchecked, the Mahratta horse had ridden down in the rear of the British; and had taken possession of the first line of batteries, and had turned their guns upon their late captors. The consequences would have been serious, had not Captain Norford gathered together twenty-eight men of the 76th Regiment, and led them against the Mahratta horse. These, staggered by the daring with which this handful of men advanced against them, fired a hasty volley and fled. Captain Norford was killed, but the men took possession of the guns; which the Mahrattas, thinking that the day was altogether lost, did not attempt to recapture.

As the fortress of Deeg was far too strong to be attacked by any force unprovided with siege guns, the British drew back, until beyond the range of its cannon; carrying off all the guns captured in the batteries, eighty-seven in number. The total amount of artillery employed against our troops was no less than one hundred and sixty guns. Our loss was naturally heavy, amounting to over six hundred and forty killed and wounded; while that of the enemy was estimated at two thousand killed, or smothered in the morass.

The force encamped beyond the reach of the guns of Deeg, awaiting orders from General Lake. The battle was scarcely over when Colonel Monson rode up to Harry, and said:

"It is of great importance that General Lake should receive the news of our victory, as soon as possible. There is no one so well fitted to carry it as you are. There will be no occasion for disguise, this time; for Holkar's depredations must have excited the whole population against him. At the same time, you had better take your havildar and his troopers with you. It will command respect and, if you should come across any small body of Holkar's marauders, I am sure that you will give a good account of them."

"Can you give me any indication as to where General Lake is likely to be, at present, sir?"

"He marched from Shamsheer to Mahomedabad and, as he probably took the road through Sekerah, he no doubt settled accounts with that rascally rajah. I understood, from him, that he suspected Holkar would make for Sherdanah; as the Begum of that place has five battalions of drilled troops, and forty guns, which would be a welcome reinforcement. After that he will, of course, be guided by Holkar's movements.

"The reports of the peasantry lead me to believe that the enemy are advancing in the direction of Furukabad. I should say that you had best cross the Jumna at Muttra, and ride to Alighur. In that way you will not be likely to meet Holkar's force; which must, at present, be beyond the Ganges."

Half an hour later, Harry started with his escort. He crossed the Jumna at Muttra, and there learned that Holkar had, the night before, arrived within twelve miles of the town; and was, as usual, destroying everything before him. Harry continued his course to Cod, within a mile or two of Alighur, which he reached late in the evening.

The capture of the fort, believed to be impregnable, had had the effect of producing so profound a respect for the British arms that Harry, on his arrival, was received by the principal men of the town; and a large house was placed at his disposal, for himself and his escort. Supplies were at once furnished and, when a meal had been eaten and the horses attended to, the troops lay down for the night.

Harry had been informed that a horseman had brought in news that the British army had arrived at Bareilly. He started at daybreak and, late the next evening, after a ride of over one hundred miles, rode into Lord Lake's camp.

"What news do you bring?" the general asked, as he alighted from his horse.

"I have to report, sir, that on the 13th the force under General Fraser attacked the enemy, who were very strongly posted within gunshot of the fortress of Deeg. After hard fighting he completely defeated them, captured eighty-seven of their guns, and drove them from under the guns of Deeg, which at once opened fire on us. The enemy's loss was estimated at two thousand. Ours was not known, when I left the camp; but it was roughly estimated at over six hundred in killed and wounded. Among the former, I regret to say, was General Fraser, who was mortally wounded by a cannon shot, while leading on his men."

"I am sorry to hear of his loss," General Lake said, "while the rest of your news is satisfactory, indeed. Reports had reached me that the Rajah of Bhurtpoor had joined Holkar but, after coming into Agra and begging that we would accept him as an ally, I had difficulty in believing that he would have turned against us; especially as he must have known that, if Holkar was defeated, he would have to bear the whole brunt of our anger -- which he could not hope to escape, as his territory lies within two or three days' march of Agra."

The general called his staff, and told them of the brilliant victory that had been won at Deeg. The news spread rapidly through the camp, and was greeted with enthusiastic cheers by the troops. In the meantime Lord Lake had entered his tent, and obtained full particulars of the battle.

"I was close to General Fraser when he was struck, sir," Harry concluded. "He and his escort were with the cavalry, when it charged the second line of their batteries. Five of the escort were killed; and I may say that the others, led by their havildar, were among the first in at the guns."

"I have just received news," the general said, "that Holkar crossed this morning, at Surajepoor; and was believed to be on his way to Furukabad. He is evidently on the march to Deeg and, if he joins his troops there, they may attack Colonel Monson's force. Therefore I intend to leave the tents and infantry to follow; and shall start at daybreak, with the cavalry and horse artillery; and hope to overtake him, especially as he has lately moved fast, and will probably rest a day or two at Furukabad."

The next day the cavalry marched upwards of forty miles and, on the following morning, continued their journey. They had fifty-eight miles now before them. With occasional halts they marched all day, crossed the Ganges at Surajepoor, and pushed on until within a mile of Holkar's camp. Believing the British to be many miles away, no precautions had been taken against surprise; and the first intimation of an enemy being near at hand was the opening of fire, at daybreak, by Lord Lake's artillery into their camp -- the guns being posted so as to permit the British cavalry to attack, without coming across the line of fire.

Round after round of grape was poured into the camp; and then the guns ceased firing, as the six regiments of cavalry dashed in among the panic-stricken enemy. Scarcely any resistance was attempted and, in a few minutes, the ground was strewn with dead. Holkar had mounted and ridden off, with a portion of his cavalry, before our men entered the camp; and did not draw rein until he reached Caline, eighteen miles distant. His troops fled in all directions, hotly pursued by the cavalry, for twelve miles; great numbers being overtaken and cut down. The cavalry halted from sheer fatigue, having performed the almost unparalleled march of seventy miles since their last halting place; an exploit rendered all the more wonderful by the fact that they had made a march of three hundred and fifty miles in the preceding fortnight.

Their loss, in the action, was only two killed and twenty wounded. Holkar's loss was estimated at three thousand killed on the field; and half of his cavalry, which was previously sixty thousand strong, were now but scattered fugitives.

That day three royal salutes were fired, for as many victories; namely, that at Furukabad, that at Deeg, and the capture of Shaddone -- the last of Holkar's fortresses in the south -- by Colonel Wallis. As was expected, Holkar and his cavalry, as soon as they recovered from their panic, rode to Deeg and joined the remains of the infantry and artillery there.

General Lake remained a day or two, to rest the troops after their exertions. The brigade of infantry that, had been left behind when the cavalry started on their last march, had been ordered to move rapidly down to Agra; and to escort thence the heavy guns that would be required for the siege of Deeg and, on the 1st of December, General Lake joined the force near that fortress. The battering train arrived from Agra on the 12th, and the trenches were opened on the following day.

In point of territory, the country ruled over by the Rajah of Bhurtpoor was a comparatively small one. It was inhabited by a people called Jats, who differed in many respects from the communities round them. They were hardy, industrious, and brave; and had, at one time, taken a prominent share in the wars of that part of India, and had been masters of Agra. They had lost the city, however, in 1774; and with it a considerable portion of their territory. Under the present rajah, however, they had regained some of their lost ground and, on his entering into an alliance with the British, he had received a considerable increase of territory.

In these circumstances the defection was wholly unexpected. The rajah had a standing army of six thousand men; and could, on an emergency, place fifty thousand in the field. Nevertheless, seeing how other very much more powerful native princes had been unable to withstand the British arms, his conduct was not only ungrateful and treacherous, but wholly unaccountable.

It was necessary for the army to move forward to Deeg with great circumspection. Holkar's cavalry constantly hovered round them, and they had to protect an enormous train conveying the siege appliances and provisions for the force. In view of the comparatively small equipage now deemed sufficient, in native wars in India, the size of that which accompanied Lord Lake's army, on this occasion, appears prodigious. The followers were estimated at not less than sixty thousand. Besides elephants and camels, a hundred thousand bullocks were employed on preparations for an advance into the town.

But, during the night, Holkar and the garrison of Deeg retired, and made for Bhurtpoor. On the morning of the 25th, therefore, the British took unopposed possession of Deeg; capturing, there and in the batteries outside, a hundred guns. A week later, General Lake moved forward to Bhurtpoor. Holkar, as before, had not entered the town; but had formed a camp a few miles distant. Here he was able to maintain himself, for the Rajah of Bhurtpoor had called to his assistance a great marauding leader, Ameer Khan, who was raiding in Bundelcund; and also a leader named Bapeejee Scindia; and these, with the rajah's cavalry and that of Holkar, formed so powerful a force that the British cavalry were fully occupied in keeping them at a distance from camp, and in protecting the convoy.

On the day of the arrival of the army before Bhurtpoor, Harry -- who had now been gazetted to the rank of major -- was sent to Agra, thirty-four miles distant, with orders respecting a convoy that was about to be sent off from there. He was accompanied by Abdool and ten troopers. At that time Ameer Khan had not appeared upon the scene, and it was not considered that there was any danger of the communications with Agra being interfered with.

Harry reached the city in the afternoon, and waited there until four o'clock next day; seeing that the preparations for the convoy, which was a very large one, were completed. It started at that hour, and was to get as far as possible by nightfall; so that it would be able to reach the camp by the following evening. After seeing it in motion, Harry started with his escort for the ride back. He was some ten miles away from the convoy when night fell. Bhurtpoor, like Deeg, stood on a plain, surrounded by swamps and morasses; the situation having been chosen from the difficulties these offered to the advance of an enemy.

After proceeding for five miles farther, Abdool, who was riding with Harry, said:

"I do not know, sahib, but it seems to me, by the sound of the horses' hoofs, that we have left the track."

Harry called a halt; and Abdool dismounted, and found that his suspicion was correct, and that they had certainly left the road.

"This is awkward," Harry said, "for we do not know how long it is since we left it, or whether it is to the right hand or left."

The night was indeed a very dark one, a mist almost covered the sky, and it was only occasionally that a star could be seen.

"We must go carefully, or we shall fall in one of these morasses."

Two troopers were sent off, one to the right, the other to the left. One of them, when he had gone about a quarter of a mile, was heard to shout that he was fast in the morass. Abdool and four of the men rode to his assistance, and presently returned with him, having with the greatest difficulty extricated his horse. Nothing had been heard of the other trooper. Again and again Harry shouted, but no reply came back. They waited half an hour, and then concluded that either the man, on his return, had missed his way altogether; or that he had fallen into a swamp, when they were too far off to hear his voice, and had perished there.

Harry again gave the word for them to move on, this time at a walk. Abdool preceded them on foot. Presently he said:

"The ground is getting softer, sahib. I think that we are approaching a swamp."

"We had better all dismount," Harry said, setting the example.

"Now, let each move in different directions, going very cautiously, and calling out if he comes upon soft ground."

He himself, with two of the troopers, remained with the horses. One after another, the men came upon swampy ground; one only continued to find it firm.

"I suppose that that is the way we came into it, Abdool," Harry said, as the others returned to the horses. "We must follow him, and will do it on foot. This is getting serious."

For a quarter of a mile, they kept on ground that was comparatively firm. Then the man ahead of them gave a sudden shout. He had fallen, waist deep, into a little stream. He was soon hauled out.

"There is nothing to be done, Abdool, but to halt till morning. Let us go back, till we can find a piece of ground dry enough to lie down upon."

They had made, however, little progress when their feet began to sink up to the ankles.

"It is no use, Abdool. We have evidently lost our bearings, altogether. We must stay where we are till morning, or we shall get helplessly bogged."

The hours passed slowly and painfully. From time to time, the men endeavoured to find firmer ground, but always without success; and it was with the deepest satisfaction that, at last, they saw the sky begin to lighten. Half an hour later, they were able to form an idea of their position.

They were far in what appeared to be a wide morass. There were pools of water in some places, and it seemed almost miraculous that they should have succeeded in so far entering the swamp where, even by daylight, there scarcely seemed a yard of firm ground. Abdool again went ahead and, step by step, the little troop followed; frequently having to turn back again, on finding the line that they were pursuing impassable.

They were still a hundred yards from what appeared to be solid ground when they heard loud shouts and, looking round, saw some fifty horsemen skirting the edge of the morass. When they reached the point opposite to the little party, they dismounted and opened fire. One of the troopers fell dead, and several of the horses were hit.

"There is nothing for it but to surrender, Abdool," Harry said, as some of the troopers returned the fire.

The enemy rode off for a hundred yards; and then, leaving the horses in charge of a few of their number, they returned to the edge of the morass, threw themselves down in the long coarse grass, and again opened fire. Two more of the troopers fell, at the first discharge. Harry drew out his handkerchief, and waved it.

Harry drew out his handkerchief, and waved it.

"We will not surrender, if they are Holkar's men," he said to Abdool. "We should only be tortured, and then put to death. If they are Bhurtpoor's men, we may have fair treatment."

Therefore, as soon as the enemy had stopped firing he shouted:

"Whose soldiers are you?"

"The Rajah of Bhurtpoor's," was shouted back.

"We will surrender, if you will swear to take us to Bhurtpoor and hand us over to the rajah. If you will not do so, we will defend ourselves to the last."

A native officer stood up.

"Assuredly we will take you to the rajah. I swear it on my faith."

"Very well then, send a man to guide us out of this place."

An order was given. One of the men went back and mounted his horse, and rode along by the edge of the morass for nearly half a mile. The others, more slowly, followed him.

"It is clear that this place in front of us is absolutely impassable," Harry said, "or they would never all move away."

"It is lucky that you have not got your favourite horse today, sir," Abdool said -- for Harry had bought, from one of the cavalry, a horse that had been captured from the Mahrattas, as one was insufficient for the work he had to do.

"I should be very glad, indeed, Abdool, if I thought that I was likely to return to camp soon. But in such peril as this, it is but a small satisfaction to know that he is safe."

"What do you think of our chances, sahib?"

"I don't think the Rajah of Bhurtpoor will harm us. He must feel that his situation is almost desperate, and it would put him beyond the reach of pardon, if he were to massacre his prisoners."

The Jat had now dismounted, and could be seen making his way towards them on foot; sometimes coming straight, but more often making long bends and turns. It was evident, by the absence of any hesitation in his movements, that he was well acquainted with the morass.

"If that is the only way to us," Harry said, "it is marvellous, indeed, that we made our way so far."

"I think, sahib, that it was the instinct of the horses. I felt mine pull at the rein, as I was leading him, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left; and I always let him have his way, knowing that horses can see and smell better than we can and, as we were all in single file, you followed without noticing the turns."

In ten minutes the man arrived. He spoke to Harry, but his language differed widely from either Mahratti or that spoken by the people of Bengal. However, he signed to the troopers to lay down their arms and, when they had done so, started to rejoin the others; and, leading the horses, the party followed. The path was fairly firm, and Harry had no doubt that it was used by fowlers, in search of the game with which, at certain seasons of the year, the lakes and morasses abounded.

When they arrived at the edge of the swamp, where the others were awaiting them, Harry handed his sword to their leader. He and his party then mounted and, surrounded by the Jats, rode to Bhurtpoor. Their entrance was greeted with loud shouts and acclamations by the populace. Making their way straight through the town, which covered a large extent of ground, they reached the palace, a noble building built upon a rock that rose abruptly from the plain. Ascending the steep path leading to the gate, the party entered the courtyard. Here the captives remained in charge of the horsemen, while the leader went in to report to the rajah.

View of the Rajah's Palace, Bhurtpoor.

Presently he came out, with four of the rajah's guard, and these led Harry and Abdool into the audience chamber. The rajah, with a number of personal attendants, entered and took his seat.

"You are an officer in the English army. What is your rank?" the rajah said in Mahratti.

"I am a major."

"Of what regiment?"

"I am on the personal staff of the general."

"And this man?"

"He is a native officer, at present commanding a portion of the general's escort."

"How was it that you were alone, last night?"

"I had ridden to Agra, the day before; and was too late, in starting back, to gain the camp before it was dark. I lost my way and, finding that we were in the heart of the morass, we were obliged to wait till morning."

"It is well that you did not try to get out. Had you done so, none of you would be here now.

"You speak Mahratti like a native."

"I was some years at Poona and, as a child, had a Mahratta woman as a nurse, and learnt it from her."

The rajah was silent for a minute or two, then he asked:

"Does your general think that he is going to capture my town?"

"I do not know, but he is going to try."

"He will not succeed," the rajah said, positively. "We gave up Deeg, because we did not want a large force shut up there. Our walls are strong but, were they levelled to the ground, we would still defend the place to the last."

"I am aware that your people are brave, Rajah. They fought well, indeed; and if Holkar's troops had fought as stoutly, the result might have been different."

The rajah again sat in thought for some time, then he said:

"I do not wish to treat you harshly. I can honour brave men, even when they are enemies. You will have an apartment assigned to you here, and be treated as my guest; only, do not venture to leave the palace -- at least, unless you leave it with me. There are many who have lost friends at Deeg, many who may lose their lives before your army retires, and I could not answer for your safety. Would you like this native officer to be with you?"

"I should esteem it a great favour, Rajah. He has been with me for several years, and I regard him as a friend. Thank you, also, for your courtesy to me."

"You will give your promise not to try to escape?"

As Harry believed that, in the course of a short time, the British would be masters of the town, he assented without hesitation.

The rajah looked pleased.

"You need be under no uneasiness as to your troopers. They will, of course, be in confinement but, beyond that, they shall have no reason to complain of their treatment."

The rajah said a few words to one of his attendants, who at once motioned to Harry and Abdool to follow him. Harry bowed to the rajah and, with Abdool, followed the attendant. He was taken to a commodious chamber. The walls and divans were of white marble; and the floor was paved with the same material, but in two colours. The framework of the window was elaborately carved, and it was evident that the room was, at ordinary times, used as a guest chamber.

The attendant left them, for a few minutes.

"This is better than I had even hoped for, Abdool. There can be no doubt that the rajah, though he put a good face on it, is desperately anxious; and behaves to us in this way, in hopes that he may finally obtain better terms than he otherwise would do, by his good treatment of us."

"He looks honest and straightforward, sahib. 'Tis strange that he should have behaved so treacherously, just after the Company had granted him an increase of territory."

"We must make some allowances for him. No doubt, like all the Indian princes we have had to do with, he is ready to join the strongest side. He heard that Holkar was coming down with an immense army, and believed that we should not be able to withstand him. In that case he, as our ally, would share in our misfortunes. His territories would be ravaged; and he himself killed or taken back, as a prisoner, to the Deccan. He was probably hesitating, when the news came of Monson's disastrous retreat. This doubtless confirmed his opinion of Holkar's invincibility; and he determined, as the only way of saving himself, to declare for him."

The attendant now entered, with four men bearing cushions for the divans and carpets for the floor, large ewers and basins, with soft, embroidered towels, and a pile of rugs for beds. After he had retired, Harry went to the window and looked out. Below was the courtyard, and the room was on the first story.

"Well, if we are to be prisoners, Abdool, we could hardly wish to be better suited. A fortnight's rest will do us no harm, for we have been riding hard almost ever since we left Agra with Monson's force."

"It is well, sahib, that you were with us when we were captured. Had we been alone, we should have had no mercy. It is because the rajah regards you as such a valuable prisoner that we have been spared.

"If you had not given your promise, I think we might have made our escape."

"We might have done so, Abdool; but if I had not given my promise, you may be sure that we should not have been lodged so comfortably."


Chapter 19: Bhurtpoor.


Half an hour later the attendant entered with two servants, carrying a large tray with a variety of dishes. After they had eaten the meal, Harry proposed that they should go up to the top of one of the central towers of the palace, to obtain a general view of the country.

"It would be better to do that than to venture down into the courtyard, at present, Abdool. The sight of our uniforms might give offence, as it would not be understood that we have the rajah's permission to move about the palace. We must wait till the man comes in with the tray. It is possible that he may understand enough Mahratti to make out what we want, and will show us the way up.

"It would never do for us to try to ascend alone. We might accidentally open the door of the rajah's zenana, and then I doubt if even his desire to hold me as a hostage would suffice to save our lives."

The attendant understood enough of Mahratti to make out their request, and offered at once to accompany them. They ascended numerous staircases until, at last, they reached the flat roof of the palace; above which rose three round towers, surmounted by domes. The highest of these had a gallery running round it, a few feet below the dome.

The attendant led the way to this and, on reaching the gallery, they found that it commanded a very wide view over the flat country. The town itself covered a considerable space, the walls being eight miles in circumference. At the eastern end the fort, a square and solid edifice, was built on ground somewhat higher than the town. It had bastions and flanking towers and, as had been learned from prisoners taken at Deeg, it had a moat much wider and deeper than that which ran round the town walls. It was built within these, one side of the square looking across the country, while the other three were inside. Although the houses were for the most part scattered, the town had a picturesque appearance, from the number of trees growing within it.

Towards the northeast the fort of Deeg could be clearly seen and, to the southwest, the mosques and fort of Agra were faintly visible in the clear air. At a distance of a mile and a half from the city was the British camp, with its white tents; and an irregular black mass marked the low shelters of the camp followers and the enormous concourse of draught animals.

It certainly seemed a hazardous enterprise for so small a number of troops to attack such a large and populous town, strongly fortified, and held by a brave people. Harry remarked on this to Abdool, but the latter said, confidently:

"They cannot stand against the English, sahib. General Lake has always been victorious."

"He has so, Abdool, and that is one of the reasons why I do not feel so certain of his success as I did. He has never yet undertaken a siege, and his impetuosity and confidence in his troops may lead him to make an attack with insufficient numbers, and before it is really practicable. I do not think that this town is to be taken by storm, and I doubt whether Lord Lake will be content to wait for regular siege operations, before he tries an assault.

"Look over there, towards Agra. If I am not mistaken, there is a large body of cavalry out there. They are certainly not our men, they are too much mixed up for that. Possibly the rajah may have obtained the aid of a band of Pindarees, or of some other irregular troops; at any rate, it will give trouble to the convoy we left yesterday."

He looked at the camp again.

"There is a stir in the valley, and it looks as if they had heard of that force out there, and are about to start to attack it."

Three regiments of cavalry set out. As they were getting ready, two horsemen could be seen to ride off, at a gallop, from a group of trees half a mile from the camp. As soon as they approached the mass of horsemen in the distance, they turned and rode off at full speed.

"They have evidently no idea of fighting, today, whoever they are. We may as well go down again, Abdool. This is a grand lookout; and we shall, at any rate, get a general idea of the direction in which the attack will be made."

Two days later they were able, from their lookout, to see that bodies of men came and went between the camp and a group of trees, halfway between it and the town.

"I expect that they are establishing a battery among those trees," Harry said, "and it will not be long before the affair begins."

The next morning, six eighteen-pounders opened fire from the wood and, in the afternoon, another battery of eight mortars began throwing shells into the town. The guns on the walls answered, and a brisk fire was kept up, for the next ten days. During this time several breaches had been effected in the wall, near the southeast angle, but the defenders had fixed strong wooden stockades in the debris every night, so that no attack could be made. In order to prevent this being done with the last-made breach, it was determined to assault at once.

The two prisoners had not had the lookout gallery to themselves. Some of the rajah's officers were constantly there, and any movement of troops was at once reported by them. The rajah himself had, twice or thrice, come up for a short time to watch the operations; and had, on each occasion, talked for some minutes with Harry.

"Your people will be mad, if they try to attack us through that small hole in the wall," he said, on the afternoon of the 14th. "Were they to level a quarter of a mile of the wall, they might have some chance, though I doubt whether they would ever get a footing at the top; but with all my soldiers ready to defend that small opening, and with thirty or forty guns to fire at your people as they advance, it is as ridiculous as if ten men should attempt to take this palace. What do you think?"

"I cannot say, Rajah. From here I am unable to see what is taking place at the walls, nor how wide is the breach you speak of, nor how deep the ditch beyond; therefore I can give no opinion."

"The English are brave fighters," the rajah said. "They have taken places in a few hours that seemed impregnable, but they cannot perform impossibilities. Our walls are defended by forty thousand men and -- although in the open field I do not say that you might not defeat us, seeing how your troops are disciplined, while with us each man fights for himself -- when it is a question of holding a wall or defending a breach, I can trust my soldiers. We are twice as numerous. We have heavier guns, and more of them, than you have and, as I told you, the English will never get into Bhurtpoor."

At seven o'clock in the evening, a deep and almost continuous roar of guns broke out.

"The assault has begun!" Harry exclaimed. "We shall not see much, but we may get some idea as to how things are going from the lookout."

It was too dark for the movements of troops to be seen, but the quick flashes of the guns on either side, and a play of flickering fire along the top of the wall showed that the storming party was approaching. The attack was made in three parties: one advanced against a battery which the defenders had established outside the walls, at a spot where its fire would take in flank any force advancing against the point towards which the fire of the English guns had been directed; another was to attempt a gateway near the breach; while the central column, consisting of five hundred Europeans and a battalion of Sepoys, was to attack the breach itself.

For a time the roar of firing was incessant. The alarm had been given as soon as the British columns advanced from the wood. Notwithstanding this, the right column advanced straight against the battery, captured it, and spiked the guns. The left column, as it approached the gate, came upon a deep cut filled with water and, having no means of crossing this, they moved to the support of the force attacking the breach. This had been greatly delayed. The ground to be crossed was swampy, with many pools and, in the darkness, numbers lost their way, and the force arrived at the point of attack in great confusion.

A small party of twenty-three men only -- of the 22nd Regiment, under Lieutenant Manser -- who formed the forlorn hope, crossed the ditch, breast high in water, and mounted the breach. In the confusion that reigned among the troops, some of the officers had lost their way, and there was no one to assume the command or to give orders; and Lieutenant Manser, finding that he was unsupported, and could not with a handful of men attempt to attack either of the bastions, from which a terrible fire was being maintained, made the men sit down and shelter themselves as well as they could, in the debris of the breach; while he himself recrossed the ditch to summon up the support. In this he failed. All order was lost, and the men who formed the forlorn hope were at last called back, and the whole force retired, suffering heavily from the terrible fire to which they were exposed. Eighty-five were killed and three hundred and seventy-one wounded.

A more deplorable and ill-managed assault was never made by British troops. As Harry had thought possible, Lord Lake had treated the capture of Bhurtpoor as if it had been but a little hill fort. He had made no attempt to carry out regular siege operations but, trusting to the valour of his troops, had sent them across a considerable distance of plain swept by the enemy's fire, to assault a breach defended by some of the bravest tribesmen of India; and had not even issued commands which would have ensured order and cohesion in the attack.

The lesson that had been taught was not sufficiently taken to heart. Some more batteries were placed in position and, on the 16th, opened a heavy fire against the wall on the left of the former breach, which had been repaired during the two nights following its successful defence. So heavy was the fire from the new batteries that another breach was made in the course of a few hours. The Jats stockaded it during the night, but the timbers were soon knocked to fragments and, for five days, a continuous cannonade was maintained and a large breach formed.

It was necessary to find out how wide the ditch was, and three native cavalry and three British troopers, all dressed as natives, suddenly dashed out of the camp. At a short distance behind them a number of Sepoys ran out, as if in pursuit, discharging their muskets as they did so. Just as the six horsemen arrived at the ditch, two of the troopers' chargers were made to fall. The native havildar shouted to the soldiers on the wall to save them from the accursed feringhees, and show them the nearest entrance to the city. The soldiers pointed to a gate near the breach and, as soon as the men had again mounted, the havildar rode with them along the ditch, and made the necessary observations.

Then they put spurs to their horses, and rode off -- the Jats, on seeing that they had been deceived, opening upon them with musketry. Their excitement and fury, however, disturbed their aim, and the six horsemen rode into camp unhurt, and reported that the ditch was not very wide, and that it did not seem to be very deep.

Portable bridges were at once constructed. These were to be carried by picked men, who were instructed in the best method of pushing them over the ditch. To prevent the recurrence of the confusion that had been, before, caused by the assault in the dark, it was determined that it should be made in daylight and, on the following afternoon, the storming party moved forward. It consisted of four hundred and twenty men from the European regiments, supported by the rest of those troops, and three battalions of native infantry. Colonel Macrae was in command. The whole of the batteries opened fire, to cover the movement and keep down that of the besieged.

On arriving at the ditch, it was found that the portable bridges could not be thrown across as, during the night, the garrison had dammed up the moat below the breach and turned a quantity of water into it, thus doubling both its width and depth. A few gallant fellows jumped in, swam across, and climbed the breach; but there were few capable of performing this feat, encumbered by their muskets and ammunition; and Colonel Macrae, seeing the impossibility of succeeding, called them back, and retired under a tremendous fire from the bastions and walls.

This assault was even more disastrous than the last, for the loss in killed and wounded amounted to nearly six hundred. Harry was deeply disappointed at these reverses, which the rajah himself, with great glee, reported to him with full details.

There had been other fighting: two British convoys on their way from Agra had been attacked by the horsemen of Ameer Khan, Holkar, and the rajah. The first might have been successful, for the twelve hundred bullocks were escorted by only fourteen hundred men; and these, although they might have defended themselves successfully, were unable to keep the convoy together. The animals, excited by the firing, were rushing off in all directions when, fortunately, a body of our cavalry which had been sent out to meet the convoy arrived, and drove off the enemy with a loss of six hundred men.

The next morning a general movement could be seen in the British camp. The rajah, who was immediately informed of it, came up to the lookout.

"The English general has given it up as hopeless," he said. "They are about to march away."

"It looks like it, Rajah," Harry admitted, "but I should hardly fancy that Lord Lake will take such a step. He has tried to take the town by a sudden assault, and I think that he will not retreat until he has attempted to do so by a regular siege operation."

An hour later the whole of the tents had been pulled down and, presently, both the troops and the huge body of followers and cattle were in motion.

"They are not going to Agra," the rajah said, after watching them for some time; "they must be going to march to the north."

Two hours later, the great procession had arrived at the north of the town. There they halted, and their long lines of tents began to rise.

"They are going to try another point," the rajah exclaimed. "Truly they are brave men, but they will be repulsed, as they were before."

"I fancy they will begin in another way, Rajah, and will make regular approaches, so that they will not have to pass across the open ground swept by your guns."

This indeed turned out to be the case. The trenches were at once opened and, ere long, two batteries were established at a distance of four hundred yards from the wall. Two days later another, still nearer, opened fire and, by the 20th of February, the trenches had been pressed forward to the edge of the ditch; and a mine sunk, with the intention of blowing up the counterscarp, and so partially filling the ditch. The troops intended for the assault took their places in the trenches at an early hour, so as to be ready to attack as soon as the repairs made by the garrison in the breach during the night could be destroyed by the batteries.

The Jats, however, had been rendered so confident by their previous successes that, during the night, they made a sally, crept into the advanced trench -- from which the workmen had been withdrawn -- and started to demolish the mine and carry off the tools. As the storming party moved down through the trenches the Jats -- who had made the first sally -- joined by a considerable number from the town, rushed forward and attacked them; and inflicted considerable loss before they were repulsed. A portion of them, however, still held the advanced trench; and when the 75th and 76th, who were at the head of the column, were ordered to dislodge them, they hesitated.

The repulse of the former attacks had had its effect, and the troops, believing that the enemy would have filled the mine with powder, and would explode it as they advanced, refused to move. The remaining men of the flank companies of the 22nd stepped forward but, as they were too few to attack so considerable a number of the enemy, the 12th and 15th Sepoy Regiments were called to the front, and these advanced gallantly.

The enemy were driven from the trench at the point of the bayonet. The ditch, however, had again been flooded, and was found to be impassable; but there was a bastion to the right that had been damaged by the breaching guns, and the troops at once made for this. A few men of the 12th managed to climb up, and planted the flag of their regiment on it but, as only one could mount at a time, and the Jats were swarming down upon them, they were recalled; and the force again drew off, having lost, in killed and wounded, nearly nine hundred men. Notwithstanding the terrible losses that had been suffered, General Lake persevered in his intention to carry the place at the point of the bayonet; and on the following day the batteries opened their fire on the bastion that had been nearly carried by the 12th Native Infantry.

The position had become serious. The cavalry had, a fortnight or three weeks before, defeated those of the rajah and his allies with heavy loss, and brought in a convoy; and Ameer Khan, who had only joined the Rajah of Bhurtpoor in the hope of plunder, had deserted his ally and ridden off, with his following and a large body of Pindarees, with the intention of devastating and plundering the district of Rohilcund. Three regiments of British cavalry, under General Smith; and as many of native horse, with artillery, followed on his track and, after a pursuit of three weeks, at last came up with him, annihilated his infantry and captured his guns. His cavalry, however, for the most part escaped, as the horses of the pursuers were completely worn out.

They returned to the British camp, after more than a month's absence, from a chase extending over seven hundred miles.

Their absence had greatly increased the difficulties in the British camp. Without their protection, the danger to which convoys were exposed was great. Provisions were running short in camp, the ammunition was almost exhausted, and numbers of the guns were rendered unserviceable. These circumstances afforded the only excuse that can be made for a fresh attack upon Bhurtpoor.

It was even more disastrous than those which had preceded it. The 75th and 76th Regiments, deeply ashamed of their conduct on the preceding occasion, volunteered to a man; and they, with the other European regiments and five regiments of Sepoys, under the command of Colonel Monson, moved out to the attack at three in the afternoon. Nothing could exceed the courage which they displayed, and their conduct rivalled that of the storming party at the siege of Badajos; but they were fighting against impossibilities. The bastion could not be climbed. Some of the soldiers drove their bayonets into the wall, one above another, and attempted to climb up by these steps; but were knocked down by logs of wood, large shot, and other missiles. Others attempted to get in by the shot holes that had been made, here and there; but as only one man could enter at a time, they were killed before a footing could be obtained. All this time a terrible fire was maintained by the enemy against our men, showers of grape and musketry swept their lines, pots filled with gunpowder and other combustibles exploded among them, bales of cotton dipped in oil fell flaming in their midst.

For two hours the hopeless conflict was maintained. Then the order was given to retire, and the men fell back; having lost, in killed and wounded, nine hundred and eighty-seven of their comrades. Thus the four assaults had cost the army three thousand two hundred and three of its best soldiers. The force was still further weakened by a large number of deaths from dysentery and fever, the result of the miasma rising from the marshes.

The camp was now shifted to drier ground, to the northeast of the town, the movement being harassed by the enemy's horse. The rajah, who had been jubilant over his success, looked grave when the new encampment was fixed.

"They have not done with me, yet," he said to Harry. "Why do they not go, now they see that they cannot take the place?"

"Because were they to do so, Rajah, half India would be in arms against them in a fortnight. Never before, since we set foot in India, have such defeats been inflicted upon us; and Lord Lake cannot march away and so own himself entirely beaten. Never before has an English general out here so blundered.

"Still, although unable to take Bhurtpoor, General Lake knows well enough that he can easily repulse all attacks on his camp. He knows, too, that the greatest efforts will be made to send up reinforcements. Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta will all send every available man and, ere long, his losses will be much more than counterbalanced by the forces that will join him. We have, during our history, suffered several disasters; but never one that has not been redeemed and revenged."

"Holkar was here, this morning," the rajah said, after a long silence. "He came to congratulate me on our victory. After he had done so, he asked that you and your troopers should be handed over to him. I need scarcely say that I refused. You were captured by my men and, though I am in alliance with Holkar, I do not owe him any fealty. It is I who have aided him, while he has given but little assistance to me; and would, I am sure, ride away and leave me to my fate, if he knew where to go to. But his country, his capital, and his forts are all in the hands of the English; and he stays near here because it is, at present, the safest place for him."

On the 23rd of March, the British cavalry returned. For a month no attempt had been made to renew the siege, but the camp still remained as a threat against Bhurtpoor, and the time had not been lost. Convoys, escorted by strong parties of infantry, had come out from Agra. Supplies of all kinds, battering guns and ammunition, arrived almost daily. The armourers worked at the old guns, and made them again fit for service; and everything showed that, when the attack was renewed, it would be much more formidable than before.

The cavalry were given a few days' rest after their arrival but, before daybreak on the 29th, they moved out in hopes of surprising Holkar. He had, however, scouts well posted far out; and he effected his retreat with the loss, only, of some of his baggage animals. He retired some miles to the southwest, and again pitched his camp.

On the 2nd of April the cavalry, with the horse artillery, again moved out at midnight and, this time, came upon the enemy undiscovered; and before they had time to mount their horses, the cavalry charged them in front and on both flanks, while the artillery swept the camp with grape. Great numbers were slain, both in Holkar's camp and in the pursuit, which was continued for eight miles. The whole of the camp equipage, the greater portion of the guns, and the bazaars were captured and, during the next day or two, large bodies of Holkar's troops, considering his case hopeless, deserted him. When in his flight he crossed the Jumna, he had but eight thousand horse, five thousand infantry, and thirty guns; the remains of the great army with which he had crossed the river, confident of victory, the year before.

On the following day Lord Lake, who had received considerable reinforcements, again moved his camp to the southeast of the city, and prepared to resume active operations against it. The rajah had, for some time, been in a despondent state and, the next morning, he came alone to Harry's room.

"I want to have a talk with you," he said; and Abdool, seeing that the conversation was to be a private one, at once left the room.

"My friend," he said, "I have, for some time, felt that my cause was becoming hopeless. I have never supposed that, after failing four times, and each with heavy loss, your people would continue the siege. But I see now that I was wrong. We might repulse another attack, and another; but of what use would it be? Your people would only become stronger, after each defeat.

"I see now that I have acted as one bereft of sense. I had no quarrel with the Company. They added to my territory, they had promised to defend me against all attacks but, when I heard that Holkar was approaching with so vast an army, I thought that surely he would recapture Delhi, and drive you out of Agra, and perhaps down to Calcutta; or that, after taking Agra, he would turn against me. And so, foolish man that I was, I joined him.

"And now I would fain make peace, and I pray you to go to your general, and ask what terms he will grant. They may be hard, but I am in no position to stand out. Ameer Khan has been chased and routed, Holkar is little better than a fugitive, and owns only his horse and saddle. There is no one to whom I can look for aid. I put myself in the English general's hands."

"I will willingly go, Rajah. No doubt it has been supposed, for weeks, that I and my escort have perished. And when the general hears of the kind treatment that we have received -- a treatment so different from that we should have met with, had we fallen into the hands of Holkar -- it will, I feel certain, have an effect on the terms that he will lay down."

Harry had, each day, paid a visit to the troopers, who were confined in a large airy room opening into the courtyard. They had been well fed, and had been permitted to go out into the open air, for several hours a day, and to mingle freely with the Jat soldiers. Half an hour after his interview with the rajah Harry went down there. To his surprise, he found Abdool and the troopers all mounted, as well as a party of the rajah's own guard.

Before leaving, the rajah had returned his sword to him. As he rode through the streets, followed by his own troopers and with the rajah's guard riding ahead, the people looked on with curiosity, but evinced no animosity against him. Successful as had been the defence, the fact that the British had received great convoys and reinforcements had caused a feeling of apprehension as to the final result. Food, too, was becoming very scarce for, although small quantities were brought in by the side opposite to that occupied by the camp, this was altogether insufficient for the needs of a large population, swollen by the fighting men of the whole country.

Even these supplies had ceased, since the return of the British cavalry and the rout of Holkar, and the fighting men were losing heart. Their losses had been small, in comparison with those of the besiegers; but the defeat of Holkar impressed all with the fear that the British must, in the end, triumph. They had already done more than any who had tried to stem the tide of the British power. They had repulsed them four times, and their defence would be the subject of admiration for all the native peoples of India. Therefore, when it was known that the captured English officer was leaving the town, with his troopers, the idea that the end was near caused general satisfaction.

Harry left the town by the gate nearest to the British encampment. The rajah's guard still accompanied him, but halted halfway between the walls and the camp; and there dismounted, the officer in command telling Harry that his orders were to wait until his return. Numbers of the soldiers had gathered at the edge of the camp, on seeing the party riding towards it; and when the guard fell back, and Harry with his troop approached, and it was seen that it was a British officer with an escort of native cavalry, a loud cheer broke out.

Most of the soldiers knew Harry by sight, and all had heard of his being missing with his escort and, as the time had passed without any news of him arriving, it was supposed that all had been killed by the horsemen of Ameer Khan or Holkar. Many of the men of the 5th Native Cavalry were in the crowd, and these shouted welcomes to their comrades; while several English officers ran up and shook Harry by the hand.

"I have been a prisoner in Bhurtpoor," he said, in answer to the questions. "I have been extremely well treated, but I cannot tell you more now. I am here on a mission to the general."

Curious to ascertain the cause of the cheering, General Lake appeared at the entrance of his tent, just as Harry rode up.

"Why, Major Lindsay," he exclaimed, "where did you spring from? We had all given you up as dead, long ago!"

"I have been in Bhurtpoor, sir, and am now here in the character of the rajah's ambassador."

"That is good news. But come in and tell me, first, about yourself."

Harry briefly related how they had lost their way in a morass, and had been attacked in the morning; and that, finding it impossible to make a way out, he had surrendered. He spoke in the warmest terms of the rajah's treatment of him and his followers.

"We were treated as guests, rather than prisoners, sir; and lived in a handsome room, got excellent food, and had the run of the palace. Scarce a day passed on which I did not have a talk with the rajah, himself."

"It is an exceptional case, indeed," the general said. "Had you fallen into Holkar's hands, or into those of Ameer Khan, very different treatment would have awaited you. And now, what has the rajah to say for himself?"

"His plea is, sir, that he believed Holkar's army would assuredly sweep us away; and that, in that case, he would have been attacked by him for having formed an alliance with us."

"His position was certainly an awkward one," the general said. "And now, what does he propose?"

"He does not propose anything, sir. He places himself in your hands. He admits his faults; and is, as he may well be, heartily sorry for them. He believes that he might still defend his town for some time but, his allies having been thrashed, he sees that, in the end, he must be overpowered. He asks that you will formulate your demands."

"Your news is very welcome, Major Lindsay; for indeed, I am as anxious to be off as the rajah can be to see me go. Scindia is giving trouble again, and has written a letter couched in such arrogant terms that it is virtually a declaration of war. I could not leave here until the town was captured; for it would have seemed to all India that we had been defeated, and would have been a terrible blow to our prestige. Therefore, at all costs, I must have taken the place. It will, however, be another fortnight before we shall be ready to recommence the siege.

"I do not wish to be hard on the rajah, and I know that the authorities at Calcutta view the case in the light that he has put it, and are willing to believe that his turning against us was not an act of deliberate treachery, but a fear of Holkar.

"His treatment of you and your escort is, in itself, much in his favour. Of course in this, as in similar cases, we could deprive him of his dominions, and send him a prisoner to a fortress; but the Governor General is most anxious that this business should be concluded. It has already cost us more men than we lost in the overthrow of Tippoo's power. He has given me authority to negotiate a peace, if the rajah offers to surrender. He has named the terms, approximately; and the rajah's treatment of you will certainly induce me to minimize the demands, as far as possible, especially as it is most important that the force shall be available elsewhere.

"Of course, the grant of territory made to him will be rescinded. In the second place, we must, until all the terms of the treaty are fulfilled, retain the fortress of Deeg, which we shall garrison strongly. The rajah must pay twenty lakhs of rupees towards our expenses. We shall not demand this at once, but three lakhs must immediately be paid. One of his sons must be given up to us, as a hostage for the fulfilment of the treaty. The rajah must also bind himself not to enter into any communication with any princes, or chiefs, at war with us.

"I think that you will allow that those are not hard conditions."

"Certainly not, sir; and I have no doubt that the rajah will agree to them, without hesitation."

"I will have a draft of the treaty drawn up, in half an hour," General Lake said. "Of course, you will carry it back to the rajah?"

"Certainly, sir. Fifty men of his bodyguard are waiting for me, halfway between the camp and the town."

Harry left the tent, and found the officers of the staff and many others waiting to welcome him back.

"They will all want to hear what you have to tell, Major," the head of the staff said. "You had best go into the mess tent, and hold a durbar."

The tent was soon filled with the officers, with the exception of the chief of the staff, who had been sent for by the general.

"In the first place, Lindsay," one of the officers said, "we take it that you have come on a mission from the rajah. Does he mean to surrender?"

"He is willing to surrender, if the terms are not too onerous."

The announcement was received with a loud cheer. There was not one present but believed that the next assault would be successful, but the cost of the previous attacks had been so great that it was believed the city would not be taken, unless with great slaughter. The unhealthiness of the country had told upon their spirits, even more than the repulses; and the news that they would soon be able to march away created the deepest satisfaction.

"And now, for your own adventures, Lindsay."

"My adventures began and ended in a swamp. It was four o'clock before the convoy left Agra, and I then rode on fast till it was night, when I was still five or six miles from the camp. It was pitch dark, and we lost our way and, presently, found ourselves in a deep swamp, and could discover no way of getting out of it."

Then he told them of the attack; how they had been obliged to surrender and had been guided out of the morass.

"When we reached the rajah's palace, all our troubles were ended. A handsome chamber was placed at my disposal, and the havildar of my escort was allowed to be with me. I was treated rather as an honoured guest than as a prisoner. I lived on the fat of the land, and was permitted to wander about the palace, and spent most of my time in the gallery round the highest tower, where I could see all that was going on. The rajah himself was most kind to me, and enquired daily if my wants were supplied to my satisfaction. He would often come up to the gallery and chat with me, sometimes for an hour. The troopers, also, were all well treated."

"You have received a great deal of misplaced commiseration," one of the officers said. "We have all thought of you as having been tortured to death, either by Holkar or Ameer Khan; and now we find you have been better housed and better fed than we have.

"And you are going back again, I suppose, with the chief's answer?"

"Yes; I must not tell you the conditions, but I think I can say it is certain that the rajah will not hesitate a moment in accepting them."

"Well, he deserves to be let off leniently, if only for his treatment of you and your men. It is a contrast, indeed, to what has generally happened to officers who have fallen into the hands of any of these native princes."

There was a general talk until an aide-de-camp came in, and asked Harry to accompany him to the general's tent.

"There is the draft of the treaty," the latter said. "I hope that there will be no delay in returning a prompt answer. I want either yes or no. These Indian princes are adepts in the art of prolonging a negotiation. If you see that he has any disposition to do so, say at once that I have told you that the terms I offer are final, and must be accepted or rejected."

"Very well, sir. I hope to return with the answer tomorrow, early."

And, followed by his escort, Harry rode for the city. The rajah's guard mounted, as soon as they saw him coming, and escorted him to the palace. The street leading to it was now thronged with people, and it was evident to Harry that, among the great majority, there was a feeling of hope that he was the bearer of acceptable terms; for among the poorer class the pressure of want was already severe.



Chapter 20: Home.


Harry, on arriving at the palace, at once went to the rajah's room.

"Well, sahib, what terms does your general offer me?"

"Terms which I think, sir, you will have no hesitation in accepting. Here is a draft of the treaty that he proposes."

The rajah glanced at the document, which was written in English and in Mahratti, for none of the general's staff understood the Jat language. Harry saw, at once, that the terms were far less onerous than the rajah had expected; for his face brightened, and the air of despondency that it had for some days expressed passed away.

"It is better than I had looked for," he said. "As a rule, the English have not been merciful to those they have subdued. That the territory they gave me would be taken away was a matter of course. The sum to be paid is heavy but, as they have given me time, I can manage to collect it without much difficulty. This is all that is demanded; and that they should hold Deeg and my son as a hostage, until the money is paid, is fair and just."

"I thought that the conditions would meet with your acceptance, Rajah; and I may say that your kindly treatment of myself and my escort has gone some way in mitigating the terms that would otherwise have been demanded. But the general said that you must understand that he can make no further diminution of his demands; and that tomorrow he expects an answer, yes or no."

"I reply yes, at once, Major Lindsay. A load has been lifted from my mind. I shall still have my liberty, my capital, and my people; and am grateful, indeed, for the clemency that has been shown me. I had relied somewhat upon your good offices; but had small hopes that, after what has taken place, I should be offered such terms."

The rajah at once sent for his sons -- of whom Harry had seen but little, for they were always on the walls, encouraging the troops and seeing that the breaches were repaired, as soon as made. The rajah read to them the draft of the treaty. They too were visibly relieved; for they had talked the matter over with their father, on the evening before, and had agreed that, probably, he and his family would be kept as prisoners in a fortress, that the fortifications of the town would be destroyed, and some nominee of the British Government created rajah.

"The general has not said which of my sons is to be hostage?"

"No, Rajah, he left that to you. I may say that he took the same view of your position as that which you, yourself, explained to me; namely, that you joined Holkar simply from the apprehension that, if the English were defeated by him, he would next turn his arms against you."

"Which of you will go?" the rajah asked his sons.

All expressed their willingness.

"Then I will choose my third son," he said to Harry; "the others will be more useful here."

Harry rode out, early in the morning, with the news that the rajah accepted the terms offered to him. In an hour the treaty was written out formally, the general affixing his signature. Harry returned to the city, this time accompanied by a general officer, and both signed their names as witnesses to the rajah's signature. Some bullock carts, with chests containing the three lakhs of rupees, were already in the courtyard; and with these and the rajah's third son, Harry returned to camp.

The army afterwards started to meet Scindia, who had advanced with his army, with the intention of joining Holkar and assisting the Rajah of Bhurtpoor. He had, for some time, been almost openly hostile; had sent his relation, Bapeejee Scindia, with a strong body of horse, to act in concert with the cavalry of Ameer Khan and Holkar; and had sent letters to the Government which amounted to a declaration of war. But when Holkar reached his camp a fugitive, and he heard that Bhurtpoor had surrendered, he at once fell back; and endeavoured to make excuses for his conduct, alleging that Bapeejee Scindia has acted entirely without orders, and that he had himself advanced only with the intention of mediating between the Rajah of Bhurtpoor and the English.

No one was deceived by his assurances, but it was thought politic to pretend to believe them. The Marquis of Wellesley's term of office had expired, and a successor had come out, with orders to carry out a policy differing widely from that which he had followed. The latter had enormously extended the area of the British possessions in India, the British troops had won a marvellous series of victories; but this had been effected at an immense cost and, so far, the revenue drawn from the conquered provinces barely sufficed to pay the expenses of occupation and management.

The treaties, too, that had been entered into with various rajahs and chiefs might, at any moment, plunge the Government into war in support of our allies and, accordingly, Lord Cornwallis was again sent out, to carry out the policy of maintaining friendly relations with the native powers, and of abstaining from interference in their quarrels with each other. Indeed, a breathing time was urgently needed. The rapid progress of the British arms had aroused a feeling of distrust and hostility among all the native princes; and it was necessary to carry out a strong but peaceful administration in the conquered provinces, to give confidence to their populations, to appoint civil officers of all sorts; and so to divide the troops that, while they ceased to threaten any of the native powers, they should maintain order in the new dependencies not yet reconciled to the change of masters, or capable of appreciating the benefits arising from orderly rule.

Accordingly, Scindia's excuses were accepted. A considerable portion of the dominions that had been wrested from him were restored; and even Holkar, whose atrocious cruelties to all the British soldiers and officers who fell into his hands should have placed him beyond the pale of pardon, was again invested with most of his former possessions -- with the object, no doubt, of counterbalancing Scindia's power as, had Holkar been driven to take refuge in the north, as a fugitive, Scindia would have become paramount among the Mahrattas.

One of the last acts of the Marquis of Wellesley was to offer Harry a high civil appointment, in one of the new provinces; but he declined it, upon the ground that he was about to apply for leave to go to England. He had, indeed, already formed the idea of quitting the service altogether. The presents he had received from Bajee Rao, on his first arrival at Poona, and on being invested as Peishwa; and the still larger one that Nana Furnuwees had given him; had been, for the most part, invested in the purchase of land at Bombay. In the eight years that has elapsed, the town had greatly increased in size; and the land had been gradually sold, at four or five times the sum that it had cost, and the proceeds sent to England. Harry was, therefore, a rich man.

He had been constantly engaged in service for nearly nine years and, as he had never been settled long enough to have an establishment of his own, his military pay had much more than sufficed for his wants; and the large increase which he had obtained, when engaged in civil or special duty, had been entirely laid by. There was, then, no further occasion whatever for him to remain in the service. At any rate, he determined to obtain a three years' leave; and before the end of that time, he could finally make up his mind on the subject.

A month, therefore, after the siege of Bhurtpoor was concluded, Harry had an interview with Lord Lake, and requested three years' leave to go to England.

"You have well earned it, Major Lindsay. Your services have been very great and, if the war was likely to continue, I should have asked you to reconsider your request; but as, from what I hear, a complete change of policy has been determined upon, and it has been decided that there shall be no further extension of our territory, there is likely -- at any rate for a time -- to be a period of peace. The board of directors desire to consolidate the territory that we have gained, and wish to abstain from all embarrassing alliances, or from any meddling in the affairs of the native princes.

"You, who have been so long at Poona, and understand the shifty nature of Scindia, Holkar, and indeed of all the native princes, must know well that these orders are much more easily given than carried out. If our restraining hand is removed, we shall have Scindia, and Holkar, the Peishwa, the Rajahs of Berar, Kolapoore, and Bhurtpoor at each other's throats again. They will treat our declarations, that we desire peace, only as a proof of weakness; and may, at any moment, lay aside their private quarrels to unite against us; and, unlikely as it may seem at present, my conviction is that there will never be permanent peace in India until we are masters from Cape Comorin to the borders of Afghanistan. It may be another half century, and will certainly only be after hard fighting; but I believe that, until all India acknowledges our rule, there will not be anything like permanent peace within its borders."

"I am afraid that that is so, sir. The only really sincere and honest man that I have met, bent upon serving his country, was Nana Furnuwees and, in consequence, he was equally hated by the Peishwa, Scindia, and Holkar. I was certainly extremely well treated by the Rajah of Bhurtpoor; but this was, no doubt, largely due to the fact that he thought that, if matters went against him, his courtesy to me would tell in his favour, while ill treatment or murder would have put him beyond the pale of forgiveness."

"Your application comes at a fortunate moment, for I am sending a regiment of Bombay cavalry back to their presidency, and it will be well that you should travel with it through Jaipore and Ajmeer to Surat, and so on to Bombay, which will save you a long journey -- unless, indeed, you wish to travel by way of the Ganges."

"I would much rather go to Bombay, sir. I wish to visit the good people who brought me up. I will ask you to allow Havildar Abdool to go with me. I don't know whether he will wish to take his discharge, but I should think he would do so and, as he belongs properly to the Bombay army, and is indeed a Mahratta, I am sure that he would prefer to settle there."

"I will certainly do that, and will see that the services he has rendered are mentioned in his discharge; and I will, myself, write to the Government of Bombay, saying that I had intended to grant him a small holding, as a reward for his fidelity; and asking that this may be bestowed upon him, either in the Concan, or in some of the territory that we have become possessed of above the Ghauts."

Abdool was greatly moved, when Harry told him that he had applied for and obtained leave.

"You will take me with you, master, I hope?"

"I think, Abdool, that you would do better to remain in your own country. You would feel very strange in England, among people none of whom speak your language. You would also feel the cold, greatly."

"I would rather go with you, sahib. Were I to go back to my native village, I should find myself among strangers, for I have now been nearly fifteen years away; and what should I do without employment?"

"Well, we will think it over, Abdool. Lord Lake kindly offered to write a letter in your favour to the Government of Bombay, asking them to give you the charge of a village district, which would keep you in comfort."

"I should not be comfortable if I were not with you, sahib."

"Well, Abdool, we are going with the Bombay regiment which starts tomorrow, and shall travel through Central India to Surat. There I shall leave them in the Concan, and cross the Ghauts to Jooneer, and pay a visit to Soyera, Ramdass, and Sufder, and see them all comfortably settled; and then go down to Bombay. So we shall both have plenty of time to think it over."

Accordingly the next morning Harry, after saying goodbye to all his friends, started. The journey to Surat was nearly seven hundred miles, and was accomplished without incident. On their arrival at Jowaur, they ascended the Ghaut to Trimbuck, and then rode to Jooneer, and another half hour took them to the farm.

Harry was received with delight by its occupants. It was six years since he had parted from his old nurse at Bombay, and he had greatly changed since then. He was now a tall and powerfully-built man.

"And so you are already a major, as was your dear father!" she said, after the first greetings were over. "It seems to me but a short time since you were an infant in my arms. But what brings you here?"

"There is going to be a general peace for some time, Soyera; and I have had enough of fighting, and am on my way home to England, where I hope to learn something about my father's and mother's families. I have three years' leave, and as I am as rich as I could desire to be, possibly I may return here no more."

"I shall grieve, Harry; but it is natural for you to do so, and I shall feel happy in the thought that you have become all your parents could have wished, and that I have been the means, in some way, of bringing this about."

"In all ways, Soyera. I owe not only my life, but all that I am, to you. Had you been without friends, I would have taken you to England. But happily you are among your own people, and have now been living with your good brother and his wife for four-and-twenty years; and I can leave you, knowing that you are perfectly comfortable and happy.

"Have you any desire to better your condition, Ramdass? I owe you, too, so much that it would greatly please me to be able, in some way, to show that I am grateful for the shelter you gave me for so many years."

"There is nothing," Ramdass said. "I have all that I can desire. Had I more, I should have greater cares. Those who are rich here are not the best off, for it is they who are squeezed when our lords have need of money. My sons will divide my land when I die, and my daughter is already married and provided for. Had I a larger farm, I should need more hands and have more cares. The bounty which you before gave me has gratified my utmost desires."

A messenger had already been sent off to Sufder, who rode in the next day. He, too, was well and comfortable, and was viewed as a man of importance by the villagers.

Harry remained there four days longer, then bade farewell to those who had proved themselves his true friends, and rode down to Bombay. On the road he had a long talk with Abdool, who remained fixed in his determination to accompany him to England, if he would take him.

"Very well, Abdool, so it shall be. But if, at any time, you have a longing to come back to your own country, I will pay your passage, and give you enough to make you comfortable for life."

Harry remained but a few days in Bombay, wound up his affairs with his agents there and, being fortunate in finding a vessel that was on the point of sailing, took passage in her for England. The voyage was an uneventful one. They experienced bad weather off the Cape but, with that exception, carried all canvas till they entered the Channel. Here they encountered another gale, but arrived safely in the Thames, four months after leaving Calcutta.

It was now January, 1806, and after going with Abdool to an hotel, Harry's first step was to procure warm clothing for himself and his follower. The weather was exceedingly cold, and although Abdool had, as he considered, wrapped himself up in an extraordinary way, he was unable to keep warm, except when sitting in front of a huge fire.

"Is it always like this, sahib?" he asked, in a tone of great anxiety.

"Oh no, Abdool, only for perhaps two months out of the twelve. You will find it pleasant enough in summer and, after two or three winters, will get accustomed to the cold. You had better not think of going out, till you get your clothes. I will have a tailor in to measure you. I should say that it would be more convenient for you to take to European clothes. You will not find them uncomfortable, as you have for so many years been accustomed to uniform. They are much more convenient for getting about in, and you will not be stared at in the streets; as you would be if you went about in native costume. However, you can wear your own turban, if you like."

Abdool willingly consented to this proposal. A tailor was consulted, and suggested loosely-cut trousers and a short jacket, similar to that now worn by the French zouaves, and differing but little from that of the Indian cavalry. In this, with the addition of a long and warmly-lined cloak, Abdool professed his readiness to encounter any degree of cold.

As soon as his own clothes had arrived, Harry went to Leadenhall Street and, sending in his card, was shown into a large room, where two or three of the governors of the Company were seated, considering the reports that had been brought from India in the ship in which Harry had arrived.

"Your name is familiar to us, Major Lindsay," the gentleman at the head of the table said cordially. "You have been mentioned in numerous despatches, and always in terms of the highest commendation. First, by the Governor of Bombay; then by the Marquis of Wellesley, for the manner in which you secured the neutrality of Berar, during the Mysore war; then again, if I remember rightly, for obtaining concessions for our occupation of the island of Singapore, when we are in a position to undertake it. He also sent us your report of that business, by which it appeared that you had some extremely perilous adventures, entailed by your zeal to obtain the Rajah of Johore's consent to the cession. Sir Arthur Wellesley mentioned your name in his despatch after Assaye, and Lord Lake's despatches make numerous mention of your service with him. Altogether, I do not think that any officer has received such warm and general commendation as you have done."

"Thank you, sir. I have always done my best, and been exceptionally fortunate in being engaged in services that gave me an opportunity of, in some degree, distinguishing myself."

"Pray sit down, Major. My colleagues and myself will be glad to know a little more about you. When the Governor of Bombay informed us that he most strongly recommended you for a commission, he mentioned that you were a son of Major Lindsay who, with his wife, was killed in the Concan, at the time of that most unfortunate and ill-managed expedition to Poona. We had never heard of your existence before. Had it been brought before our notice we should, of course, have assigned a pension for your bringing up and education."

Harry, at his request, gave a very brief outline of the manner in which he had been saved by his nurse, who had taught him English, and prepared him for entering the service when he came of age.

"I have returned to England," he said, "partly to find out, if possible, any of my relatives who may exist on my father's or mother's side."

"I have no doubt that we shall be able to put you in the way of doing so. Doubtless, at the time of your father's and mother's death, we notified the fact -- at any rate to your father's family -- and received communications from them. We will cause a search to be made. Where are you staying?"

Harry gave the name of the hotel.

"We will send you word there, as soon as the records have been searched. At any rate, it is certain that the birthplace of your father and the residence of his father will be found, at the time he obtained his appointment as cadet. I have no doubt that the letter communicating his death was directed to that address."

The next day a messenger brought a note to Harry's hotel:

"Dear Major Lindsay:

"We find that your grandfather was a landowner in Norfolk. His address was Parley House, Merdford. The letter sent to him with the account of your father's death was answered by a son of his; who stated that his father had died, two months before, and enquired if any news had been obtained of an infant who, they had learned, had been born some months before the murder of its parents. We replied that the report to us had stated, 'body of infant not found.' We, at his request, wrote to Bombay on the subject.

"The answer was as before that, although the body of the child was not found with those of its father and mother, no doubt whatever was entertained that it had been killed. It was some days after the catastrophe happened before any report of it reached the authorities, when a party of cavalry were at once sent out. Many of the bodies had been mutilated, and some almost devoured by jackals. No doubts were entertained that the infant had been altogether devoured."

"The remains were all buried at the spot where they were found; and a stone was erected, some months afterwards, by the officers of his regiment; recording the deaths of Major Lindsay, his wife and child, at that spot."

Two days later Harry took his place with Abdool on the north coach and, after spending a day at Norwich, drove in a post chaise to Merdford. Here he heard that Parley House was two miles distant and, without alighting, drove on there. It was a fine house, standing in a well-wooded park. On a footman answering the bell, Harry handed him his card, "Major H. Lindsay."

He was shown into a library and, a minute later, a gentleman entered. He was about sixty years of age, of the best type of English squire; tall, inclined to be portly, with genial face and hearty voice.

"We are of the same name, I see, Major Lindsay."

"We are, sir; and, strange as it may appear to you, of the same blood."

"Indeed!" he said, shaking hands with his visitor. "What is the relationship? It must be a distant one, for I was not aware that I had any connection of your rank in the army.

"By the way, now that I think of it, I have seen, in the reports of our campaigns in India, the name of a Captain Lindsay frequently mentioned."

"I am the man, sir."

"I am glad to know that one who has so distinguished himself is a relation of mine, however distant."

"It is not so very distant, sir. In point of fact, I am your nephew."

The squire looked at him in bewilderment.

"My nephew!" he repeated.

"Yes, Mr. Lindsay. I am the son of your brother, also Major Lindsay, of the Bombay Army. I returned from India but ten days ago; and learned for the first time, from the governors of the Company, the family to which my father belonged. Had it been otherwise, I should have written to you, years ago, to inform you that I was the infant who was supposed to have perished, when its father and mother were killed."

Harry thought that the colour paled a little in his uncle's face.

"You have, of course, proofs of your identity?" the latter said, gravely.

"Certainly. I have the evidence of the Indian nurse who saved my life, and brought me up; that of a cousin of hers, who was an officer of the band that attacked my father; and that of her brother, with whom I resided from the time she brought me there -- three days after the death of my parents -- until I was twelve years old, when she placed me with a lady in Bombay, for two years and a half, to be taught to speak English perfectly. After that, I was some three years in the service of the Peishwa.

"These depositions were, by the order of the Governor of Bombay, sworn to by them before the chief justice there. My identity was fully recognized by the Governor of Bombay, who at once recommended me for a commission, in consequence of some service that I had rendered to the Government; and the recommendation was accepted by the court at home, and my commission dated from the time of my appointment by the Governor."

"I see a likeness in you to my brother who, when I last saw him, was about your age. I do not say that you are exactly like him, but your expression and voice both recall him to me. As a matter of form, of course, I should like to see these depositions. I am curious to know the details of your adventures.

"But that will keep. I will at once introduce you to my wife and daughter. Like your father, I was unfortunate in my children. I know that you had several brothers and sisters born before you, all of whom died in their infancy. I did not marry until some years later than he did. I had two boys, who were both drowned when out in a fishing boat at Yarmouth. My daughter was the youngest."

He rose from his seat and led the way to the drawing room, where a lady some fifteen years younger than himself was seated at work, with a girl of nineteen or twenty.

"My dear," he said, "I have a surprise for you. This gentleman, Major Lindsay, who has distinguished himself greatly in India, is our nephew. He claims, and I may say at once that I see no reasons whatever to doubt it, that he is the child of my brother Harry who, as you may remember, was, with his wife, killed in India a few months after we were married. My enquiries resulted in leaving, as it seemed, no room for doubt that the infant had perished with his parents, and that its body had been devoured by wild beasts.

"But it now appears that he was saved by his nurse, who happened to have a relation who was an officer in the party that attacked Harry's camp. She took him to the house of a brother, and there he was brought up; and he afterwards went down to Bombay, where he satisfied the Governor as to his identity, and received a commission. I have not heard further particulars yet, but Major Lindsay -- 

"I suppose I shall come to call you Harry, in time, nephew -- 

"Will tell us all about it, himself. I am sure that you will join with me in welcoming Harry's boy heartily, and in my satisfaction that he has proved himself well worthy of his race."

Harry was a little surprised at detecting a tone of warning, in the manner in which the last words were spoken; and at the agitation with which Mrs. Lindsay had listened to her husband. This disappeared, however, as she held out her hand to him.

"I welcome you back to England, nephew. Yours is indeed a strange story. I know that my husband was greatly attached to your father."

"Yes, I loved him dearly," Mr. Lindsay said, "and can see a resemblance to him in his son. He is taller and more strongly built than Harry was. I do not say that the features are very like, but there is something in the expression of his face, and tone of his voice, that recalls him to me strongly.

"This is my daughter Mary. We called her so after your mother. It was a fancy of mine, for I knew her well before she married your father. The two families were on terms of great friendship, and for her sake, as well as for my brother's, I gave her the name."

"I am glad to meet you, cousin," the girl said, holding out her hand frankly to him. "It is, of course, a great surprise to us, and I can hardly realize yet that you are really my cousin."

"Now, Harry," his uncle said briskly, "I will give orders to have your things taken out of the post chaise, and carried up to your room. We shall be having lunch directly and, after that, you shall tell us your story at full length."

Ten minutes later they sat down to lunch. When Harry rejoined the others, he fancied he saw traces of tears in the eyes of Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter; and he thought that perhaps they had been thinking that, if their own boys had lived, they also would be young men now.

After the meal was over, the squire said:

"Now, wife, we will all adjourn to the library. It is the most comfortable room in the house, and the cosiest -- just the place for listening to a long story. I have told William to get two more armchairs there, so that we can sit round the fire -- which is quite the proper thing to do when a story has to be told."

The light had faded out of the sky, and the curtains were drawn; but the squire would not have candles lighted, saying that the blaze of the fire was the proper thing to listen by. Harry related fully the manner in which he had been brought up and trained, by his nurse, for the time when he could present himself at Bombay; and also his adventures in the Deccan, which had paved the way for his obtaining a commission. He told the rest more briefly, though he was obliged, in answer to the questions of the others, to go somewhat further into his personal adventures.

"It is a wonderful story," the squire said, when he at last finished. "There are many things that you have cut very short; and which you must, some other time, tell us fully. Your poor father would have reason to be proud of you, indeed, had he lived to see you now. He thought that he was wonderfully fortunate, in obtaining a majority at the age of thirty-five; but you have got it ten years younger.

"Well, we have not spared you, for we have kept you talking over four hours."

Dinner passed off quickly, and when wine had been placed on the table, and the servants retired, Mr. Lindsay said:

"You will understand, Harry, that although absolutely certain that you are my nephew, I do not resign, and offer you my seat at the head of the table, until the documents that you have brought are formally examined."

"What do you mean, uncle?" Harry asked, in surprise.

"I mean, of course, that as your father's son, this estate is yours, and not mine."

Harry rose to his feet.

"I don't understand you, uncle. I never dreamt for a moment -- " and he stopped.

"That your father was my eldest brother. Yes, he was a year older than myself; and at his father's death would, of course, have succeeded to the estate. But he died before him; and you, as his son, will of course succeed."

"But I could not dream of such a thing, uncle. Do you think that I have come down here with the idea of turning you and my aunt and cousin out, and taking your place? If I had known it, I should not have come down at all. It would be monstrous if, after you have been master here for twenty-five years, I should come down to claim the estate from you."

"I am glad to hear you say so, Harry," his uncle said, gravely. "Naturally, it did not occur to us that you were ignorant that your father was the eldest son. We thought, from your manner, that you would be willing to arrange everything on amicable terms; for of course, legally, you are entitled to all the back rents, which I honestly say I could not pay. Your aunt's little fortune, and my portion as younger brother, will be amply sufficient to keep us three comfortably; but as to paying the arrears, it would be impossible."

"My dear uncle, the whole thing is impossible. I have returned home with an ample amount of money to live in luxury. I did not think it necessary to mention, in my story, that Nana Furnuwees presented me with a considerable sum of money; and Bajee Rao did the same. This I invested in land close to Bombay, which is now covered with houses, and fetched five times the price I gave for it. In addition to this, I have been in civil employment for the past six years and, as I have always been on the move, I have never had the expense of an establishment, and have thus saved some five thousand pounds.

"Therefore I am master of something over ninety thousand pounds; and can, if I do not return to India -- which I have, I may say, already made up my mind not to do, buy an estate. I have had very much more than my share of adventures, and have marvellously escaped. If I return, my luck might change.

"At any rate, I have had enough of it. I have made a very handsome fortune and, even putting everything else aside, would rather know that I owed all I possessed to my own good luck and exertions, than to an accident of birth."

"But that cannot be, lad."

"Well, uncle," Harry said obstinately, "if you choose to see things in that light, all I can say is, that I shall at once throw up my leave and return to India; and if you choose to leave this house and estate, it may go to wreck and ruin for anything I care."

"Well, well, my boy, we won't say anything more about it, now, but will leave it to the lawyers to settle."

"I shall certainly employ no lawyers in the matter, uncle. By all means, obtain your solicitor's opinion as to whether the proofs I have put in your hands are sufficient to establish, beyond all fear of doubt, the fact that I am the son of Major Harry Lindsay. It matters not whether my father was your elder brother or not, to anyone except ourselves. I am perfectly satisfied with having proved, to the satisfaction of all in India, that I am the son of a brave officer. My object in coming to England was not to see whether I was entitled to money, but simply to find friends among the families of my father and mother; and if it were to end in my turning you, my aunt, and cousin out of the place you have believed to be your own, for so many years, my visit here would be a dismal failure, and I should bitterly regret having set foot in England.

"Please do not let us say anything more about it. The matter, so far as I am concerned, is concluded; and nothing that can possibly be said will shake my determination, in any way."

In order to break the silence, for Mrs. Lindsay and Mary were both wiping their eyes, Harry went on:

"Now that we have finished this question, uncle, I will tell you how I got the ratification of the treaty, that will some day be made for our occupation of Singapore, from the Rajah of Johore. As far as the excitement went, it certainly was the most stirring business that I was ever employed in;" and he at once launched into the narrative of his capture, the escape, the adventure with the tiger, and the defence of Johore.

"It seems to me, Harry," his uncle said, when he had finished, "that you not only have as many lives as a cat, but as a whole posse of cats. I cannot but think that it was a wild business, altogether; and that, having got the assent of the gentleman with the very hard name, there was no occasion to bother about the rajah, who seemed to have no authority whatever."

"But he might have got it, you see, uncle. It may be ten years or more before a governor general will be able to attend to the business, and it was as well to get it settled, once for all."

"What did the rajah present you with for saving his capital?"

"He offered me a number of weapons and things but, as I had no place to put them in, I could not be bothered with them. I do not think that cash was at all a strong point with him, and I don't suppose he had a thousand dollars in his treasury. I was a little surprised that he did not offer me half a dozen young ladies as wives; but had he done so, I should have resisted the temptation, as they would have been even more trouble than the weapons."

"You never fell in love with any of the Indian beauties, cousin Harry?"

"I have never seen any to fall in love with. The ladies of the upper class in India, whether Hindus or Mussulmans, always go closely veiled; and as to the English ladies, in the first place they were nearly all married, and in the second place I went as little into society as I could help, being on the Governor General's staff, and nearly always away on duty. Certainly I never saw anyone who caused my pulse to beat faster; which I believe, from what I have read, is one of the many symptoms of being in love."

Harry then enquired about his mother's relations.

"I, unfortunately, can tell you nothing about them. She was an only daughter when she married your father. Both her parents died, years ago. They only had a lease of the place they lived in, and I really cannot tell you anything whatever about them. There was a son, who would, I suppose, succeed to any property his father left; but he was a ne'er-do-well, and was seldom at home, and I have never seen or heard of him, since."

"Well, I am quite content with the relations that I have found, and shall not trouble myself to seek further."

Four days passed. At the end of that time, Mr. Lindsay received a letter from his lawyer and, after breakfast, asked Harry to go into the library with him.

"About that business that we were talking about, I have today received an answer to my letter. My lawyer is of opinion, from what I told him of these papers, that your case is a strong one; and that though, if I chose, I might give you a great deal of trouble, he thinks that in the long run you would succeed. As I don't want to give you trouble; and as I am, myself, as completely convinced that you are my brother Harry's son as that I am his brother, the matter may now be considered as finally settled."

"Quite so, uncle. I don't want to hear anything more about it. If you choose to be obstinate, and turn out, I can only say that I shall be sorry that the old house, where my father and you were both born, should go to wreck and ruin. At any rate, let the matter rest, for the present. Possibly it may yet be arranged to the satisfaction of all parties."

"It will certainly not be arranged to my satisfaction," the squire grumbled, "unless you become master here."

"We will talk it over, in six months' time."

He related the conversation to his wife who, to his surprise, looked pleased.

"Nothing could be better," she said; "it would be an excellent plan."

"What on earth do you mean, Louisa?"

"You are as blind as an owl, Peter. There can be only one meaning in what he has said, only one arrangement that could be satisfactory to all parties."

"And what is that, my dear?" the squire said, a little testily.

"I mean, of course, that he should marry Mary."

The squire sat down suddenly, in his surprise.

"Such an idea never entered my head," he said. "But why should you think of it? Why, the young fellow has only been here four or five days!"

"That is quite long enough for him to see that Mary is a charming girl," Mrs. Lindsay said. "He has seen very little of ladies; and he is, no doubt, struck with the idea that she is an extremely nice girl. I don't say that he is in love with her, yet; but quite enough, perhaps, to foresee that, ere long, he will feel more ardent than he does at present; and that it is the only arrangement possible, since we are determined to turn out for him.

"Now mind, Peter, you do not throw out the slightest hint, either to him or to her, that such a solution has ever occurred to us. It might spoil everything. It would make Mary shy with him, and might cause him to be awkward. You give your consent to remain here, for six months. By that time the question will have solved itself. If I am wrong, no harm will have been done. If I am right, the arrangement will be, as he says, a satisfactory one to us all."

"I was always against cousins marrying," Mr. Lindsay said, doubtfully.

"Don't be absurd, Peter. I don't say that, in some cases, there is not a good deal to be said against it; but where both the man and the woman are healthy, and come of healthy families, no union can be more likely to be happy."

"But I think I have heard you speak -- "

"Never mind what you have heard me speak, sir; circumstances alter cases, and this case is altogether an exceptional one.

"We certainly could not wish for a finer young fellow as Mary's husband. He is a desirable partner, in every respect. He is himself well off and, although I quite agree with you that, whatever it costs, we must give the dear old place up, I grant that it would be very pleasant to avoid so terrible a wrench.

"The one thing I don't like is that man of his. He moves about so noiselessly that it is like having a ghost in the room."

"It is you who are absurd, now, Louisa," the squire said. "The man has, over and over again, proved himself to be a most faithful friend to him. I own that it is a little trying to see him standing behind Harry's chair, without moving, except when his master wants something; but after all, that is less fidgety than having footmen dodging about you.

"Well, Louisa, I will take particular heed of what you have said, and will be mum as a mouse, until we see how the cat jumps."

Mrs. Lindsay's prevision turned out correct. Harry remained a week longer at Parley House. Then he heard that an estate was for sale, two miles away, and drove over quietly to inspect it. Ten days later he wrote from London, and said that he had bought the place.

"He is the most obstinate fellow that I ever knew!" Mr. Lindsay exclaimed, as he read the letter.

"What is it, dear?"

"He has bought Hungerford's place, and never gave me the slightest hint of his intentions."

"Well, I think it will be very nice to have him so near us," Mrs. Lindsay said, decidedly.

"Oh, of course, and it will be so handy for -- "

"Peter, will you take another cup of tea?" his wife said, sharply; and Mr. Lindsay knew that he had nearly put his foot in it.

A week later Harry came down again -- to see, as he said, what required to be done to the house; and he needed no persuasion to stay at Parley Hall. To decide upon matters, he needed a great deal of advice, both from Mrs. Lindsay and Mary; and then, having put the house into the hands of the builders and decorators, he went up to town again. However, he frequently ran down to see how things were getting on and, before the alterations were all finished, Mary had consented to become its mistress.

Abdool preferred to remain as his master's body servant, as before. He had even, before leaving India, picked up a certain amount of English; and had improved considerably his knowledge of the language during the long voyage. Mary, fortunately, had not shared in her mother's feelings about him but, on learning that he had, several times, saved Harry's life, had taken to him greatly. He never returned to his native land.

And although Harry and his wife talked, sometimes, of making the voyage to India, they were never enabled to accomplish it for, as children grew up around them, Mary was no longer free to travel. Abdool's devotion was now divided between his master and mistress and the little ones, who were never tired of listening to his stories of their father's adventures.

Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay lived to an advanced age, and died within a few weeks of each other. Harry then moved to Parley Hall, and sold the estate he had bought; as the management of one estate, and his duties as county magistrate, occupied as much time as he cared to give. The only complaint made against him, by his neighbours, was that he did not care for field sports. But, as he said, he had seen enough bloodshed to last him his lifetime; and would neither shed the blood of bird nor beast, though he had no quarrel with those who liked that sort of thing.

He kept up a regular correspondence, to the end of her life, with his old nurse; and his interest in his Indian friends never abated. He was an old man when the Indian mutiny broke out, and two of his grandsons took their share in the long siege of Delhi, and served with both the forces which, under Sir Colin Campbell, fought their way into Lucknow, and finally broke the neck of the Sepoy mutiny.

<eob>

The Meadow-Brook Girls Under Canvas

Or

Fun And Frolic In The Summer Camp

By

Janet Aldridge



Chapter I

Crazy Jane's Wild Drive


"Tommy, what are you doing?" demanded Margery Brown, shaking back a lock of unruly hair from her flushed face.

"Conthulting the Oracle," lisped Grace Thompson, more familiarly known among her friends as Tommy.

"I should think you would prefer to cool off in the shade after that climb up the hill. I'm perishing. If you knew what sight you are you'd come in out of the sun, wouldn't she, Hazel?"

Hazel Holland regarded Margery solemnly.

"You are a sight yourself, Buster. Your face is as red as a beet. I wish you might see yourself in a looking glass."

Buster tossed her head disdainfully. "I'm not a sight," she declared.

"I'll leave it to Tommy if your face isn't positively crimson." But Tommy was too fully absorbed in her present occupation to give heed to the remark. "I'm sorry Harriet isn't here," continued Hazel, seeing that Tommy had not heard her.

"Why isn't she here?" asked Margery.

"Harriet is helping her mother," replied Hazel. "She always has something to do at home. She is a much better girl than either you or I, Buster. Harriet is always thinking of others instead of herself."

"Well, she's older. She is sixteen and I am only fourteen. By the time I'm her age I will settle down, too," declared Margery wisely.

"Wearing spectacles and darning socks," smiled Hazel.

Margery shook her head vehemently.

"Wouldn't it be awful!" she queried.

"Oh, I am not so sure of that," replied Hazel. "I like to keep house. Every girl ought to know all about housekeeping. Do you know how to cook?"

"No. I don't want to know either, not even plain cooking," retorted Margery. "Plain cooking may be all right for plain people, but --  -- "

"Buster!" rebuked Hazel. "I am amazed to hear you talk that way. That is like Crazy Jane. You don't want to be called another 'Crazy Jane,' do you? You will be if you persist in saying such silly things."

"Why don't you lecture Tommy?" demanded Margery, her eyes snapping threateningly. "Tommy doesn't know a biscuit from an apple dumpling until she gets it in her mouth."

"Tommy, please come in out of the heat," begged Hazel. "What are you doing out there?"

"Telling my fortune," answered Tommy without raising her head from her task. Hazel observed that Tommy was pulling a daisy apart. A heap of daisies that she had pulled up by the roots, lay in her lap, regardless of the dirt that was accumulating on her stiffly starched white dress. One by one Tommy pulled the daisy petals from the flower, muttering rhythmically to herself.

"Consulting the Oracle," sniffed Buster. "Did you ever hear of anything so silly?"

"We all do silly things," answered Hazel wisely.

"I go, I thtay; I go, I thtay; I go, I thtay; I go -- Oh!" Tommy glanced up with an expression of disgust on her face.

"Didn't it come out to suit you?" smiled Hazel Holland.

"No," pouted Tommy, screwing up her small face. When animated, Grace's was an impish face, made more so by the upward tilt of a much freckled nose.

"Go where?" I questioned Margery, now evincing a mild interest in Tommy's affairs.

"To the thea thhore."

"Oh, the sea shore," nodded Hazel.

"Yeth. The daithy theth tho. I'm going with my father and mother. But I don't want to go. I want to thtay here with the girlth," pouted Tommy.

"I should think you would be happy to think you are going to the sea shore. Most girls would be," reminded Hazel.

"It must cost a lot of money to go to the sea shore," remarked Margery Brown.

Tommy bobbed her head vigorously.

"Yeth. My father hath lotth of money, I thuppothe. But I don't care. I don't want to go."

"When do you go?"

"I don't know, Hathel. The Oracle thayth I'm going."

The Oracle having settled the question, no further doubts remained in the mind of little Grace Thompson.

Grace's father was a lawyer. Both he and the girl's mother had inherited fortunes, and Grace being an only child had much, finer clothes than any of her companions in the little New Hampshire town of Meadow-Brook.

Hazel Holland and Margery Brown were the daughters of village merchants, the former's father being a druggist, while the father of the latter owned a fairly prosperous grocery business.

The fourth member of this little quartette, Harriet Burrell, was not so fortunately situated as were her three friends. Harriet's father was a bookkeeper in the local bank, and on his moderate salary was doing his best to give his daughter and younger son an education. His salary was barely sufficient to do this and at the same time support his family, small as it was.

It was Harriet's ambition to go to college. She was now sixteen years old. In two more years she would finish her course at the high school. From that point on, the way did not look particularly bright, so far as continuing her education was concerned.

In the meantime Harriet Burrell was living the wholesome life that her environment made possible. She was a strong, healthy, buoyant girl, full of life and spirits, popular with everyone who knew her, and a superior being in the estimation of the three girls who were her close friends, even though she was unable to dress as well as they or to do other things that were easily within the means of the parents of Grace, Hazel and Margery.

The four girls were together much of the time, quarreling and making up almost in the same breath, even stubborn little Tommy giving way to the kinder and more mature disposition of Harriet Burrell. As Hazel had already said, Harriet at that moment was at home helping her mother, even though the fields, the trees and the nodding daisies were calling loudly to her.

"Must you go if you do not wish to!" Margery was asking.

"I gueth not; not if I don't want to, and I don't," declared Grace with emphasis.

"She thinks she can have more fun with us four girls this summer. Still, she should go if her folks wish her to do so," nodded Hazel thoughtfully. "Don't you say so, Buster?"

"No, I don't," declared Margery with some warmth. "In her place I should do just what I liked best. Then again, it wouldn't be fair for Tommy to go away like that and leave us all alone here to mope through the summer. That's right, Tommy. Tell them you won't go unless -- unless you can take us along too."

"Margery!" rebuked Hazel severely. "That wasn't a nice thing to say. That shows a selfish spirit. If Harriet were here I know she would tell you the same thing. I am sure you didn't mean it that way."

"Harriet wouldn't," protested Buster. "She doesn't put on a solemn face and read people lectures. No, Hazel Holland, she doesn't do anything of the sort. There's some one coming," exclaimed the girl, suddenly changing the subject.

"I see her. It is Miss Elting," answered Hazel, her eyes growing bright. "She is coming up to see us, I do believe."

"Yeth, it'th Mith Elting," decided Grace, screwing up her little face and looking inquiringly at the newcomer who was leisurely making her way along the road in their direction. 441 wonder what she wantth."

"Miss Elting is coming up to join us, of course," replied Hazel. "And you see if she doesn't have something fine to suggest. Harriet is going to miss something, I know."

Miss Elting was one of the younger teachers in the Meadow-Brook High School, a leader in the girls' sports and very popular with them. But of all the pupils in the school her favorites were perhaps the four girls to three of whom the reader already has been introduced. Miss Elting called them "The Little Big Four." The young teacher exerted a great influence over the four Meadow-Brook Girls; she had been especially helpful to Harriet and a closer relation than that of teacher and pupil existed between the two. Both were passionately fond of Nature. They loved the fields, the woods and the waters and many a care-free happy hour they had spent together in the open. Hazel, Margery and Grace frequently accompanied them, though in such instances Harriet and Miss Elting usually found it necessary to cut short their outing because Margery "got all flustered up" from the heat and Tommy's feet usually hurt her.

They had recognized Miss Elting approaching some distance down the road that lay at the foot of the hill upon which the three girls had gone to spend a few leisure hours.

"Hoo-oo!" called Hazel, springing up and waving her handkerchief to attract Miss Elting's attention. The teacher saw them they thought; she appeared to be waving her hand at them, though the distance was so great that they could not be certain of this.

"I'm going to meet her," exclaimed Tommy, springing to her feet. "You thtay here." Tommy started off, scattering a lapful of daisies about her as she ran, then fled down the hill in a series of leaps, her white shoe ties brushing the tops of the daisies and sending the latter into a nodding sea of protest.

"Grace! Grace, come back!" cried Hazel.

"Isn't she a tomboy!" scoffed Margery. "Her nickname suits her."

Tommy was moving too rapidly at that moment to turn back, even though she had wished to do so. So fast was her gait that she appeared to have lost control of herself. Her little white-shod feet were working like parts of a machine driven at high speed. Her voice floated up to them in a shrill wail.

"Thave me! I'm going to fall," she cried. Then she disappeared from view as she sprawled face downward with arms thrust forward among the daisies and tall grass.

"Oh! She is hurt," cried Hazel in alarm.

"No, she isn't. Don't get excited," answered Margery calmly. "You don't know Tommy if you think a little tumble like that could harm her. See, there she goes."

Sure enough, Grace was on her feet again racing down the hill at the same reckless pace as before. She reached the foot of the hill without further mishap, hesitated a second or so at the fence, and then vaulted over it. For a moment, she was out of sight in the ditch beside the road, then she was seen clambering into the dusty highway.

Hazel was laughing.

"You couldn't do that, Buster, I'll warrant."

"I am sure I don't want to," answered Margery stretching out comfortably with her hands supporting her head. "I'm no circus performer."

Hazel uttered a little exclamation.

"Look Margery! Look!" she cried.

"Well, what is it? I don't see anything," replied Margery petulantly, raising herself on one elbow, gazing listlessly down into the valley where the village lay baking under the hot June sun.

"It's a special," cried Hazel. "See, the cars are orange colored. Aren't they pretty? I never saw anything more attractive."

Margery turned up her nose disdainfully.

"I don't see anything about a railroad train to get excited over," she answered, lying back in the shade of the maple tree, beneath which the girls had been resting for the past hour or so.

That the special train rushing down the valley, would make no stop at Meadow-Brook, Hazel could plainly see. Trains that were to stop there always slowed down before reaching the second crossing west of the village. This one had not done so. No sooner had Hazel observed this than she caught sight of something else, something that set her nerves all a tingle. A huge cloud of dust was rolling down the highway near the railroad tracks. That this cloud was not caused by the train was plain to the watching girl. Soon she was able to make out the outlines of an automobile in the cloud of dust. The train was but a short distance away. Each was making for the crossing, where the highway and railroad tracks met. Hazel did not believe the driver of the motor car was aware that the train was so close, even if the driver knew of its presence at all, for no train was due to pass through Meadow-Brook at that hour.

The color suddenly left Hazel Holland's face.

"Quick! Quick! Look!" she gasped.

"It's too hot to keep bobbing up and down," returned Margery indifferently.

"But look! Look!"

"Tell me about it, Hazel, dear. You do not have to get up to see. I do."

"Oh? Buster, there's going to be a collision."

"Eh? What?" Buster was on her feet instantly.

"The train is going to hit the automobile!"

Margery's face paled. Her breath came more quickly. Her eyes grew large and wondering. The power of speech seemed suddenly to have left her. They had forgotten all about Grace Thompson in the greater interest of the moment. Margery shivered with apprehension while beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead. She was staring in terror at the onrushing car.

"Oh!" she shuddered. "There'll surely be a collision."

"Look! The chauffeur doesn't see the train on account of the dust. Don't you see the dust rising in the road ahead of the automobile? The wind is blowing it up ahead and the machine is kicking it up behind. Hoo-oo! Hoo-oo!" cried the girl, frantically waving her handkerchief to attract the attention of the driver of the car, at the same time pointing to the rapidly approaching train.

Instead of slackening speed, the driver of the motor car appeared to be putting on more. The car was rapidly nearing the railroad crossing. So was the train.

"Oh, I can't look at it," cried Margery, throwing herself on the ground and burying her face in her arms.

Hazel stood perfectly rigid. She scarcely breathed. Her eyes were wide and staring.

"Ha -- as it hap-p-pened?" faltered Margery.

"No-o-o. Oh! The driver is going to be killed! Oh, oh!"

For one awful second the motor car and engine of the special were swallowed up in a cloud of dust, then out of the cloud darted the locomotive on one side. On the other dashed the automobile, still on four wheels, continuing at the same reckless speed along the highway.

Hazel uttered a little scream.

"He's made it. Oh!" She sank to the ground pale and trembling. Margery raised a very red, very scared face.

"Wa -- as he killed?"

"No."

"Oh, fudge! Why didn't you scare me to death while you were --  -- "

"Look Oh, look!"

"I won't," declared Margery firmly. "Go crazy if you wish. I won't."

"It's Tommy!"

Buster bobbed up in a fresh panic.

The "man" in the motor car was gazing up at the girls waving one hand to them, steering the car with the other hand.

"It's a woman!" gasped Hazel.

"It's Crazy Jane," cried Margery. "No wonder she nearly ran down a train of cars."

"Tommy! Oh, Tom-my!" screamed Hazel Holland, hopping about frantically, waving both arms above her head, seeking to attract the attention of the woman driver as well as that of Tommy.

The little white figure had climbed the bank into the highway and was now fleeing down the road to meet her friend Miss Elting. Tommy did not see the automobile approaching from the rear. A knoll and a bend in the road hid the driver of the car and the little white figure from each other. The noise of the train either drowned that of the automobile, or else, Grace thought the rumble made by the car to be that made by the train that had just passed down the valley.

The motor car roared around the bend. Miss Elting screamed as she saw it. Grace heard the scream, but failing to understand the meaning of it, decided it to be some sort of greeting. The little girl waved her arms in reply. Miss Elting was gesticulating and pointing frantically. The two girls on the hillside were for the moment paralyzed with fright.

All at once, Grace appeared to perceive her danger. She turned sharply. There she stood, her frightened face turned toward the oncoming car that was rapidly approaching her enveloped in a blinding cloud of dust. The driver and Tommy discovered each other at about the same instant. There was no time to stop the car.

Suddenly, car and Tommy were swallowed up in the dust cloud.

"Grace is killed!" screamed Margery.

"Yes, oh yes!" wailed Hazel, wringing her hands. "What shall we do?"

Out of the dust cloud hurtled the little white figure. She appeared to have been doubled up into a large white ball by the car when it struck her.

The ball rolled from the road, disappearing into the roadside ditch. The motor car lurched around the curve in the road, zig-zagged past Miss Elting, then became a rolling cloud of dust again.



Chapter II

What Happened To Tommy


"Oh-h-h!" moaned Margery. "Poor Tommy has been killed."

In that terrible moment Hazel Holland came nearer to fainting than ever before in her life. She pulled herself sharply together. Margery was by this time sobbing hysterically.

"Don't do that," commanded Hazel sharply, "We must do something. Come quickly!"

Hazel started down the hillside in the trail followed by Tommy during her break-neck sprint to meet Miss Elting. The latter was already running toward the scene of the accident. Hazel recalled afterwards having wondered at the time that a woman could run so fast. Miss Elting's feet seemed barely to touch the ground. Margery, mustering her courage, staggered to her feet and followed Hazel at a slower pace, though she, too, was running.

Hazel was the first to reach the place where Grace had been hurled from the highway by the car.

"Grace!" she screamed, clambering awkwardly over the fence, dropping down on the road side. "Oh, Grace, are you killed?"

A pale-faced girl was sitting at the bottom of the dry ditch with both feet tucked under her. There was a bewildered look on her small face. She was blinking dazedly.

"Oh, dearie, are you injured?" cried Miss Elting, slipping and sliding down into the ditch beside the pale-faced Tommy.

"Yeth."

"Tell me where, what?"

"My feelingth are hurt."

"She's alive! She's alive," cried Hazel, throwing impulsive arms about the neck of her little friend.

"Your feelings are hurt? Well, dear, if that is all, you are a lucky girl," smiled Miss Elting. "Did the automobile hit you?"

"Yeth."

At this juncture, Margery made her appearance in a wholly unexpected manner. Margery in climbing the fence had caught her skirt on a nail. She plunged headlong down the bank into the ditch, almost falling on Grace.

"Oh, oh!" groaned Margery.

Hazel, laughing almost hysterically in her joy at finding Grace alive, quickly assisted Margery to her feet, wiping the dirt from Buster's flushed face.

"She isn't hurt at all," laughed Margery, fixing a glance of inquiry on Tommy's face.

"Tommy says her feelings are hurt," Miss Elting informed Buster.

"Then I am worse off than she. Because I tore my skirt and hurt my arm, too. Catch me running on another wild goose chase like this one. I don't believe the car hit you at all, Tommy Thompson."

"Yeth it did," protested Tommy. "Of courthe it did. I gueth I know. I felt it."

"Stand up," commanded Miss Elting, placing both hands under the arms of the girl and assisting her to her feet. "There! Now see if you can walk. Of course you can," comforted the teacher. "The car never touched you. You must have leaped out of the way just in time. Come, I will help you into the road, then we will take you home. But where is Harriett? I heard she was out here with you girls."

"I should not be here had not Tommy and Hazel dragged me out," declared Margery. "Violent exercise is not good for one during the hot weather."

"It'th very good for you, Buthter," remarked Tommy wisely. "It ithn't good for a growing girl to be thtout, tho I've heard."

"Don't worry. You will never suffer from being too stout," retorted Margery. "You can't keep still long enough."

"Mith Elting, I've been thitting here in the ditch for ever and ever tho long and not thaying a word, and Buthter thayth I can't keep thtill."

"Why don't you girls stop squabbling and answer Miss Elting's question?" demanded Hazel. "Harriet is at home, Miss Elting."

"Yeth, Harriet ith wathing ditheth for her mother," said Tommy. "I'd like to thee anybody make me wath ditheth if I didn't want to."

"That isn't a nice thing to say, Grace," rebuked the teacher. "Of course Harriet is a great help to her mother, as every girl should be. Suppose, Grace, that your mother could not afford to hire a servant to do these things for her? In that case I am positive you would do whatever you could to assist your mother. I believe you would make a fine little housekeeper."

Grace shook her head with emphasis.

"No? Then what would you do if your mother insisted upon your washing dishes?"

"I'd drop the ditheth. Maybe they wouldn't want me to wath any more ditheth after that," replied Tommy, screwing up her face so impishly that Miss Elting laughed aloud.

"Is it any wonder that Grace and myself quarrel awfully at times, Miss Elting?" asked Margery.

"They don't mean anything by it," apologized Hazel.

"Thay, what did you come up here for, Mith Elting?" questioned Tommy, directing a glance of suspicious inquiry at the teacher. "Do you want uth to go for another nithe little walk? No, thank you. I've walked with you before. Thank you very kindly. My feet are too thore and Buthter ith too tired. Harriet'th brother thayth that Buthter wath born with that tired feeling. I geth he'th right. Don't you think tho, Miss Elting? Thit down and retht, and I'll tell your fortune with a daithy."

"If you are rested sufficiently I think we had better move on. Don't worry, Grace. I am not going to drag you away on one of those long walks. But I have something to tell you."

"I knew it," piped Tommy. "Look out! There cometh another automobile." Tommy shied from her position in the road like a skittish horse.

Just then the car that had caused all the trouble came honking toward them and slowed down with a series of explosions that sounded like the discharges of a Gatling gun. The young woman who was driving the car, brought it to a stop, leaped out and running to Grace threw her arms about the slender girl in white.

"Oh, my darlin', my darlin'. My blessed little Tommy. Did I kill you altogether? And I wasn't going a little bit, was I? But didn't I come near to ripping the cowcatcher from that engine? Wasn't it just glorious the way I dodged the old thing? I knew all the time it was going to be a close shave, but I made up my mind I'd beat 'em out even if I took off the hind wheels of my car. Get in, you dears. I'll drive you home."

"What! Ride with you?" questioned Margery. "Not for a million dollars. It's a shame. They ought to arrest you."

"Yes, Jane," rebuked Miss Elting. "You shouldn't go racing about the way you do. Your car nearly ran over Grace."

"Dad says I drive too fast. He says he doesn't blame folks for calling me 'Crazy Jane.' He says I'll meet with an accident one of these days. But Dad has old-fashioned ideas."

Jane paused long enough to brush back two stray locks from her flushed face. Her hair was all awry and her attire showed carelessness and haste in dressing.

"Well, darlin's, if you won't go with me I think I'll go and get Harriet. She isn't afraid to ride with me."

"Please don't do that," replied Miss Elting. "We are on our way to see Harriet on important business."

"So long, then. I'm off, girls."

Jane sprang into her car and drove away with a sputter and a roar, disappearing in a cloud of pungent blue smoke.

"Isn't she a crazy creature?" demanded Margery disdainfully.

"She means well," soothed Hazel.

"Yeth. Thhe meanth to kill thomebody well," corrected Tommy.

Jane McCarthy had acquired the name of "Crazy Jane" because of her reckless driving, her harum-scarum ways and her complete ignoring of public opinion. Not a few of the residents of the little New Hampshire village feared that Jane might be brought home after one of her wild drives, with broken bones, if not worse.

In spite of her reckless manner Jane was well liked. She was good hearted and very charitable, though her charity was not always bestowed with judgment Being motherless she had practically done as she pleased ever since she began to walk, and her father, a wealthy contractor, had indulged her every whim, believing that Jane could do no wrong. Jane was prompt to take advantage of this paternal leniency, though her worst offense was that of continuously terrorizing the neighborhood in which she lived and the whole countryside as well, by her reckless driving with both car and horse.

The narrow escape of Grace Thompson from being run over by the big touring car had not shaken Jane's nerve in the least. It had shaken Tommy's only briefly. Tommy, supple and alert, had leaped from the road just in time to avoid being run down by the car. A second's delay on her part would undoubtedly have proved serious if not fatal to Tommy Thompson.

But the three girls were to see more of Jane in the near future. She was to play a more active part in their lives than she had ever before done. Just now they were more interested in what they instinctively felt Miss Elting had to say to them.

"Now, listen, girls," said Miss Elting after the roar of the car had died away in the distance. "I will tell you about the very pleasant plans I have made for you and Harriet."



Chapter III

The Trail To Camp Wau-Wau


"I understand that your parents have been considering your going to the sea shore with them, Grace?" said Miss Elting with a rising inflection in her voice. "I suppose you are eager to go?"

"No, I'm not. What'th, more, I'm not going. I'm going to thtay here with the girlth. Why?" Tommy regarded the teacher keenly.

"Because my dear, if you are not going to the sea shore I wish to include you in my plans for the summer. I have a fine vacation planned for the four of you. Does any of you know the location of Pocono Woods?"

The girls shook their heads.

"It is a forest near Jamesburg about twenty-five miles from here. How would you young women enjoy spending your vacations in a camp in the woods, living in tents and --  -- "

"Really truly tentth?" interrupted Tommy.

"Yes, dear. Real tents and campfires and all that sort of thing, right in the heart of the Pocono Woods, miles and miles from civilization."

"Are there any thnaketh there?" questioned Grace apprehensively.

"No, no snakes."

"Mothquitoeth?"

"There may be a few mosquitoes. I cannot say as to that. But it is a lovely spot. This camp," Miss Elting went on to say, "is for young girls and young women, and is part of the Camp Girls' Association, a large and growing organization. You will find a great many other young women there and you will, while there, be in charge of a guardian."

"Guardian!" interrupted Grace. "My father ith my guardian."

"Oh, I don't mean that sort of a guardian," answered Miss Elting with a bright smile. "The guardians are merely the women who take charge of the girls during their stay in camp. I am to be one of them this summer. I had planned to take you four girls there after the close of school, but did not think it advisable to speak of my plans until they were more fully developed and all arrangements completed. Now what do you think of it?"

"It is perfectly splendid," cried Margery. "Won't that be great, girls? But," she added, her face sobering, "I do not think my father and mother would permit me to go."

"I am quite sure that mine would not," agreed Hazel solemnly.

"I gueth Mith Elting hath theen to that," spoke up Tommy, her eyes narrowing.

"You have made a close guess, Grace. They have agreed, all except in your case. Your mother wishes to talk the matter over with you and your father before making a final decision."

"Then it ith all right," nodded Tommy confidently. "I'll make them let me go anyway and -- ith Harriet going?"

"Yes. I hope so."

"Doeth thhe know about it!"

"I have not spoken to Harriet about it. I had hoped to do so out here to-day. That is why I proposed just now that we return to the village. We shall have a chance to talk it over on the way back, when I will tell you more about the proposed vacation."

"You thay my folkth know about it, Mith Elting?"

"Yes, dear."

"What did they thay?"

"That they thought you had better go to Narragansett with them, but that if you insisted, they supposed you would have to go to the summer camp with us," admitted the teacher with a tolerant smile.

Tommy twisted her face into a grimace.

"My folkth know what ith good for them," averred the little blonde girl.

"I am afraid, my dear, that you do not fully know what is good for yourself," declared the teacher reprovingly. "You will have to obey the rules when you get to camp, and they are quite strict. There are so many girls there, that rather strict regulations have to be enforced. Every girl is expected to live up to them. Failing to do so she undoubtedly would be sent home."

"If they catch her," answered Tommy wisely. "You thay that Harriet doethn't know about thith?"

"Not yet, Grace."

The girl reflected for a moment. They had started slowly toward the village. All at once Tommy started down the road at top speed.

"Grace, Grace!" called Miss Elting.

"She's gone to tell Harriet what you have said," declared Margery.

A shade of annoyance passed over Miss Elting's face, quickly giving place to an amused smile as she watched the light-footed Tommy speeding down the road. Tommy whisked herself out of their sight in no time.

"Let us hurry on," urged the teacher. "Grace is sure to confuse the story if she tries to tell it. Mrs. Burrell wished me to tell Harriet of the camping trip that is before her."

The girls nodded their approval of the suggestion. Margery held her head a little higher than usual. She wanted to impress upon Miss Elting the fact that she was too dignified to do what Tommy had just done.

In the meantime Grace had continued her wild flight to the door of the Burrell home into which she burst like a miniature cyclone. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. Her white dress was crumpled and stained from sprawling on the hillside and falling out of the road into the wayside ditch.

"Oh, Harriet! Harriet!" she gasped, flinging herself into the room where Harriet Burrell and her mother sat sewing on one of Harriet's dresses which, though the young woman did not know it, was intended for her to wear during the coming vacation in camp.

Harriet sprang up and ran to the excited Tommy, believing that something terrible had occurred.

"Tommy, Tommy! What is it?" she cried.

"The greatetht thing you ever heard. Oh, I won't tell you. It ith too good. Gueth what? Gueth!" chuckled Grace.

"I am afraid I cannot," laughed Harriet, now discovering that nothing was amiss with Grace. "I am not a good guesser, but I do guess that you are very much excited."

"You're going, too," interrupted Grace. "We're all going, and we're all going to live in --  -- "

"Sit down, Tommy and calm yourself. You are so excited that I can't understand anything from your jumble of words," admonished Harriet, laying a firm hand on the arm of her friend and pushing Grace into a chair.

"I don't want to thit down," objected Tommy bobbing up again. "I want to talk, then I want to danthe. Oh, I'm tho happy. But I'm a thight," she added, glancing down at her gown.

"I agree with you," answered Harriet, smilingly. "Do sit down and compose yourself. Where are the girls? Are they as flustrated as you are?"

"Yeth, and they're going, too. They're coming here with Mith Elting. They're coming from over there." Harriet smiled as Grace waved an excited hand toward the west, the direction in which the hill lay.

"Tell me about it. I am growing curious. Where is it we are going?"

Tommy bobbed up from her chair and began dancing about the room.

"Oh, ever and ever tho far."

By this time Mrs. Burrell began to understand. She realized that the cat was about to jump out of the bag, but made no effort to assist Grace in telling the story. Instead Harriet's mother sat with an amused smile on her face.

"We're going away, we're going away. Don't you underthtand?"

"No, Tommy, I don't."

"Oh, fiddle!"

"Where is it that we are going?"

"Ever and ever tho far away. Way off in the woodth where the birdth thing and the frogth croak and the mothquitoeth bite you and thpoil your complexion. And, oh, gueth, gueth, Harriet."

Harriet threw up her hands, an expression of comical despair on her face.

"I give you up, Tommy. You are hopeless. Here come Miss Elting and the girls. Perhaps Miss Elting can tell us what it is all about. I am not going away. You are going to the sea shore, are you not, Tommy?"

Tommy shook her head vigorously.

"I'm not," she declared, with a stamp of her foot. "I'm going to the woodth and --  -- "

"You ran away from us, you naughty girl," chided Miss Elting after having greeted Mrs. Burrell and Harriet. Margery and Hazel had followed her in, and were now shaking hands with Harriet, though it had been only a matter of some two hours since last they met.

"I suppose Grace has told you all about it, Harriet. However, there may be a few dry details left for me," continued Miss Elting with a severe frown at Tommy.

"She hasn't told me anything. She has tried to tell me, but she is too excited to be intelligible. Please tell me what it is all about. I am anxious to hear the news."

"Let Grace tell it, now that she has begun," suggested Miss Elting, nodding to the excited Tommy.

However, with the entrance of the teacher and the two girls, Tommy in her haste to blurt out the full story had become hopelessly tangled. She hesitated, stammered, then stopped short. There was a merry laugh at her expense.

"I shall have to tell you after all, young ladies," said the teacher. "You four girls, it has been decided, are to go with me to the summer camp in the Pocono Woods. Do you know about the summer camp there, Harriet?"

"I have heard of it," answered Harriet, gazing steadily at the speaker. "It is quite an important organization, is it not?"

"Just so. As I already have explained to the girls, I am one of the guardians. I thought it would be fine to have my Meadow-Brook Girls accompany me, and with the consent of the parents of each girl, I have arranged for you to remain in the camp for six weeks, at least, or until we have to return to get ready for the fall term of school here."

"Yeth, and, and, and --  -- " began Tommy.

"Oh do hurry up and tell the retht, Mith Elting," she ended impatiently.

The smile slowly faded from Harriet's face, and now that the animation had left it, it was rather plain. Her hair brushed straight back from a broad forehead, made more pronounced the undeniable plainness of her features. But when animated that face was fairly transformed. As Miss Elting had expressed it, "Harriet lighted up divinely." She was a tall, well built girl whose erect carriage and graceful poise indicated athletic training.

"Yes, that will be fine, indeed," agreed Harriet. "Of course you know it will not be possible for me to go with you, much as I should like to. You understand why without my explaining, Miss Elting."

"Yeth you will go," burst out Grace, suddenly finding her voice again. "I'll pay for you. I've got lotth and lotth of money."

Harriet's face flushed.

"You are a dear, Tommy. But you know I could not permit you to do that," was Harriet's gentle reply. "It is very, very good of you, but wholly impossible. You know Miss Elting, that I could not afford a vacation such as that, much as I should like to go. Oh, wouldn't it be fine if we four girls might spend our vacation in camp together?" she exclaimed, her features lighting up again.

"And so you shall," answered Miss Elting with a finality in her tone that led Harriet Burrell to gaze at the young woman with keen, questioning eyes. "Listen, my dear. I am going to take you with me as my guest. As I have already explained, I am one of the guardians of the camp. The guardians receive no remuneration for their services, but each is entitled, if she wishes, to take one girl with her as her guest. The girl so taken would be a member of the camp, just the same as the others. She would in no sense be a charity member either. She would be on exactly the same footing as her companions. That is the way you are going to join the camping party. I am inviting you to be my guest. Your name already has been registered with Mrs. Livingston, the Chief Guardian of the camp. Your place will be ready for you when you reach there, and I believe you will enjoy your summer thoroughly."

"Now what have you got to thay to that?" demanded Grace triumphantly.

Harriet turned a thoughtful gaze on the smiling face of her mother.

"And you knew about this all the time, but said never a word to me, Mother?"

"Yes, dear."

"Oh, you darling Mother," cried the girl impulsively, throwing both arms about Mrs. Burrell's neck, kissing her affectionately. From her mother Harriet turned her attention to Miss Elting whom she also embraced in a bear-like hug. "How can I ever thank you?"

"By going with us," answered Miss Elting.

"Thay, aren't you going to kith me? Didn't I firtht tell you about it?" demanded Tommy.

Harriet ran over to her little friend, kissing her lightly, at the same time giving Tommy's ear a pinch.

"Girls, you have been in the secret all the time, too, haven't you?"

"Do you think I could keep a thecret all that time?" answered Grace. "Didn't I nearly break my prethiouth neck to get down here to tell you the good newth the minute I heard it? Didn't I get run over by an automobile, too?"

"Grace fell down the hill. She did have a narrow escape from being run down by Crazy Jane," explained Miss Elting.

Harriet regarded her little friend with twinkling eyes.

"When do we go?" she asked.

"On Saturday, the day after to-morrow."

"So soon! Oh, that will be glorious. But how about clothes. What do the girls wear? Anything they happen to have?"

"No. They dress alike, or nearly so."

"Then I fear I shan't be able to go. You see I have nothing except my regular clothes."

Miss Elting continued speaking, unheeding the interruption.

"The everyday dress is of dark blue serge, the waist is batiste lined, it has long sleeves and a large flowing bow, made of plaid or Roman-striped silk at the neck. The skirt for the large girls is plain with a wide box pleat at the back. The skirt for the smaller girls is kilted and made ankle-length or shorter if desired. The dress has three pockets, one of them in the sleeve --  -- "

"Funny plathe for a pocket," observed Tommy.

"Now do you begin to understand?" smiled Miss Elting.

"Why -- why," stammered Harriet, "That is the very thing mother and I have been working on. I've been at work on my camp dress all the time and didn't know it." Harriet laughed excitedly. There were tears of joy in her eyes. "Oh, what a goose I have been, haven't I, girls?"

"Yeth," agreed Tommy, bobbing her head up and down.

"The official hat," continued Miss Elting, "is also of dark blue serge to match the rest of the outfit. It has a white silk cord about the crown with the name of the camp in white on the blue background. I forgot to say that the emblem of your rank in the camp order, will be worked on the sleeve. That may be done after reaching camp."

"What is the name of the camp -- Pocono?" asked Harriet for the sake of continuing the conversation. She was too dazed to think clearly as yet.

"Camp 'Wau-Wau' is the name. It is a Chinook Indian name. 'Wau-Wau' is a term, usually applied to a number of squaws gathering for a confab, and corresponds to the 'pow-wow' of the braves. Now you know all about it. We shall start from here on the noon train Saturday."



Chapter IV

In The Heart Of The Forest


"Is the wagon for Camp Wau-Wau here?" asked Miss Elting.

Four happy-faced girls, accompanied by the teacher, had left the train at Jamesburg, from where they were to be conveyed by wagon into the woods. Miss Elting was directed to a three-seated buck-board wagon. Jasper, the handy man about the camp was on the driver's seat. He was an old man who said little. It was rumored that three seasons spent at Wau-Wau had thoroughly subdued him.

"What about the trunks?" asked the young woman.

"Fetch 'em to-morrow," he answered tersely.

Tommy regarded the slender looking buck-board apprehensively.

"Buthter better walk," she decided. "The wagon won't hold her."

"Now, now, Tommy, do stop teasing Buster. If the wagon goes down Margery will go down with it," answered Harriet laughingly.

"And she will fall a great deal harder than will you," added Miss Elting, at which there was a merry laugh.

It was late in the afternoon when they finally climbed into the buck-board which sagged in the middle until all the girls began to grow apprehensive. They started away along a country road a gay party, indeed, but Harriet noted that horse and driver were not well matched. The horse she could plainly see was young and fractious, and she wondered what the old man would do should the animal prove unmanageable. Their driver, however, appeared to have perfect control over the animal, so Harriet dismissed the disturbing thought from her mind and prepared to enjoy the ride.

The drive to the camp was fully twenty miles. Having come by train they had covered nearly twice the distance that would have been necessary had they driven direct from Meadow-Brook. The fields through which they were driving were green, the air was fresh and fragrant after a shower that had fallen earlier in the day and the girls in the buck-board wagon were in high spirits.

"I'll tell you what, girls," cried Harriet after they had sung all the songs they knew and discussed the country through which they were passing until the latter subject had been worn out. "I'll tell you what we ought to have."

"Ith it thomething nithe?" questioned Grace.

"It is a yell, Tommy."

"A yell? I can yell."

"I don't mean it in that way. Something like a high school or a college yell. We are the Meadow-Brook Girls, you know. We have a name, now we must have a yell."

"Oh, Mith Elting, give uth a yell, a loud one," urged Tommy, her eyes sparkling.

Miss Elting smiled tolerantly.

"You had better arrange one to suit yourselves," she answered. "Harriet, you will have to provide the yell now that you have suggested it."

Harriet already had a pencil in her hand. She sat holding the pencil poised above the fly leaf of a book that she had brought along to read, but had not up to this moment, so much as opened. Her brow was wrinkled in thought. Tommy was regarding her keenly.

"Well, aren't you going to yell!"

All at once Harriet's face relaxed. She began to write. Margery craned her neck to see what was being written, but Harriet held the cover of the book in such a position that Buster could not see what was being jotted down.

"It isn't polite to look over another person's shoulder in that way," reproved Hazel.

"Well, you wouldn't exthpect Buthter to be polite when she ith away from home, would you?" demanded Grace.

"I have it," announced Harriet. "Listen, girls and see how you like this:

"'Rah, rah, rah, Rah, rah, rah Meadow-Brook, Meadow-Brook, Sis, boom ah!'"

"What do you think of that, girls? Isn't that simply fine?" cried Miss Elting enthusiastically. But her voice was lost in the chorus that welled forth from the throats of the Meadow-Brook Girls, who had taken up the yell with a will. Tommy's "thith boom ah!" at the end of the yell sent not only the girls, but Miss Elting as well into peals of merry laughter.

Jasper never smiled. He stroked his long whiskers reflectively. Harriet who occupied the seat beside him, stole a glance at the old man out of the corner of one eye.

"I suppose you are used to girls, aren't you!" she asked.

"Ya-a-a-s," drawled Jasper then relapsed into silence. The girls promptly broke the silence again by giving the Meadow-Brook yell. They continued to give it until their throats ached. Now and then three of them would stop short of the last line in order to catch more clearly Tommy's "thith boom ah!" which always sent them into screams of laughter. Finally Tommy became angry and refused to yell. But the little lisping girl was like an April day. Her frowns of displeasure were replaced by smiles within a very few minutes. The girls had learned not to take Grace's fits of temper seriously. When she became ruffled, they simply left her to herself for a few moments well knowing that the clouds would soon pass and the sun shine again.

"There are the woods! Oh, girls, look at them," cried Harriet. The wagon had reached the top of a high knoll in the road, when below them was revealed the dark blue of a forest that stretched straight ahead and to the right and left as far as the eye could reach.

"Yes, that is Pocono Woods," Miss Elting informed them. "Are they large enough to suit you?"

"What would we do if we were to get lost in there?" gasped Margery.

"I know what I'd do," piped Tommy. "I'd yell like thixthty."

"You are likely to do that even though you are not lost," chuckled the guardian.

"How far into the woods do we go?" wondered Harriet.

"'Bout ten mile, I reckon," answered Jasper.

"Ten miles? Listen to that, girls. Oh, isn't it perfectly splendid?" exclaimed Harriet. "I never dreamed that I should have such a glorious vacation as this is going to be. How many girls are there in camp, Miss Elting?"

"Forty or fifty I should say. I do not know the exact number. You will find a happy lot of young women. Are you hungry?"

There was a general assent to the question.

Miss Elting produced a small hamper in which were sandwiches, cold tea, milk and fruit. It was a delightful surprise to the girls. They showed their further appreciation by eating every crumb of the luncheon, while Jasper contented himself with nibbling at a single sandwich which he held in one hand, driving the young horse with the other.

In this way they drove into the forest, entered the cool dark shadows of the big woods, and were greeted with a chorus of piping twitters from hundreds of forest birds, varied now and then by the hoarse caw of a distant crow whose voice perhaps had started the woodland chorus. The fragrance of the woods mingled delightfully with the perfume of the wild honey-suckle. The Meadow-Brook Girls fell silent under the majesty of the forest. Tommy was the first to break the spell.

"Thith ith a thpooky old plathe," she declared with a shiver. "Oh, Mr. Jathper, are there any fairieth in thethe woodth?"

"Any what?"

"Fairies," explained Harriet, smiling absently.

"Never seen none," answered the old man gruffly.

"Isn't it simply glorious?" breathed Hazel.

"It is too wonderful for words," agreed Harriet.

Miss Elting nodded, smiling happily at the enthusiasm of the girls. The wagon was following an old logging road. Small bushes grew up in the middle of the road. The wheels sank down into deep ruts that had been cut by the tires of the heavy logging wagons, but in general the way was free of obstructions, though the bushes in the road tickled the hide of the young horse until he began to prance from one side of the road to the other in an effort to avoid them. Harriet wanted to suggest to Jasper that he use both hands to drive, but she did not quite like to do so. He undoubtedly would resent her interference, nor could she blame him for doing so.

"Jasper, are you sure the horse is perfectly safe?" questioned Miss Elting apprehensively.

"Hasn't been doing nothing for nigh onto a week. Jest feels his oats, that's all."

Harriet was not fully satisfied with the explanation, though the others appeared to be. Harriet watched the animal now even more closely than she had done before.

"Gid-ap!" commanded Jasper, giving the horse an unexpected slap with the reins after a particularly quick swerve to one side of the road on the animal's part. The horse cleared the road with a single leap sideways. He had been pricked by the sharp top of a bush at the instant the reins were brought down on his back. The reins not being under the full control of the driver at that moment, the animal took advantage of the fact and shying clear out of the narrow road, plunged in among the trees in a panic of fear.

There followed a crunching grinding crash.

"Thave me! Oh, thave me!" screamed Tommy.

With a ripping sound the canopy top was stripped clear of the vehicle and left dangling from the low hanging limbs of the trees under which the buck-board wagon had been dragged.

"Hold fast! Don't try to jump!" commanded Miss Elting without the least trace of excitement in her voice. Hazel placed a firm hand on the arm of the terror-stricken Tommy.

The right forward wheel of the wagon collided with a tree. The wheel was shattered, and the end of the axle broken off short. At the same instant the horse sprang sharply to the left evidently in an effort to get back into the log road, facing almost in the opposite direction.

Jasper being on the downhill side when the wheel collapsed, plunged head first from the seat, landing heavily on the ground. His head coming into contact with the base of the tree, Jasper sank over on his side, unconscious.

Harriet had not lost her head for a second. As the driver fell she snatched at the reins. She caught one of them, the other falling to the ground on the wrecked side of the wagon.

The thills of the wagon broke off short with reports like the explosions of a pistol. Then the horse bolted. Harriet grasping the one rein with both hands shot over the dashboard of the wagon as though she had been projected from a cannon. Hazel and Tommy were also pitched from the vehicle, Miss Elting and Margery clinging to the seats as the wagon toppled over on its side.

"Let go!" shouted Miss Elting. "You'll be killed!"

But Harriet clung to the single rein, the frantic animal dragging her away at a frightful rate of speed.



Chapter V

Their Troubles Multiply


Harriet Burrell's position was, indeed, a perilous one. She was too plucky to release her grip on the rein, no matter what the cost to herself, and her gown. Clinging desperately to the rein she was jerked violently across the log road, the horse dragging her after him as he bolted in among the trees on the opposite side.

Harriet still hoped that she might be able to check the animal and bring it to a standstill. She did not pause to think what a foolhardy thing she was doing. All of a sudden the animal swung about in a half circle. He literally cracked the whip with Harriet Burrell. The rein slapped the side of a big tree. Harriet was lifted from her feet and hurled with great force into the middle of a heap of brush. The dead branches snapped under her weight and she landed at the bottom of the heap, then lay still.

Miss Elting upon finding that the other three girls were more scared than hurt, had run after the fleeing horse that was dragging Harriet away. She cried out in her alarm as she saw the girl land in the brush heap. But by the time Miss Elting had reached the spot, Harriet's pale, scratched face appeared above the top of the brush.

"Oh, my dear, my dear! Are you hurt?"

"Oh, I am all right, thank you," answered Harriet with a brave smile. "Was -- was any one injured?"

Before answering Miss Elting had plunged into the brush waist deep to lend a hand to Harriet. The gowns of both women were considerably damaged before Harriet had been assisted from her uncomfortable predicament.

"You poor girl!" exclaimed Miss Elting.

"I am somewhat the worse for wear," smiled Harriet ruefully.

"Thave me, thave me!"

At sound of the familiar voice and the familiar words they turned to see Tommy running toward them.

"Jathper hath a fit," cried Tommy.

Miss Elting and Harriet ran back to the scene of the accident as fast as they could go. Harriet was limping a little. They found Jasper sitting at the base of the tree, holding his head and groaning. Hazel and Margery stood pale-faced gazing down at him.

"What seems to be the matter with him?" questioned Miss Elting.

"It ain't me. It's the hoss," groaned Jasper. "That three-year old cost me jest a hundred and fifty dollars two weeks ago."

"You will get him back," soothed Harriet

"Yes, but he's spiled. D' ye think Mis' Livingston'll ever trust me to take out another passel of girls behind that critter? And the rig! It's smashed. It's busted."

"I shouldn't worry until I had to," advised Miss Elting. "Just now we have other things to concern us."

"Which way did my hoss go?"

Harriet did not know. Her head had been in such a whirl at the time she had parted company with the animal, that she had lost all sense of direction. Miss Elting said the animal had started back toward Jamesburg.

"Then I must git back to the burg and find him," declared Jasper.

"He ithn't going to leave uth here in the woodth, ith he?" wailed Grace.

"Don't worry," replied the guardian. "Jasper, how far are we from town?"

"Nigh onto fifteen mile."

"Then we should be about five miles from the camp?"

He nodded.

"What do you propose to do with us in the meantime?" demanded Miss Elting.

"You kin wait here till I git another hoss and come back."

"No, thank you. We do not care to sit down here until you return, which will not be until some time to-morrow morning, even if you hurry."

"I got to git that hoss or another hoss," persisted Jasper.

"You will do nothing of the kind. You will remain right here with us," declared Miss Elting firmly. "You shall not go to Jamesburg for a horse until you have seen us safely in camp. Is there any chance of any one else driving past here?"

He shook his head.

"Why can't we walk it?" asked Harriet.

"I had been thinking of making that suggestion. Do you feel equal to it, Harriet?"

"Oh, yes. And the woods are so nice and cool and fragrant. I should prefer walking to riding behind that horse again."

"So should I," agreed Miss Elting with emphasis.

"I got to git a hoss," repeated Jasper stubbornly.

Twilight already was upon them. The forest would soon be in darkness.

"Girls, get together such of your belongings as you think yourselves able to carry. Jasper will also take a bundle. I would suggest that we put our changes of clothing into two bags and have him carry them."

"But our camp dresses are in the trunks," answered Hazel.

"We shall have to get along without them, that's all. Perhaps Mrs. Livingston may be able to fit us out until we get our own clothes. This is most unfortunate. I am awfully sorry, girls. I am afraid you will wish you hadn't accepted my invitation."

"Yeth. I with I'd thtayed at home," piped Tommy. She was very frank about it. There was no beating about the bush with Grace Thompson.

"This time you will have to walk whether you wish to or not," jeered Buster. "I don't want to walk, but I am willing to for the sake of seeing you do something you don't like for once. Just think, you will have to walk five miles, Tommy Thompson."

"Five mileth?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thave me! I won't. I'll thtay right here till Jathper getth another horthe."

"Very well," smiled Miss Elting. "You may remain here until he comes for you sometime to-morrow morning. Jasper, when the young women have their bags ready you will take two of them. We shall manage with the rest of the things very well, I think," she added sweetly.

Jasper obeyed meekly after glancing at the determined face of the guardian.

"We shall have to leave some of our belongings here. I suppose they will be perfectly safe?" she questioned.

Jasper grunted sourly.

Tommy stood observing the preparations for their departure, her alert eyes taking in everything. Especially did she eye Miss Elting, but the expression on the face of the latter told Grace nothing. Jasper dragged down the canopy top, surveyed it ruefully; then kicked it aside with a grunt of disgust.

"I gueth you'd like to kick the horthe too," observed Tommy.

Jasper gazed at her, started to say something, then checked himself. Margery and Hazel giggled. The man finally picked up the bags and stood sullenly waiting. Miss Elting and Harriet also carried suit cases, the other girls taking small packages with them. Tommy stood leaning defiantly against a tree.

"Good night, Tommy," called Miss Elting sweetly. "Keep out from under the trees, if a thunder storm should come up during the night." Harriet, Hazel and Margery suppressed their giggles. Tommy held her position, standing with head thrust forward, eyes narrowed, face drawn into sharp wrinkles.

"Oh, we oughtn't to do it," whispered Hazel.

"Never mind, dear," replied Miss Elting. "You don't think for an instant that Grace will remain behind, do you? This is one of several little lessons that we shall teach her this summer."

They walked on swiftly, for darkness had now overtaken them. All at once they heard a plaintive little wail behind them. A small figure came flying down the log road.

"Thave me! I'm tho afraid," pleaded Tommy, darting up beside Miss Elting and snuggling against her.

Then the Meadow-Brook Girls laughed. The woods rang with their laughter. They expressed no sympathy for Tommy. They were agreed that she had learned a good lesson. Tommy pouted, but clung closely to the guardian. About this time a halt had to be made while Harriet attended to the skirt of her gown that had been badly torn by the brush. Her companions assisted her in pinning it up. While absorbed in this task they had forgotten all about Jasper. They discovered his absence quite suddenly when Miss Elting raised her voice in a loud hello to him.

No answer came back.

"How provoking!" exclaimed Miss Elting.

"He has gone away and left us," moaned Margery.

"Do you think he could have gone back to Jamesburg?" questioned Harriet. "I believe he would if he dared."

"He had better not. I don't see that there is anything to be afraid of except that we might pass by the camp, which, I understand is some little distance from this road. Then again we must not get off the road or we are sure to lose our way. All keep close together. We will continue to walk on. We will call him frequently. I am certain that when he finds we are not keeping up with him, he will either return to see what has become of us or stop to wait."

For a full half hour they continued on their way, stumbling, catching their feet in vines that had trailed across the road occasionally, bumping into trees, but never once wholly getting off the log road. Now and then the call of a night bird fluttering from a tree near at hand, would send Margery and Tommy into a sudden panic. There are many weird sounds to be heard in the forest at night. It seemed as though the travelers heard them all. Had their guardian not been with them, at least two of the girls would have been hysterical. Harriet appeared undisturbed and Hazel held herself very well in hand. But all at once there came a sudden interruption that threatened at the moment to send them all fleeing for safety.

Margery who was walking to one side of the road and slightly in advance of Miss Elting, uttered a piercing scream. They heard her fall.

"Help, oh help!" cried Margery, terrified.

Harriet darted forward to her companion's assistance. She stumbled over something that moved and tried to push her aside. Harriet thrust out both hands and grappled with the object. She grasped a handful of hair.

"It's an animal!" cried the girl, tugging with all her might. "Quick! Help!"

Miss Elting ran forward, now really alarmed, the frightened Tommy still clinging to her skirts. Then came a voice, a male voice raised in angry protest.

"Leggo my whiskers, consarn ye!" it shouted. "Leggo, I tell ye. It's Jasper."

There followed a scuffle and a fall, as Jasper in trying to rise from the suit cases that he had been carrying, fell over them. He landed on his back, shouting angrily. Harriet sat down in the road overcome by a sudden weakness, then she laughed. The other girls, now that the tension had snapped, were laughing also, all except Tommy who was so frightened that she could not say a word.

"Jasper, what do you mean by frightening us in this manner?" demanded Miss Elting severely. "First, you run away from us then you frighten us nearly out of our wits."

"Yaas. Mebby ye think it's fun to pull a man's whiskers out when he ain't looking. I sot down here on them bags to rest. I was waitin' for ye to come up seein' as I'd got ahead. Then one of 'em had to come blundering along and fall over me. Before I knowd what had hit me, the other -- I don't know who she is in the dark -- lighted on my whiskers like a pesky mosquito," complained the driver.

Harriet ceased her laughing at once. She got up, stepping carefully over to the place where the driver was standing nursing his injured whiskers.

"It was I who pulled your whiskers, Mr. Jasper," she said. "I am so sorry. But -- but I thought you were some sort of animal and -- and --  -- "

Harriet's concluding words were lost in a shout of laughter from the girls.

There was nothing more to be said. Harriet felt so humiliated that she was glad they were unable to see her face.

"Jasper!" commanded Miss Elting sharply. "I shall require you to keep just ahead of us within sound of our voices even though you cannot see us in the darkness. How far are we from the camp?"

"Three miles," answered the man sourly.

Tommy groaned.

"My feet are giving out," she complained.

"Let me help you along," said Harriet, placing an arm about her little companion. "Try to forget your tired feet."

"I've a pain in my neck too. I might forget the pain in my neck but the pain in my feet ith there to thtay."

"Never mind, we shall be at Camp Wau-Wau in a couple of hours, then we will have something to eat and you will go to bed and sleep. Isn't it all perfectly delightful, dear?" comforted Harriet.

"Yeth, it ith fine. Tho fine you can't thee it," agreed Tommy dolefully.

It was a trying journey at best. They had lost all track of time, not being able to consult their watches in the dark. Jasper had no matches and he was very irritable, which perhaps was not surprising in view of the fact that he had lost his horse and wrecked a wagon for which he undoubtedly would be called upon to pay, as it did not belong to him. After a time they gave up trying to obtain information from Jasper.

The dull glow of a fire through the trees gave them the first inkling that they were nearing their destination. Tommy was being fairly lifted along by Harriet The latter did not complain at supporting the girl and the suit case, but her arms ached from the exertion.

"There's the camp, dear," encouraged Harriet.

"Camp's a mile down the path," growled Jasper, bringing a groan from Margery and Grace. "That's the fire the girls built up so that we shouldn't go past the path."

"That was thoughtful," exclaimed Harriet. The building of the fire made quite an impression on her. This impression was strengthened when upon reaching the low fire she observed that all leaves and combustible matter had been raked away to a safe distance from the fire so that the forest might not be fired by the blaze. It was her first lesson in woodcraft on this eventful journey into the big forest.

They followed a dark path that wound in and out, a gloomy aisle in the great forest with the tops of the trees over their heads, so high as almost to be lost to view even in daylight, Margery puffing, Tommy uttering little moans now and then so that her companions might know of her misery. That last stretch along the narrow path seemed an endless journey. Then too, it will be recalled that the Meadow-Brook Girls had had nothing to eat since morning except the cold luncheon served by Miss Elting.

"There is the camp, girls," cried the latter some thirty minutes later as a second glow off to the left attracted her attention. "I am right, am I not, Jasper?"

Jasper grunted an affirmative, then led the way to Mrs. Livingston's tent, at Miss Elting's direction. It was the only tent with a light to be seen. The other tents were lost in the shadows of the forest, and the girls who were occupying them were lost in dreamland.

"Keep very quiet so you will not awaken any one," cautioned the guardian as they approached the Chief Guardian's tent, rapping gently on the tent pole. The flap was drawn quickly back. Mrs. Livingston welcomed the wanderers warmly.

The camp life of the Meadow-Brook Girls had really begun. Its activities and excitement were to begin within a few hours from the time of their arrival.



Chapter VI

Taking Their First Degree


"But my dears," cried Mrs. Livingston, a sweet-faced, motherly woman. "What could have occurred?"

It was not strange that she should express amazement, for the condition of the clothes of the Meadow-Brook Girls would have attracted attention anywhere. She stood back surveying them anxiously. All were more or less disheveled. Tommy's blonde hair had fallen about her shoulders in tangled locks; Margery had burst most of the buttons off her blouse when she fell over Jasper; Harriet's blue gingham frock had been sadly demolished on her journey at the end of the rein behind the frightened horse; Hazel found difficulty in keeping her hair out of her face; besides which, both she and Miss Elting looked tired and worn.

"We had an accident," explained Miss Elting. "But we overcame all difficulties finally."

"I'm the only one that wath overcome," lisped Grace. "It wathn't the difficultieth, it wath mythelf. And, Mithith Livingthton, Harriet pulled out some of Jathperth whithkerth. Wathn't that funny?"

"You had better leave the explanation to me," suggested Miss Elting, who then went on to explain what had occurred on their journey to the Pocono Woods, Mrs. Livingston listening with wide open eyes.

"Oh, I am so sorry, my dears," comforted the elderly woman after having heard the story of their experiences. "But you surely did show pluck. That is proper. A Camp Girl must be resourceful and brave under all circumstances."

"Yeth ma'am. Pleathe tell that to Buthter. She ith a 'fraid cat."

"My dear Miss Thompson, that is not the way a Camp Girl should speak of any of her companions. However, I will forgive you this time. Are you hungry? You must be after that long walk."

"We had a light luncheon on the way out," answered Miss Elting.

"All of you come with me to the cook tent at once. But I warn, you it will be a luncheon of such as we can put our hands on. I do not wish to wake the workers at this hour."

They passed by a long row of darkened tents on their way to the cook tent located well down the street, which was a street in name only.

"I have assigned you and Miss Thompson to this tent, Miss Burrell," said the Chief Guardian. "You will be introduced to your tentmates in the morning. Here we are."

The cook tent was filled with long tables running lengthways of the tent. Everything was bright and clean with a strong odor of pine in the air.

"My! That odor of pine does give one an appetite," laughed Miss Elting. "What may we do to assist you?"

"You may make the coffee while I get together some things to eat," directed Mrs. Livingston. "You will find the coffee-pot and coffee can beside it on the second shelf to the right. I think there is still fire in the stove. I had it kept up until late rather expecting that you would come in hungry. I shall have to talk with Jasper. His attitude was inexcusable."

Miss Elting having turned her attention to the fire, Harriet promptly reached for the coffee-pot and in a short time had the coffee boiling. Hazel took the food from Mrs. Livingston, placing it on the table and arranging the places for the party.

"Very well done, young ladies," approved Mrs. Livingston, whose keen eyes had missed nothing of the preparations. "That is as it should be with a Camp Girl. I am afraid it will be useless to suggest that you eat as lightly as possible. You must be famished, but remember you will be going to bed very shortly after your meal."

They promised her that they would heed her suggestion. All did so save Grace who ate heavily. Mrs. Livingston regarded the little girl with an amused smile. She already knew Tommy better than Tommy even knew herself. To take their attention from their eating in a measure, Mrs. Livingston told them something of the life of the camp with reference to themselves.

"After you have filled out and signed the blanks to-morrow you will be full fledged members of the Camp Girls' Association. Each of you will have attained your first rank. You will be known as Wood Gatherers and the emblem of your rank will be the crossed fagots on the Sleeves of your blouses. By the way, Miss Elting, have they been supplied with the uniform?"

"Yes. Their clothes are in their trunks. We were obliged to leave them at the station."

Mrs. Livingston nodded.

"Jasper will bring them over to-morrow -- provided he has found his horse by that time," she added with a half smile.

"Do we have to gather wood?" questioned Grace.

"Sometimes. We all have to do our parts in this community. The young women of the organization do the cooking and the sweeping for the entire camp. They are divided into squads. All this is arranged by themselves. Those who are doing the work for the day are called the Workers. You will have to be up and ready for your duties by six o'clock in the morning when you are Workers."

"Oh, my goodneth, I couldn't do that," exclaimed Grace.

"Each girl must do her part. The rules of the camp will be explained to you to-morrow. But I am quite sure the Meadow-Brook Girls will make a delightful addition to Camp Wau-Wau."

"We shall do our best, Mrs. Livingston," Harriet assured her with eyes fixed on the face of the Chief Guardian.

"I am sure that you will," was the reply. "Miss Burrell, you and Miss Thompson will occupy cots in the tent I showed to you as we passed along. Your tentmates will be Patricia Scott and Cora Kidder. We are obliged to place four girls in a tent now when we have so many of them with us, later on two girls may arrange to occupy one tent if they desire to do so, though the request is seldom made. Breakfast will begin at seven o'clock. We like to have all our girls on hand promptly at that hour. Miss Brown and Miss Holland will be your tentmates for the present, Miss Elting. I think as soon as possible I shall place the Meadow-Brook Girls in one tent. Would that please you?"

"Yes, indeed," cried the girls.

"Yeth, thank you. We're a clothe corporation, ath my father would thay."

"Grace's father is a lawyer," explained Miss Elting with a smile.

"I observe that she exhibits quite a legal trend of mind," laughed the Chief Guardian. "Now if you have finished eating I will show you to your tents. Have you any other changes of clothes for to-morrow morning!"

Harriet said they had not. The Chief said she would try to borrow a skirt for Harriet. The other girls' clothes were in somewhat better condition, and would do, even though Sunday was a partial dress up day at Camp Wau-Wau.

Carrying her lantern Mrs. Livingston led the way first to the tent that Miss Elting and the two girls were to occupy. The other occupant of this tent did not wake up. Hers was a sound sleep, induced by hours full of activity and enjoyment in the fragrant woods.

When they entered the next tent, however, Harriet caught a glimpse of a pair of bright eyes peering at them from above the blankets. The eyes closed almost instantly and the sound of regular breathing came from that cot.

Harriet smiled to herself. She glanced quickly at Tommy who almost imperceptibly closed and opened one eye. Quick-witted, Tommy had not missed the little scene. Harriet wanted to laugh, but instead her face wore a grave expression as she listened to Mrs. Livingston explaining how they were expected to air their blankets out in the open in the morning, then after breakfast make their beds and care for their tents.

Each girl had a locker, this being nothing more than a series of hooks set into the lower ridge plate of the tent, and on which they were supposed to hang their clothes. A curtain covered this locker or clothes press. There was one washstand for each pair of girls. They provided their own towels. In the case of the Meadow-Brook Girls, their towel rack was empty, but each had a pair in the suit cases, together with other necessary toilet articles.

Miss Elting had been left to look after Margery and Hazel. Mrs. Livingston remained in the tent with Harriet and Tommy, until they had prepared for bed and finally tumbled into their cots. Then the Chief Guardian bade each of them good night.

"Pleasant dreams, my dears," she said, and left the tent taking the lantern with her, leaving the interior of the place in darkness. For a few moments the two girls lay quiet, then Harriet heard Tommy calling to her in a loud whisper.

"What is it!" asked Harriet.

"I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Everything. It ith tho thpooky in here. Thay, can't we lock the door?"

"There is no door to lock. Don't whisper so loudly. You will awaken the other girls," warned Harriet.

"May I come over in your bed?"

"Indeed you may not. Tommy, do go to sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open."

Silence reigned in the tent for several minutes, then Tommy began another plaintive whisper.

"Thay, Harriet."

"Oh, Tommy, please," begged Harriet. "What is the trouble?"

"I'm afraid."

"There is nothing to fear. What are you afraid of?"

"Bearth."

"There are no bears in this part of the country. I'm ashamed to see you such a coward."

"You can't thee me at all. It ith too dark," retorted Grace. "What ith that? Thomebody whithpered."

Harriet Burrell did not answer, for she was sound asleep by this time. Tommy lay there staring into the darkness until her eyelids grew heavy. They drooped and drooped, finally closing over her eyes altogether. But she had no more than dropped into a doze when she came to a sitting posture wide awake. Something had disturbed her. Something was moving in the tent and she could almost feel it.

Tommy's eyes grew wide with terror.

"Harriet!" she whispered. "Harriet!" This time the whisper was a little louder, but there was no answer to the appeal. Then a most terrifying thing occurred. A low, deep growl sounded right at the head of Tommy's cot. With a wild cry the terrified little girl landed in the middle of the floor.



Chapter VII

Tommy Has A Nightmare


Harriet rousing herself from a sound sleep, did not know where she was for the moment. Tommy's cries of alarm however, soon brought Harriet to a realization of her surroundings. The girl bounded from her bed.

"Tommy, oh, Tommy! What is it?"

Tommy fairly flew to what she supposed was the cot of her companion and threw herself full force upon it. She fell upon a soft body.

"Get off! Get into your own bed. What do you mean by jumping on me?" demanded an angry voice that Grace even in her great fright, knew at once did not belong to her companion. "Get out of here!" The words were accompanied by a violent push. Tommy Thompson was thrown from the cot to the floor, on which she landed heavily.

"Thave me!" she screamed. "Oh, thave me!"

"You get in here again and I will call the guardian," declared the girl into whose cot Tommy had thrown herself.

"I heard thomething growl," shivered Tommy.

"It is the supper you ate," suggested Harriet "I don't wonder you heard growls. You ate more than any of the rest of us."

"She's haunted," suggested the girl on the cot. Then suddenly she whispered: "Sh-h-h-h!"

A guardian came hurrying into the tent, holding a lantern above her head. Neither Harriet nor Tommy had seen her before. Tommy sat in the middle of the floor the picture of woe. Harriet stood near by with a look of deep concern in her eyes.

"Young ladies, I am amazed," exclaimed the guardian. "Miss Kidder, what is the meaning of this?"

"I don't know. Patricia had some difficulty with one of these girls," was the reply.

"She jumped on me," answered Patricia. "I don't know what for, but she knocked the breath right out of me."

"You are the new girls, are you not?" asked the guardian, turning abruptly to Harriet and Grace.

"Yes, we are the Meadow-Brook Girls," answered Harriet.

"What appears to be the trouble?"

"Something startled my friend. What was it, Grace, dear?"

"Thome -- thomething growled perfectly awful. It wath right by the head of my bed. It thounded like a wild animal," explained Grace wide-eyed. "Yeth, and I could hear it'th teeth thnap. It wath going to bite me."

"Nonsense, child. You were dreaming. Did you have a late supper?"

"We ate supper, after midnight," explained Harriet.

"That accounts for it. Get back into bed, at once, girls. I am Miss Partridge, your guardian."

"I am Harriet Burrell. This is Grace Thompson," introduced Harriet, as she slipped back into her cot.

"Now that I understand I shall not be alarmed again," said the guardian. "I trust you will be quiet, Miss Thompson. Remember you are disturbing others when you permit yourself to raise your voice."

"Yeth'm," answered Tommy. The guardian tucked her into bed, then left the tent.

"Don't you dare to jump on me again," warned Cora in a low voice.

"She didn't mean to," answered Harriet. "I am sure Grace is sorry that she disturbed you."

"Yeth. Beg your pardon," said Grace. "But what wath it that growled at me?"

"I tell you, you're haunted," answered Cora. Tommy snuggled down trembling. She had begun to believe that she was haunted. After this interruption the girls slept soundly until late in the night, when all those in that part of the camp were again aroused by a series of piercing screams and cries for help. The cries sounded from the tent occupied by Harriet and Tommy. Not only Miss Partridge, but the Chief Guardian came running to the scene.

The interior of the tent was in an uproar, but as the guardians neared the scene they were alarmed to discover that the cries came from without rather than from within the tent.

Then a further startling discovery was made. A little white clad figure crouched on the ground a few feet outside the entrance to the tent She was screaming with terror. Beside her was Harriet Burrell, shaking the screaming Tommy.

"Stop it! Stop it!" commanded Harriet.

"Yes, please do. You will have the camp in an uproar," commanded Mrs. Livingston. "Come inside at once. Miss Burrell, will you kindly assist your friend in? Miss Partridge tells me this young woman raised a disturbance once before this evening. I fear the late supper was too much for her. Now, my dear," added the Chief Guardian kindly. "Tell me all about it."

Tommy sat terror-stricken on the edge of her cot. Patricia Scott and Cora Kidder likewise were sitting on the edges of their cots. They did not appear to be frightened. They looked bored and disgusted.

"It wath the motht terrible thing," breathed Grace.

"You must have been dreaming. But tell me, what you think you saw," urged Mrs. Livingston.

"I didn't think I thaw it. I did thee it," declared Tommy firmly.

"You were dreaming, Tommy. You know you were," said Harriet, but Tommy shook her head with emphasis.

"It wath a big pink elephant. I thaw him. He walked right in at that door. Then -- then -- then -- he thtepped up on the cot and walked on me with hith feet. He wath jutht going to thtep on my face when I cried out."

"Nightmare," smiled Miss Partridge.

"It wath not," protested Grace. "Wait! When I cried out the pink elephant put hith trunk right around my neck. Look! You'll thee the mark of the trunk on my neck now."

"Nonsense! There is no mark there, dear," soothed Harriet.

"I gueth I know! It ith my neck. Then the pink elephant lifted me right up. He wath growling jutht like a bear all the time. Then he carried me right out doorth and dropped me on the ground. I heard thome thrange thingth too. I heard feet and wingth in the air. I thaw thome awful thingth, and --  -- "

"My dear, you have a wonderful imagination," declared Mrs. Livingston, laughing. "And what is more and worse still, you have eaten too heavily. I shall see to it that you do not indulge in any late repasts after this."

"Then pleathe tell me, how did I get out doorth?" demanded Tommy triumphantly. This was something of a poser. Harriet said Grace did not appear to be fully awake when she reached her little companion.

"What do you know about this?" questioned the guardian, turning to Patricia Scott.

"Nothing, whatever," replied Patricia.

"Neither do I," answered Cora Kidder. "I was awakened by a great uproar for the second time to-night. The noise at first sounded right here in the tent, then when I had sat up on my cot I discovered that it was outside. I hurried out thinking I might be needed. I found that young woman shaking the little one. That is all I know about it, Miss Partridge."

"I am sorry that you have been so disturbed," said Mrs. Livingston kindly. "I do not think Miss Thompson will have any further attacks of nightmare to-night. If she does, of course we shall have to remove her to some other tent where she will not disturb any one except possibly a guardian. Now get back to bed, girls."

The two guardians waited until quiet had once more been restored in the tent, then retired leaving the girls again in darkness. Tommy was still trembling, but the keen edge of her fright had worn away.

Harriet lay wide awake for some time. She heard faint whispers being exchanged between Patricia and Cora. Harriet recalled a swift look that passed between the two girls when Tommy was telling her exciting story.

"Those girls have had something to do with this," declared Harriet to herself. "But surely, they were not to blame for Tommy's having had the nightmare. Tommy had only herself to blame for that. Still, how did she get outside? That is what I should like to know. I think Miss Patricia Scott and Miss Cora Kidder could explain something of that if they were to tell the truth."

Having reached this conclusion, Harriet Burrell went to sleep and slept until morning without further interruption. She was awakened by the morning bell. Patricia and Cora had already dressed and gone out. Tommy was asleep, deaf to the jangling morning bell.

"Tommy, Tommy! Get up," called Harriet. Tommy muttered. Harriet went over and shook her until she was wide awake. "You have only fifteen minutes to dress, dear."

"I don't want to dreth. I want to thleep," objected Tommy. Harriet pulled her out of bed, causing Tommy to sit down heavily on the floor. Muttering and scolding, Grace dragged herself about wearily and began making her morning toilet. But she protested with every move she made. Just before the fifteen minute time allowance had expired, the two girls stepped out into a glorious forest morning. Great trees towered above them, the forest birds were raising their voices in a melodious chorus, fresh, pungent odors from spruce and hemlock trees filled the air and somewhere near at hand, a stream splashed and rippled musically.

"Glorious!" breathed Harriet. "Oh, isn't it wonderful, Grace, dear?"

Grace Thompson's eyes lighted up appreciatively, then they danced merrily. All at once, Grace raised her voice shrilly in the yell of the Meadow-Brook Girls:

"Rah, rah, rah, Rah, rah, rah! Meadow-Brook, Meadow-Brook, Thithboom ah!"

"Tommy, Tommy, you shouldn't have done that," rebuked Harriet.

Fully a dozen girls sprang from their tents attracted by the new cry; then they began laughing when they saw Harriet in her torn skirt and had gotten a good look at Tommy Thompson's impish face.

"Young ladies, do you know what day this is?" reminded one girl who seemed older than any of the others outside.

"Yeth. It ith the greatetht day I ever thaw and I'm going to yell thome more after I have my breakfatht," declared Tommy with an emphasis that left no doubt in their minds as to her intentions.

"No, my dear young woman, this is Sunday," answered the previous speaker. "You would do well not to forget it, unless you wish for a pleasant little interview with Mrs. Livingston."

"There! What did I tell you, Tommy?" exclaimed Harriet.

"I don't care. It ith grand and I've got to make a noithe. Why don't they thtop the birdth from making a noithe on Thunday, too?" retorted Grace as the two girls walked slowly toward the cook tent with the eyes of the camp upon them.

"Yes, she is a perfect fright," suddenly declared a voice that Harriet recognized as belonging to Patricia Scott. "I should not think Mrs. Livingston would permit her to parade about in that gown."

Harriet's face flushed, but she did not even turn her head. Tommy fortunately had not caught the words, for which Harriet was thankful. She knew that Tommy would have resented the remark and made a scene there and then. The two girls entered the cook tent with some forty other girls following on slowly behind them.



Chapter VIII

A Day With An Exciting Finish


The Camp Girls stood in groups waiting for introductions to the Meadow-Brook Girls which they knew were to come. Mrs. Livingston performed these introductions. As she did so, she explained the reason for the disheveled appearance of the Meadow-Brook Girls, calling attention to the pluck of Harriet Burrell in trying to stop the mad dash of the frightened horse, for which, Mrs. Livingston said, an honor mark already had been placed opposite her name. It was the true Camp Girl spirit, said the Chief Guardian and they were proud to welcome her to their ranks.

The Camp Girls had been comparatively cordial to the newcomers since their arrival. Now that they had heard of Harriet's pluck they were especially so. They pressed forward with greetings so warm and friendly that the Meadow-Brook Girls knew them to be sincere, and this made the four young women feel at home on the instant. Harriet's face was still flushed from Mrs. Livingston's praise and her eyelids were drooping modestly. Tommy, however, was in her element. She talked incessantly, and even had to be reminded that Mrs. Livingston was about to say grace. So absorbed did she become in her own chatter that she did not observe that the whole table was awaiting the conclusion of her talk for the more solemn duty of asking grace.

Harriet thought she had never gazed upon a more attractive scene. Flowers were arranged at intervals along each table. At each end of the tables sat the guardians, generally college girls who had volunteered their services for the summer. Then the rows of brown-faced, bright-eyed girls completed the picture. There was practically no restraint placed upon the girls. Most of the campers were well-bred young women who instinctively distinguished between brightness and boisterousness. There was plenty of gay laughter and bright repartee, in which the keen-witted college-girl guardians occasionally took part. These college girls were both an example and an inspiration to the younger girls of the camp. It was from one of these young women sitting near her that Harriet learned what "honors" meant in the camp. Every time a girl did something of merit she was awarded an honor, these being bestowed in the form of colored wooden beads.

In addition to this the girls were advanced in degrees. One day they might themselves become guardians. It was all very attractive. There were many duties for the girls to perform and many, many things to learn. Their days Harriet discovered, were not wholly devoted to amusement, but to learning woodcraft and other useful things.

"I am sure I shall never want to leave this wonderful place," cried Harriet enthusiastically when the meal came to a close and the guardian had bestowed an appreciative smile on her.

The work being cleared out of the way by the Workers, Mrs. Livingston read from the Bible out in the open, with the girls sitting on the ground with feet tucked under them. Over-head the birds sang sweetly, their voices heard even above those of the girls when all joined in the singing that followed the reading of the Scripture. Following this came a period of relaxation and visiting during which the Meadow-Brook Girls began to really get acquainted with their fellow campers.

The guardians, the four girls learned, had full charge of all forms of recreation, so that when the guardian of Harriet's division proposed a trip out into the woods, it was a virtual command. The walk was a saunter among the trees, during which Miss Partridge gave them some lessons in woodcraft, especially on how to find one's way about in the woods. It was an extremely interesting talk to Harriet Burrell, though she already was familiar with a number of the things Miss Partridge told her. Every one of the girls who had been out on the tramp, returned with keen appetites for luncheon which was served at half past twelve. Dinner on Sunday was served at five o'clock, on other days it was served at six o'clock. At luncheon Mrs. Livingston addressed the girls on the work and duties of a Camp Girl. One part of her discourse gave Harriet a better idea of the purposes of the camp than she had before known.

"We are a self-governing body," said the Chief Guardian. "For the benefit of the newcomers among us I will say that our laws are not written laws. Young women soon recognize that if we are to have a happy, wholesome camp life, each girl must do her part well. The keynote of the whole summer's work is service. The girls must be thoughtful for one another. I cannot emphasize this too strongly.

"To be eligible to the second rank of your order a young woman must be able to fulfil requirements such as these: She must be able to prepare two meals without help or advice; must sleep with open windows or out of doors for at least one month; must refrain from candy and soda for at least one month; must know how to act when a person's clothing is on fire or when a person has fallen into deep water, as well as what to do in case of fainting.

"The honors," continued Mrs. Livingston, "are less easily earned. For instance, any one of the following accomplishments will count as one point in the favor of the girl who earns them: Be free from colds for two successive months in the winter; be able to bring up some certain object from the bottom in ten feet of water; to know and describe three kinds of baby cries and what they mean; to commit to memory the preambles to the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence; also Lincoln's Gettysburg address. There are many more requirements that you young women who have just become members of our camp, will learn from your associates. I shall hope to see you not only reaching the next higher grade at an early day, but winning honors as well," concluded Mrs. Livingston.

"Good grathiouth!" exclaimed Tommy in the brief period of silence following the Chief Guardian's talk. She said it in a voice that was heard by every one of the girls in camp.

A suppressed titter rippled around the tables. Mrs. Livingston looked inquiringly at Tommy.

"Well, Miss Thompson, what is it?" questioned the guardian.

"I gueth I'll be an angel before I know all of thith."

The titter became a shout of merriment in which all the guardians joined. Miss Elting knowing Tommy as she did, merely smiled, but Margery blushed painfully. She felt humiliated for her friend. Tommy, however, had fully established her reputation in that camp. In future nothing that she might say or do would be taken seriously by her companions. Mrs. Livingston made no effort to correct the girl. Instead she left that to the girls believing that Tommy would leave the camp fairly well made over. She understood that Tommy was merely a spoiled child, under whose apparently thoughtless, almost impertinent manner lay the making of a charming, lovable young woman.

While they were still at luncheon Jasper came into camp with the trunks that he had brought in another wagon. He had found his horse, but the animal had cut both legs severely and could not be driven for some time. From the log road Jasper had dragged the trunks to the camp on a two-wheeled cart. Tommy spied him plodding down the path pushing the cart. She eyed him inquiringly. The girls set up a shout when they caught sight of Jasper. He was popular in that he brought mail to them and sometimes goodies from home.

"That ith Jath," nodded Tommy.

"You mean Mr. Jasper," corrected Miss Partridge.

"Yeth."

"Harriet pulled hith whithkerth latht night. Do you know what he thaid?"

"I can imagine that he was quite angry," answered Miss Partridge.

"Yeth I gueth he wath. He thaid, 'leggo my whithkerth, contharn ye!' Yeth he did, didn't he, Harriet! Wathn't that awful?"

"Oh, Tommy!" begged Harriet.

It was a full minute before order was restored in the dining tent. At the conclusion of the outbreak Mrs. Livingston gave the signal to rise and the girls crowded out with flushed faces and laughing eyes, a group of them surrounding Tommy, asking her questions in the hope that she might amuse them with other funny remarks. This gathering was interrupted by the voice of Mrs. Livingston.

"The Meadow-Brook Girls may go to their tents to arrange their outfits," she announced. "The trunks are in place. I suppose you will want to change to your camp uniforms."

The girls assented eagerly. Tommy fairly flew over the uneven ground. She caught her toe on the root of a tree, measuring her length on the ground. She was up and off again unheeding the shouts of laughter from her companions.

Each of the Meadow-Brook Girls was eager to get into her uniform. Tommy was so excited that Harriet had to assist her in dressing. Then when this had been accomplished Tommy swept up and down the tent, surveying herself in the mirror from various different attitudes.

"How do you like me?" she demanded, squinting up at Harriet.

"You will do very well if you fix your hair. It looks frightful, Tommy. You must spend more time with it. The way you wear your hair reminds me of Crazy Jane."

"Oh, dear. I can't thpend the time to bother with it. I'm too buthy. You do it for me."

"I will help you, of course, if you wish, but a Camp Girl should be able to do such things for herself. Now you watch me do mine. While you are watching, give your own hair a good brushing."

Harriet parted her hair in the middle in a very straight line, divided it into four strands, which she wound into as many soft coils, two at the nape of the neck and one on each side half concealing her ears. She pinned it securely, then with artistic precision fluffed a few locks of hair about her temples.

"There!" she said, turning a smiling face to her little companion who had been observing her admiringly.

"I couldn't do that with my hair."

"I know that, dear. Your hair is not as thick as mine. Now let me see what you can do with yours. It looks better now that you have brushed it out."

Tommy arranged herself before a mirror. She braided her light hair tightly into a pig-tail, tying it about half way up with a black ribbon. Stray ends, like the unraveled strands of a rope were left stringing down over her ears, giving to her face a more impish expression than it had worn before. She turned from the mirror in which she had been admiring her handiwork, to meet the laughing eyes of her companion.

"How do you like me?"

"Oh, I don't know. At least it looks better than it did."

"Fine, ithn't it? Crathy Jane'th hair never looked tho well ath that. But thith dreth ith a little too thombre for one of my age, don't you think?" questioned Tommy wisely.

"I think they will forget all about the sombreness of the dress when they see your happy face," answered Harriet. "Besides, it is the dress that all the girls here are wearing. I call it a very pretty uniform. I hope Margery had the buttons sewed securely on hers. If not she will burst them all off the first time she stoops over."

"Yeth, Buthter ith too fat," agreed Tommy. "Thay, Harriet?"

"Yes?"

"I don't like Patrithia and Cora."

"You shouldn't say that. You hardly know them."

"I don't want to. Every time they look at me they laugh. I'll thay thomething to them firtht thing they know."

"Please, please, Grace, never do anything of the sort. You might be sent home for such a thing. You know what Mrs. Livingston said to-day about girls being thoughtful for each other and always kind and helpful."

"Well Patrithia ithn't thoughtful or kind to me, ith thhe?"

"That is no reason why you should not be. Are you ready?"

"Yeth. Let'th go out and thtrut up and down."

"I am afraid you are a vain little creature, but you are a dear, Tommy, just the same," laughed Harriet, giving one of Tommy's little pink ears a mischievous pinch after which the two girls emerged from their tent arm in arm.

The Camp Girls gathered about them. The plainness of the costume became Harriet, but Tommy did not look quite herself. Her face appeared smaller than ever, and her light hair was accentuated by the dark color of the uniform. The little girl, however, soon forgot all about her personal appearance in the enjoyment she found in talking with the other girls of the camp.

There was little to be done on Sunday afternoon. Those who preferred to do so might read. Others spent the time in lounging and visiting or strolling among the great trees either putting into practice such wood-lore as they had learned or discussing their own and camp affairs. Those girls who had been to the camp before or held high rank in the association took it upon themselves to instruct and be helpful to the younger and less experienced girls. Harriet's love of nature and her frequent communions with it, made her a popular pupil. About many things she knew as much if not more than her instructors among the girls, but she carefully avoided setting up her knowledge against that of her companions.

The day passed happily. After dinner the campers gathered about a cheerful campfire where they spent the greater part of the evening listening to Indian legends told to them by the guardians, relating interesting experiences in their own lives, or exciting adventures, as the case might be. Then came bedtime. The Meadow-Brook Girls were eager to retire. They were equally eager to greet the coming day.

During the day just ended, they had passed scarcely a word with Patricia and Cora. The former was a girl about Harriet's age, the latter a year or two older. Cora was proud and haughty. In this respect she was unlike the average Camp Girl, making the contrast, in Harriet's eyes, all the more marked.

Harriet bade both girls a courteous good night as she turned in to her cot. They were more slow to get to bed, and a guardian's voice reminding them that it was then a quarter after nine, fifteen minutes past the time when lights should be out, caused the two girls quickly to extinguish the lantern that hung on the centre pole and seek their cots. Harriet in a half doze realized that they were talking. She roused herself, not to listen, but because they had disturbed her. But Harriet would not ask them to be quiet. As for Tommy, that young woman was asleep almost the instant she touched the cot. It will be recalled that she had had little sleep during the previous night.

Then Harriet went to sleep with the whisperings of Patricia and Cora reaching her but faintly. She recalled afterwards that when she roused herself they were sitting on the edge of Patricia's cot.

As the night advanced the camp became dark and silent. Two or three figures might have been seen stealing into the tent where the two Meadow-Brook Girls lay sleeping, but their movements were so cautious and stealthy that they did not awaken the sleepers.

There was sudden rush of feet, a smothered exclamation and a half cry of alarm from Tommy's cot, then a struggle from Harriet's side of the tent A few moments of silence followed, after which two forms with their heads swathed in towels were led from the tent, one struggling with all her strength to free herself from her captors, the other walking along without a protesting word or action.

The camp slumbered on. Not a sound had reached the ears of the sleeping guardians near at hand, nor had another Camp Girl been awakened. The figures of captors and captives were swallowed up in the gloom of the forest within a few moments.



Chapter IX

Sounding The General Alarm


The instant a hand touched her cot Harriet Burrell was awake and sitting up. But to her amazement she was thrown on her back, a towel was twisted about her head by a pair of dexterous hands and her arms were pinioned at her sides. At first she did not know what to make of this sudden attack, then a warning whisper in a girlish voice brought understanding with it. Harriet had been struggling with good prospect of getting free, but she ceased her efforts at once upon coming to the conclusion that some of the Camp Girls were playing a midnight trick on her. Harriet even assisted them by obediently rising from her cot. A pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes were quickly slipped on her feet. Her clothing, with the exception of her camp uniform, was handed her and she dressed as best she could under the circumstances. Then her bathrobe was thrown about her shoulders and again the warning voice whispered to her to be silent.

The midnight intruders found Tommy, however, a most belligerent captive. She struggled violently and made frantic efforts to scream out, until, fearful of discovery, one of the mysterious visitors hastily seized Tommy's clothing from her locker, another took charge of her bathrobe while four of them marched the indignant little girl out of the tent and away from the camp where she was forced into her clothes despite her strenuous resistance.

"They are hazing us," thought Harriet as she was led away.

That was the plan. The hazers, now divided themselves into two parties. One division took charge of Grace, while the other division proceeded in the opposite direction with Harriet and after walking a short distance came to a halt. The bath towel that was nearly suffocating Harriet was partly removed from her head. A voice, plainly disguised spoke to her.

"Art thou prepared for initiation into the mysteries of the tribe of Wau-Wau, my sister?" asked the voice.

"That depends upon what the initiation into those mysteries is. I don't know whether I am prepared or not," answered the girl lightly.

"My sisters, is the fire extinguished and the hearth left in order?" asked the first speaker.

"Even so."

"Then having been tried by fire, by the flame that thou wilt one day wear upon thine arm it is meet that thou shouldst learn the touch of the enemy of those flames. My sisters what is the enemy that defeats the flame?"

"Water," answered a muffled chorus of voices.

"Then, my sister, thou, having been tried by the fire, the fire that burned at our feet this evening it is meet that thou shouldst now submit to the final test. Below thee is a pool, a pool deep and dark wherein lurk the water sprite and the wood nymph, waiting there to welcome thee."

Harriet now heard the ripple of water somewhere near at hand. She smiled. Water, no matter how deep, held no terrors for her. She was an expert swimmer. However, the night was cool and she knew that the water of a forest stream would be a great deal colder.

"Hast thou yet earned the swimming honor?" asked the voice at her side.

"I can swim, if that is what you mean."

"It is well. The water sprites and the wood nymphs will lend wings to thee in thy efforts to please them. But beware. The way is far and dark. A bottomless pool lies far below thee. Art thou prepared?"

"Oh, yes, I think so. At least I shall be no better prepared in --  -- "

Harriet Burrell did not complete the sentence. Her bathrobe was suddenly snatched from her shoulders. Some one gave her a violent push from behind. She leaped to save herself from falling, just what they had looked for her to do. It seemed to Harriet that she must have fallen many, many feet before she reached the water, which in reality was not more than three feet below the spot from which she leaped. She struck the water with a little gasp, then stood still for a second in bewilderment, as the water rippled over her feet and ankles. The bottomless pool was not more than a foot deep.

"Is that all?" she asked in a calm voice after she had recovered from her first astonishment. "I hope you do not wish me to swim this stream. The water is rather too shallow, even for me."

"Come, sister. Thou hast been tried in the waters of Wau-Wau and found not wanting. A helping hand will meet thee where water meets earth and earth meets water. Come."

Harriet did not seek the assistance of any one in getting out of the stream, but a hand grasped one of hers and assisted her to the bank. The girl felt herself enveloped once more in her bathrobe, and her captives led her in what she shrewdly guessed to be the direction of the camp.

While all this was going on, the other party of hazers was holding Grace Thompson captive not far from the stream to where Harriet had been conducted. Wrapped in the folds of her bathrobe, the towel still bound about her head and over her eyes, Tommy stood practically helpless in the midst of her captors.

"My sisters," said one of the hazers, acting as the spokesman for that branch of the initiation party. "What is the name of the Indian maiden whose spirit guides this little sister?"

"Tommy, the Squirrel," was the prompt reply.

"Ah! Then being guided by the spirit of a squirrel, O little maiden, thou shouldst prove thy prowess by climbing a tree. Ah! The tree is close at hand. Climb, sister."

"I gueth not!" returned Tommy, in a threatening voice. "I'll thcream for help."

"Shouting will avail thee nothing. No ears will hear. Climb and all shall be well."

Tommy had her doubts about this latter statement. She knew how loudly she could scream. She knew also that they were not very far from the camp because she could now and then catch a flicker of the campfire through the trees.

An idea occurred to the little girl and could her captors have looked into her eyes they would have read there an expression of cunning that boded ill for them.

"Will the Squirrel climb?" demanded the voice.

"Yeth, the Thquirrel will climb," she acquiesced, with surprising docility. "Where ith the tree?"

"Just behind you."

Grace was turned about, her hands were placed against the trunk of the tree, and the towel was suddenly removed from about her head.

The tree was a small one with limbs hanging low, almost within reach of Grace Thompson's hands. Some one gave her a boost. Tommy took advantage of it and with the help of the hazers clambered to the lower limb. In the intense darkness she was unable to see clearly anything about her. Feeling her way, cautiously, she climbed to the next limb. Her bathrobe, however, sadly impeded her progress, but by determined efforts she managed at last to reach the top of the tree.

"Come on up, girlth. It ith fine up here."

Tommy's courage was rapidly returning to her. Then again she could afford to speak pleasantly to her captors for she was about to turn the tables on them in a most unexpected manner.

"You're all 'fraid catth, 'fraid catth and I'm going to thhow you that you are. In a minute I'm going to thcare you half to death. Now watch me."

Tommy did all she had promised to do, and just as Harriet and her captors were moving toward the camp, Tommy uttered a wild, piercing cry. Then she uttered another and still another. About that time half a dozen girls might have been observed fleeing toward the camp. They were running as perhaps they had never run before. Harriet was left standing alone on the bank of the stream. She was too startled at first to realize what the cries meant. All at once she discovered that the voice was Tommy's. But Harriet was considerably puzzled, for there was not the least note of alarm in the cries. They were intended solely to arouse the camp and cause the downfall of the girls who were running for their tents. So far as arousing the camp was concerned, Tommy's plan worked to perfection for girls in every tent were tumbling out in alarm.

Then Tommy discovered that she was alone, and becoming alarmed at being left out in the woods without company, she began to scream in earnest. At the same time she endeavored to scramble down from her lofty position scratching her hands on the projections of the tree in her hasty descent. Suddenly she missed her footing. Her hands slipped from the limb to which she had been clinging, and she felt herself falling. She did not reach the ground, however, for the heavy cord confining her bathrobe at the waist caught on a projecting limb of the tree, and Tommy dangled helplessly in the air.

This time her screams were full of terror. Never before had such screams been heard at Camp Wau-Wau. Off in the camp a bell was being frantically rung. A general alarm was being sounded. Guardians clad in kimonos and bathrobes were running toward Tommy and the tree that was holding her prisoner. Camp Girls eager to distinguish themselves and earn a bead for their bravery were not far behind the guardians, with promise of outdistancing the latter if the race lasted long enough.

Guardians carried lanterns and here and there a girl was carrying a torch that she had thoughtfully snatched from the fire as she ran along. Among the torch bearers were Patricia Scott and Cora Kidder. They were among the foremost of the girls to rush to the relief of the unfortunate Tommy.

No sooner had Harriet recognized the note of terror in Tommy's voice than she sprang forward to go to her companion's assistance. She believed something serious had happened to Grace.

"Where are you! Grace, oh, Grace!" cried Harriet.

Tommy, instead of answering, screamed the louder. Harriet, guided by the sound of her friend's voice, groped her way to the tree from which Grace was suspended, and after stumbling blindly about she finally succeeded in reaching the base of the tree.

"Oh, Tommy, what is the matter?"

"I'm -- I'm up a tree," wailed Grace.

"Why don't you come down?"

"I can't. I'm fatht."

"Be quiet. I'll climb up and release you," soothed Harriet, starting to climb up the small tree trunk. "Some one is coming from the camp. I see the lights. This is too bad. I was in hopes they might not know about it. Now we shall never hear the last of it."

"I don't care if we don't. I want to get down," wailed Grace.

Harriet succeeded in, climbing the tree to a point where she could reach out and touch her companion. Perhaps suspecting something of the truth, Harriet moved very cautiously. She discovered what the trouble was almost at once.

"Tommy I'm afraid when I loosen this cord that holds you you will fall," said Harriet.

"How far will I fall?" quavered Tommy.

"Only a few feet," replied Harriet. "You aren't more than six or seven feet from the ground. The ground is soft. It's all moss and mold under this tree."

"I don't want to fall," wailed the little girl "I want to thtay here. Don't you dare touch me, Harriet Burrell."

"Then wait until the others get here. They are almost here now."

"There it is," cried a voice. Harriet thought the voice belonged to Miss Elting. It proved to belong to Cora Kidder. "My gracious, girls what is it?"

"It ith I," answered a plaintive voice from above their heads.

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried the girls as they gazed up at the limb of the tree from where Tommy was suspended.

"Young woman what are you doing up there?" demanded Mrs. Livingston. "Are you Miss Thompson?"

"I wath. I don't know who I am now, Mithith Livingthton. Pleathe help me down."

"If you will stand below to catch her I think I shall be able to release her," called Harriet from her perch in the tree.

Harriet had not been seen before in the darkness, screened by the foliage as she was, Mrs. Livingston called to know who she was. Harriet gave her name. Then the Chief Guardian directed that Harriet should release the prisoner from her difficulty while several of the guardians stood in a circle under the tree with arms outstretched ready to stop the fall of the little figure hanging over their heads.

"Are you going to drop me?" questioned Tommy in great alarm.

"Yes, but it won't hurt you," answered Harriet.

"I don't want to. I --  -- "

Tommy did not complete the sentence. Instead she finished with a scream as Harriet unfastened the cord from the stub that had held it and with one hand lowered Tommy into the arms of her friends. This Harriet did with one hand, clinging with the other to one of the lower limbs of the tree. As several of the girls held up their lanterns to aid the others in catching Grace, there were exclamations of admiration at Harriet's exhibition of strength.

"Who would think her so strong?" exclaimed a guardian.

"Harriet is as plucky as she is strong," answered Miss Elting.

So Tommy did not fall after all. Harriet had not been certain that the cord would hold, hence she had requested the guardians to stand ready to break the smaller girl's fall. After Tommy had been lowered, Harriet swung herself down and joined the excited group below.

"Miss Burrell, kindly explain what you were doing in the tree?" demanded the Chief Guardian.

"I went up to assist my companion."

"What was she doing there -- how did she chance to be in the tree?"

"I do not know, Mrs. Livingston. Tommy will know. I was not there when she climbed the tree. I heard her call and went to her assistance."

Mrs. Livingston did not say that Harriet's being near enough to hear the call before any of the others had heard it, needed explanation. Instead she turned to Tommy.

"Miss Thompson, what were you doing in the tree?"

"I wath hanging down."

"How did you get up there? Did some one lift you there?"

"I climbed. Then when I got up far enough tho they couldn't get me, I yelled."

"So who could not get you?" questioned the Chief Guardian sharply.

"Oh, thome folkth that I wath taking a walk with through the woodth," answered Tommy lamely.

"Young women we will return to the camp," announced Mrs. Livingston. It was a silent procession, except in the case of Grace, who kept up a continual chatter without saying much of anything.

Most of the girls were aware that a serious offense had been committed and that the morrow would be a day of reckoning. More than one girl in that party was shivering as though from the chill night air. All crawled into bed silently that night with expectations of trouble when morning came.



Chapter X

Around The Council Fire


Tommy's sprightly remarks failed to draw forth the customary laughter that usually greeted them at breakfast that morning. The faces of most of the girls wore serious expressions. Mrs. Livingston and the guardians were grave, speaking in low tones when they spoke at all, as if to impress upon all the Camp Girls the gravity of the previous night's occurrences. The suspicion of a laugh was raised, however, by Tommy's remark toward the close of the meal.

"I with thomebody would laugh," she complained with a queer little grimace.

"You may laugh if you wish," answered the Chief Guardian pleasantly. But somehow Tommy couldn't quite bring herself to do so.

Breakfast being finished the daily routine of the camp went on with its accustomed regularity. Not a word had been spoken about the hazing of the two new girls. The guardians were following some carefully laid plan, but Harriet wondered that no inquiry was made. She had fully looked for a searching investigation to take place immediately after breakfast. None came.

The first work that the new girls were called upon to do was to gather sticks from the forest for a campfire.

"A Camp Girl," Miss Partridge had told them, "should first of all know how to build a fire, the campfire being the family fireside when one is in the forest. It is the basis of the camp life. Being of the rank of Wood Gatherers it is your duty to gather the fagots for your own fire."

The girls were instructed in the relative values of different woods as fuel. They learned too that, as birch bark burned very freely, it should be used in starting the campfire whenever available.

Having gathered the wood the girls were further instructed in piling it to the best advantage, leaving an open space at the bottom of the pile so that a draft might be created. Each girl was called upon to lay the wood for the fire, then taught to light the fire either in windy or calm weather. One of the leaders among the more experienced Camp Girls started a second fire for them by rubbing two sticks together. She explained that it required dry tinder for this purpose, something seldom found in the woods.

By the time the lesson had come to an end the luncheon hour had arrived. There was more conversation at this meal, though it was carried on in low tones. The same depressing cloud that had been in evidence at the morning meal, was still present. Harriet noticed, too, that Miss Elting had barely spoken to Grace and her that morning. This hurt Harriet. She felt it keenly, though Miss Elting's avoidance of the two girls was because she did not wish either one to talk with her about the hazing. All inquiry as to that offense must be left to the Chief Guardian. As yet the Chief Guardian had made no move looking toward an inquiry into the doings of the previous night so far as any of the girls knew.

About the middle of the afternoon, however, Harriet saw a large group of girls gathered about a tree near the camp. The girls appeared to be laboring under considerable excitement. She hastened over and after a short time managed to elbow her way close enough to see what it was that had so excited them.

Nailed to the tree was a piece of white bark. On it was written the following order:

"A Council Fire will be held this evening at eight o'clock. All Camp Girls will report promptly, in full ceremonial garb.

"By order of the Chief Guardian."

That was all, but it was sufficient to set the tongues of the Camp Girls wagging. Those who had been there for some time knew exactly what this order meant. Harriet did not.

"Oh, there'll be a merry time in Camp Wau-Wau this evening," cried Cora Kidder.

"Somebody will catch it," nodded Patricia. "Well, we don't have to cry. We were in our little cots sound asleep, as we can easily prove. Do you know," she confided in a lower tone to several of her companions, "I shouldn't be at all surprised if there were more to this than you girls dream."

"What do you mean?" asked one of the girls.

"I mean that there is something peculiar about the whole affair," continued Patricia. "What was there to hinder those two girls from going out there in the woods and raising a commotion just to attract attention to themselves? They have been posing ever since they arrived at Camp Wau-Wau. Some folks like to be martyrs."

"Oh, I don't think that is possible," objected a girl. "They appear to be such nice girls."

"Mind you, I am not saying that they did purposely raise a commotion," hastily explained Patricia. "I am simply saying that they might have done so. However, we shall see this evening. I hope they will confess their part in the affair and save us all from suspicion."

Harriet's face burned. She had overheard the entire conversation, though she felt quite certain that it had not been intended for her ears. She walked away with head erect, a look in her eyes that might have caused certain of the young women in camp to feel apprehensive, had they observed that expression.

Tommy hurried to the tree on which the notice had been posted a few moments later. She turned up her nose after having read the order to be present at the Council Fire and wanted to know if the Camp Girls were too poor to buy paper. She said she had plenty of writing paper and declared that she would offer it to Mrs. Livingston so the Chief Guardian would not have to write her orders on bark in the future.

This brought a smile to the faces of those who heard it, and caused them to exchange significant nods. Later in the afternoon, one by one, several girls might have been seen entering the tent of the Chief Guardian, their actions indicating that they sought to escape observation. They were not wholly unobserved, however, for there were many pairs of bright, keen eyes in Camp Wau-Wau, but those girls who did observe their companions enter Mrs. Livingston's tent were discreet enough not to mention what they had seen.

Dinner that evening brought with it an atmosphere of expectancy. It was the still atmosphere before the storm when the fall of a knife or a fork caused nearly every girl at the tables to start nervously. Just before darkness descended four Fire Makers had piled wood on the Council Fire until it blazed brightly throwing out considerable heat and a light that reached far in among the trees.

One by one the girls began to appear from their tents, clad in their ceremonial costumes. These were of khaki colored galatea cloth. They were trimmed with fringes of genuine leather, shells and beads. About her neck each girl wore a string of gayly colored beads. Some of the strings contained more beads than others, for each bead represented an "honor" fairly earned by the girl who wore it. On the sleeve of each Camp Girl's costume was worked an emblem. On those of the Wood Gatherers were the crossed logs; on the arms of the Fire Makers might be seen the orange and gold colors representing fire. On the sleeves of the Torch Bearers, the third grade, a dash of white was added, representing smoke from the flames.

The Meadow-Brook Girls, however, could not appear in ceremonial costume, at the Council Fire. Hazel, Margery and Tommy had been measured for their costumes and were now awaiting them. Harriet had ordered the goods for hers at a cost of a dollar. Upon the arrival of the goods she intended to make her own costume. Harriet was an accomplished little needle woman. Not having their ceremonial dresses ready for the occasion was a keen disappointment to the Meadow-Brook Girls.

As the other Camp Girls emerged from their tents they stood about in groups awaiting the arrival of the Chief Torch Bearer.

"There she comes!" cried a voice.

Glancing down the camp street Harriet saw a young woman slowly advancing toward her. As she passed the tents the girls in the ceremonial dress fell in behind. The leader held above her head a blazing torch and as she moved slowly forward she chanted:

"Blazing torch on high now lifted Flame with magic power now gifted Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame; Burn, fire burn!"

It was a weird, but interesting scene. Harriet was so engrossed in watching it that she forgot to fall in with the procession when it came her turn to do so. Some one tugged at her skirt, bringing her to an understanding of what she should do.

The Chief Torch Bearer Led the Way.

The Torch Bearer led the way to the end of the camp street, then turning marched slowly to the campfire where she laid the torch upon the ground then made the hand sign of the early Indians, the fingers of the right hand laid across the fingers of the left with the first finger of the right hand slightly raised. The crossed fingers were to indicate crossed logs and the slightly raised forefinger of the right hand represented the curving flame rising from the burning logs. This sign was returned by the Chief Guardian. Then the two turned, facing the girls of the camp who were standing in a semi-circle about the fire. To them, the Chief Guardian and the Torch Bearer made the hand sign which was answered in the same way by all of the Camp Girls.

"Thith giveth me the thiverth," whispered Tommy, groping for Harriet's hand.

Harriet warned her to be quiet. Then at a gesture from the Chief Guardian the girls sat down cross-legged on the ground. It had been not only an unusual ceremony to the Meadow-Brook Girls, but an impressive one. The real interest, however, was in what lay before them. Harriet had no idea what was to be done, though she had learned from the stray words that had been dropped in her presence, that the purpose of the Council Fire was to make an inquiry into the events of the previous evening, perhaps ending in the dismissal of one or more girls from the camp. This thought made Harriet Burrell serious and thoughtful. She was trying to decide upon the course that she ought to follow. But she had little time to consider this. She heard her name called.

"Miss Harriet Burrell will please step forward to the Council Fire," was the order from the Chief Guardian.

Harriet did so. She took her position at one side of the fire so that the light from it shone full upon her features causing them to stand out in bold relief against the dark background of the night. It was a trying position, but Harriet carried herself with dignity and great self-possession.



Chapter XI

Tried By The Flames


"Miss Burrell", began the Chief Guardian in a slow, impressive voice, "we have gathered to-night at this Council Fire to inquire into certain recent occurrences in which you played an important part. One of the most stringent regulations of Camp Wau-Wau has been violated. The entire camp is involved, in that suspicion may rest upon any one of you. It is well to say here, that six girls came to me this afternoon, confessing their part in the unfortunate hazing of last evening. These girls are new to our order. I am satisfied that the gravity of what they were doing did not appeal to them at the time and that they acted upon impulse, though by their own confessions they had plenty of time to consider the matter before becoming involved in it. You may sit, Miss Burrell."

Harriet dropped down, sitting cross-legged like the others, with the light from the fire playing over her face and glinting in her hair.

"The unfortunate part of this confession is that the instigators of the plot are still unknown. And when I explain matters you will be quick to catch the dishonor of their actions. The six girls who have confessed, it appears, received notes just before retiring, these notes having been tucked in under the walls of their tents accompanied by a scratching on the canvas to attract their attention. These notes called upon them to report at the tent occupied by Miss Burrell, Miss Thompson, Miss Kidder and Miss Scott for the purpose of initiating the new girls. The girls who received these notes did not recognize the writing. One of these notes was preserved. I have it in my possession, but am frank to say that I am unable to identify the paper or the handwriting. Rather than attempt to do either, I should prefer to have the instigator or instigators confess their part in the affair. Will the young woman who wrote these notes, stand up and declare herself?"

A breathless period of waiting followed. There was no sound from the circle of anxious-faced girls, scarcely the movement of an eyelid. Tommy Thompson nearly broke the spell by heaving a deep, long-drawn sigh.

"Then there remains no other course for me than to proceed with the inquiry," continued the Chief Guardian. "Miss Burrell will please rise."

Harriet did so. Her face was pale, but she did not appear to be nervous.

"Miss Burrell, you will please relate what took place last evening."

"I can tell you only what occurred after I was aroused from sleep," answered Harriet in a low, but perfectly audible voice.

"Do so," was the response.

"I was aroused by some one bumping against my cot. I sat up, but was forced back into bed and a towel or something of the sort was quickly bound about my head. I was dragged from the cot. At first I struggled, then I began to understand that some girls were playing tricks on me. I decided to let them have their way. I felt sure it was nothing serious. In fact, I enjoyed it quite as much as they did and perhaps more."

"Please continue," urged the Chief Guardian gently.

"They led me out into the forest where some sort of a ceremony followed, after which I was told to jump into a deep pool. I jumped." Harriet smiled faintly at the memory of that jump in the dark. "The water was not deep and I was in no danger of drowning. I can truly say, Mrs. Livingston, that the girls who hazed me were very considerate. They did nothing that could possibly be considered dangerous."

"Did you see any of the girls who took you from your tent, or any of the others who were with them!"

"I saw them, yes, but I did not see their faces, Mrs. Livingston."

"Did you recognize any of them?"

"No. You see their faces were covered."

"But surely you must have recognized the voices of some of them."

"I think they must have disguised their voices," Harriet replied. "Pardon me, but do not the young women whom you say have confessed to hazing me, know who their companions were?" asked Harriet, gazing steadily into the face of the Chief Guardian.

"Those who have confessed to the hazing know each other. In fact some of them talked the matter over among themselves before joining in the escapade. Like yourself they were unable to identify the ringleaders of the party. Then again they were excited, probably more so than were you yourself," answered the examiner with a faint smile. "How many would you say were involved in the hazing?"

"I cannot say definitely, but my recollection is that there were eight girls."

"This narrows it down to two girls. These no doubt were the instigators. How did you come to be in the tree with Miss Thompson when we reached the scene?"

"I had gone there to help her. She seemed to be in trouble," smiled Harriet.

"Now, Miss Burrell, you say you do not know who these girls were; you could not identify them. Is that what I am to understand?"

"No, I do not know them," replied Harriet, gazing straight into the face of the Guardian.

The young girl felt that every eye in the camp was fixed upon her.

"I will ask you one other question," continued Mrs. Livingston. "Have you any suspicion as to who they are? Think well before you answer."

Harriet hesitated a moment, studying the Council Fire gravely. Then she raised her clear eyes to the face of Mrs. Livingston.

"I have no suspicion that I should care to voice," she answered.

"That will be all. You may resume your place with your companions. Will Miss Thompson please step forward?"

Tommy tripped over to the fire. There was a frightened look on her face.

"Tell us what happened to you, my dear," urged Mrs. Livingston encouragingly.

Tommy stammered and lisped and twisted and turned, then she burst forth into speech.

"They -- they took me from my cot, Mithith Livingthton. But I fought them. They carried me out in the woodth. Then -- then they -- they told me I wath a thquirrel and --  -- "

"A what?"

"A squirrel," interpreted Harriet.

"And then they made me climb a tree."

"You did not have to climb, did you!" smiled the Chief Guardian.

"I gueth not. I wanted to. You thee, I thought after I had climbed the tree I could make a big noithe and frighten them away," chuckled Tommy, squinting shrewdly at her questioner.

"Oh, a bit of diplomacy on your part?" nodded Mrs. Livingston.

"Yeth, I gueth that wath it." Tommy had no idea what diplomacy was, but concluded that it must be something to her credit, so she decided that she had exercised it.

"You screamed; then what?"

"They ran away ath fatht ath they could. I withh you could have theen them run, Mithith Livingthton. It wath awfully funny."

"I wish I might have," answered the examiner dryly. "What then?"

"I tried to get down and I got fatht. I got hung up by the cord to my bathrobe. I couldn't get down and I couldn't get up. I wath jutht like a bird only I didn't thing. But if I couldn't thing, I could yell. Then Harriet came, then the otherth came, then they got me down and I wath happy ever afterwardth. That ith all."

A faint giggle greeted the conclusion of the evidence of little Tommy, but it was quickly suppressed by a stern glance from the Chief Guardian.

"Did you recognize any of your captors so that you could identify or name them?"

"Oh, my no. I gueth I didn't know my own name. You thee I wath exthited, Mithith Livingthton."

"It was not surprising under the circumstances," admitted the Chief Guardian with a smile that she could not suppress, and that was reflected on the faces of nearly all the girls seated before her. But all during the evidence the Guardian had been intently regarding not only the witness, but the other girls as well. She was seeking for that tell-tale look that would identify the guilty girl or girls.

Tommy was told that she might take her place again. Mrs. Livingston consulted with some of the guardians, then called Patricia Scott to the fire. There was a movement among the other girls at this, a craning of necks and some smothered exclamations. Mrs. Livingston was very businesslike and courteous. Patricia's dark face wore a slight pallor as she walked forward and faced the Guardian.

"Miss Scott, you and Miss Kidder occupy the same tent with the two girls who have just given their evidence. Did you hear any unusual noises in the tent last evening?"

"Yes, I did, Mrs. Livingston."

"Explain what you heard?"

"I don't know that I can explain it clearly. At first I thought I heard the shuffle of feet on the floor. I was very tired and sleepy. I recall that I partly roused myself. I thought I heard some one speak in a low tone, but supposing it was in the next tent I dropped back to sleep again. I did not hear another sound until the general alarm was sounded on the bell."

"You hurried out without knowing that your two tentmates were missing?"

"No, I did not know about it then. I did not know until I saw them out there in the woods."

"Thank you. That will be all."

Cora Kidder was next called upon to testify. She was very pale and plainly nervous. She realized that having slept in the same tent with two of the Meadow-Brook Girls, a certain amount of suspicion would be attached to her not knowing anything about the exciting occurrence of the previous night in her tent. In answer to the first question which was the same as had been put to Patricia, Miss Kidder said:

"I did not wake up, Mrs. Livingston. I -- I may have heard something, but if so I -- I don't remember anything about it now."

"You must be a sound sleeper," observed the Chief Guardian.

"I have been since coming to Camp Wau-Wau. I'm just 'dead,' the moment I get into bed. I was hardly awake when I stumbled out of the tent in response to the general alarm last night calling us all out. I fell over a tent rope and that woke me up a little."

Tommy laughed, but fortunately the examiner did not hear her. Harriet nudged Grace to warn her to be quiet.

"You have no idea that would give you any clue to the perpetrators of this affair?"

"No, Mrs. Livingston."

"Is there any other person among the girls who has anything to say or who can give us any information?"

The silence was tense. The Chief Guardian's eyes traveled slowly over the group before her. No one answered.

"That will be sufficient, Miss Kidder. The guardians will please join me for consultation."

The Wau-Wau Girls spent an anxious few moments while the conference was going on. Finally, the guardians resumed their places. Mrs. Livingston stood facing them again.

"In view of all the facts which we have in our possession, the guardians have been able to arrive at a conclusion regarding the six girls who have confessed. Naturally we can take no action in the case of the others, not knowing who they are. We believe that while the six girls are deserving of dismissal, they were influenced by a spirit of fun, rather than of malice, therefore the question as to whether they shall be dismissed or not shall be put to a vote of the Wau-Wau Girls themselves. All in favor of adopting some other method of punishment please rise."

Every girl in the gathering rose to her feet with the exception of Harriet Burrell. Tommy observing that her companion had not risen, sat down hurriedly.

"All in favor of letting the guilty ones go without punishment will rise, now."

Harriet was on her feet in an instant, with Tommy a slow second.

"I am afraid you are very much in the minority, my dear," said Mrs. Livingston, smiling on Harriet. "Your forgiving spirit, however, is to be commended. It is the true spirit that should actuate a Wau-Wau Girl. In view of the previous vote, I shall have to impose a penalty that already had been agreed upon by the guardians in case the members of the camp decided upon some form of temporary punishment Therefore I sentence the six young women" -- here Mrs. Livingston read their names out, names of girls that Harriet did not know -- "to solitary confinement in their tents for the period of twenty-four hours. They will take their meals in their quarters. The young women will now rise, pass in single file before the fire and proceed to their tents."

Six young women with lowered heads and cheeks aflame, slowly, hesitatingly rose to their feet, hurriedly filed past the fire, then turned their footsteps toward their quarters.

"Oh that'th too bad," piped Tommy as the last of the six passed into the shadows.



Chapter XII

Harriet Turns The Tables


Despite the solemnity of the occasion smothered giggles were heard following Tommy Thompson's remark that had reached the ear of every person at the Council Fire.

The Chief Guardian frowned, then her face relaxed in a smile.

"Did you speak, Miss Thompson?" she asked.

"Ye -- yeth," stammered Tommy.

"My dear, I feel very much as you do," smiled the Chief Guardian. "But discipline must be maintained. Those young women never will forget the humiliation of this moment. In the future they will think twice before engaging in any enterprise that will cause others mental or physical suffering. There are at least two other girls and perhaps more, within this circle to-night whose conscience will trouble them, whose sleep will be fitful because they have not only done a very great wrong, but have been dishonest enough to cover that wrongdoing by keeping silent and permitting the stigma to rest on all of their companions. Miss Burrell!"

Harriet rose and faced the Chief Guardian.

"By your actions on two occasions, you have earned two honors, first by the bravery you displayed when the accident to the buck-board wagon occurred, second by your act of gentle forgiveness this evening. For each of these you are entitled to an honor bead."

Mrs. Livingston stepped forward placing about the blushing Harriet's neck a leather thong to which were attached two large wooden beads. As the necklace dropped over her head, the Camp Girls rose and bringing their hands together sharply made the Indian hand sign.

"I hope you may earn many more honors, my dear. I am sure that you will," said Mrs. Livingston, kindly, as Harriet tried to voice her appreciation.

This ended the session of the Council Fire for that night. It was now past nine o'clock, so the girls strolled toward their tents in twos and threes, discussing the evening's inquiry in low tones as they walked.

Harriet Burrell felt particularly sad. She did not like to think of those six unhappy girls who had just been sentenced by the Chief Guardian. Her sympathy too, went out to the others who had taken part in the hazing and would not confess their guilt. It required no little force of character for these girls to come forward and admit that they had instigated the plot, knowing full well that dismissal from Camp Wau-Wau would have been the penalty. Still, Harriet knew that under similar circumstances, that would be what she should do.

Patricia and Cora already had reached the tent by the time Harriet entered. She nodded to them smilingly. The faces of the two girls wore haggard expressions which she was quick to catch.

Harriet had just pulled out her cot to tuck the blankets down when something dropped to the floor. She suddenly recalled that when she had come in after the hazing on the previous night, she had dropped the towel that had been bound about her head, over behind her cot, intending to look at it next morning. She had forgotten all about it. She now picked up the towel, ran the edges through her hands, then bringing one end of it closer to her eyes, she examined it keenly. The two other girls failed to notice what she was doing.

Harriet tucked the towel under her blankets, turning to listen to what Tommy was saying. This is what she heard from Tommy who was sitting on the edge of her cot, removing her shoes.

"You girlths mutht be good thleeperth," remarked the little girl, reflectively.

Patricia turned on her sneeringly.

"Speak when you are spoken to," she snapped.

"Yeth, I alwayth do. I thaid you mutht be good thleepers."

"Why!" interjected Cora.

"Becauthe you didn't wake up latht night when I wath being carried out into the woodth," said Tommy, surveying Patricia and Cora with half closed eyes. "It ith a wonder you woke up when they rang the bell. I can thleep too, but you are champion thleeperth, ath my father would thay."

"Did I ask you for your opinion!" demanded Patricia, her eyes snapping, a flush appearing high up on either cheek.

"No, but I jutht thought I would tell you becauthe you might not know it unleth thome one told you, you thee."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. How many beadth have you won?"

"I haven't won any beads," answered Patricia, crossly. "How many have you won?"

"That dependth. I gueth I've won a whole thtring of them. I did thomething that no other girl in the camp can do."

"You did!" exclaimed Cora. "I should like to know what!"

"You ought to know. I flew. Didn't you thee me hanging in the air from the tree latht night! No, of courthe you didn't. I had flown down before you got there and I couldn't fly up again."

"Tommy, it's bedtime," reminded Harriet.

"Yeth. I've got to thay what ith in my mind firtht. How long have you been here!"

"Since the first of June," answered Cora impatiently. "Don't ask so many questions."

"How am I going to know thingth if I don't athk?" demanded Grace.

"What you don't know won't hurt you," interjected Patricia.

"Oh, yeth it will. You don't know how it will pain me. I jutht have to know thingth. I have to know thomething about everything."

"And nothing about something," suggested Cora sarcastically.

"Now, Tommy, don't you see that the girls do not wish to talk to you? Don't intrude," remonstrated Harriet.

"Thank you," mocked Cora. "I am glad you have found your tongue at last. I had begun to think that you said all you had to say at the Council Fire this evening."

"No, not all," answered Harriet significantly. The two girls gave her a quick, sharp look.

"What do you mean?" questioned Patricia, taking a step nearer.

"I had not intended to say anything about it this evening. However, as long as you have started the conversation in that direction, I will, but I will say what I have to say to Miss Kidder," replied Harriet steadily.

Harriet turned to her cot. From beneath, the blankets she drew out the towel and stepping over handed it to Cora.

"What is this?"

"Your towel, I believe."

"My towel? What are you doing with it?" demanded the girl, fixing an angry look upon the calm face of Harriet Burrell.

"It is the towel you bound about my head last night when you helped to kidnap me and take me to the pool where I took my midnight initiation," answered Harriet, looking the girl straight in the eyes.

She had taken considerable chance in accusing Cora Kidder of complicity in the hazing of the previous night, but the sudden pallor on the face of the girl told Harriet that her shot had gone home.



Chapter XIII

The Camp Gets A Surprise


"Let me thee that towel," demanded Tommy, rising and stepping over to Cora's side of the tent.

Miss Kidder quickly thrust the towel in her laundry bag and turned an angry face to Grace.

"Will you please let me alone?" she said trembling with anger.

"Yeth, I think I will," nodded Tommy, after gazing briefly into the storm-swept face of Cora Kidder. Harriet motioned to Tommy to go to bed. Tommy decided that she had gone far enough with her quizzing and that she would do as Harriet suggested.

That night after the lights had been extinguished, Harriet lay for a long, long time, thinking over the events of the evening, beginning with the Council Fire and ending with the little scene that had taken place in their tent. What should she do? What was the honest course to pursue? The girl was unable to decide. She did make up her mind, however, to consult with Miss Elting on the following morning.

After breakfast at the first opportunity she went in search of Miss Elting, but learned that the guardian in company with another of the camp officials had started out with Jasper to go to "The Pines," a summer watering place in the woods, some ten miles from Camp Wau-Wau. This summer resort was reached by a state road entering the woods from another direction, but the two young women had taken the log road as being the most direct.

Another incident that interested the camp greatly that day was the visit of a friend of Cora Kidder. He was a young man named Charlie Collier who was stopping at "The Pines" and who had driven over to the camp in his automobile to call on Cora. With him was his sister, a rather pretty girl whose elaborate coiffure and extreme style of dressing made her look out of place among the sensibly attired Camp Girls.

Cora was considerably elated that day at receiving a call from visitors who drove their own motor car and who were possibly more fashionable friends than many of the other girls could boast. Cora introduced her friends to several of the girls and to many of the guardians, but to none of the Meadow-Brook Girls. Tommy was interested, however. She managed to get close enough to the car to examine the gown of Miss Collier with critical eyes, and Tommy was something of a judge of clothes, for her parents entertained smartly-dressed friends from the city quite frequently. The little girl looked disdainfully at the newcomers, but made no comment.

Miss Elting and the guardian who accompanied her to "The Pines" returned about four o'clock that afternoon, having passed the automobile on the way. Harriet obtained an interview with the teacher shortly afterwards during the period of relaxation and rest before the dinner hour. The two women wandered off a short distance into the forest, Harriet having suggested a walk, and Miss Elting shrewdly suspecting that her little friend had something on her mind of which she wished to unburden herself.

"Now we will sit down here and be nice and comfy, and you will entertain me," smiled Miss Elting. "How are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, so much!" exclaimed Harriet. Then her face clouded a little.

"But --  -- " laughed Miss Elting.

"Yes, I suppose that does express it. However, I don't want you to think I am not happy on my own account. It is on some one else's account."

"Tell me all about it, Harriet, dear."

"I am afraid that I cannot do that," replied the girl after a brief reflection.

"Then tell me as much as you wish me to know," urged Miss Elting.

"In the first place," began Harriet, "I wish to ask your advice on a matter that is troubling me."

Miss Elting smiled encouragingly.

"I am listening."

"It is about that hazing affair. Suppose a girl had been asked if she knew anything about it and she had declared that she did not. What then?"

"You mean that she did know something about it but pretended that she did not?"

Harriet nodded.

"Then she would be an unfit associate for this body of fine girls. Harriet, what do you mean? You don't, you can't mean --  -- "

"Oh, no, no!" protested Harriet, flushing to the roots of her hair.

"Of course not. Forgive me for even suggesting it, my dear. Please go on."

"But suppose that another girl did not know who were the guilty ones at the time she was questioned, and that afterwards she had a strong suspicion as to their identity? What then?"

"You have given me a difficult question to answer, Harriet, I should not like to answer it without knowing more about the circumstances relating to it. Tell me who the girl is that is suspected?"

"But you are a guardian," rejoined Harriet. "Were I to tell you it would be your duty to inform the Chief Guardian of what you had heard. Would it not?"

"My dear, I fear it would," was the reply.

"Then I shall not answer your question. I want to talk with you as I would to a friend, not as a guardian in Camp Wau-Wau. Suppose some girl had made this discovery after she had denied knowing anything about the affair, would it then be her duty to inform the Chief Guardian?"

"Perhaps it would."

"She would be a talebearer. I should not like to have any friend of mine carry tales, would you, Miss Elting?"

"No, Harriet, I would not. Much would depend upon circumstances though. I fear such a case as you suggest must be one for the girl to decide for herself."

"Would she be acting dishonorably if she did not tell what she had learned?"

"Most decidedly not."

"And if she were asked about it by a guardian later on and refused to answer, she still would not be acting unfairly to herself or her superior?"

"Wait, wait. You hurl your questions at me so rapidly that you do not give me time to think. As I have said before, you must be your own judge in your own case."

"I did not say that it was my case."

"No, that is true. However, I do not believe that Harriet Burrell could do a dishonorable act if she tried ever so hard," smiled Miss Elting. "Put your head down here on my lap, Harriet, and be comfortable. Does any one else know?"

Harriet shook her head that lay in Miss Elting's lap.

"Then let matters rest as they are for the present," replied the teacher. "Let us hope that the girl's conscience may trouble her so much that she will confess her part in the affair to Mrs. Livingston. That will relieve you of all responsibility."

"She never will," muttered Harriet.

The guardian and Harriet strolled slowly back toward the camp. On the way there just at the edge of the camp they passed Patricia Scott. The latter gave Harriet a contemptuous glance, then coolly ignored her nod which was more friendly than Patricia could have hoped for. Miss Elting saw the hostile glance and the ignoring of Harriet's nod.

"If that young woman were in my division I certainly should call her to account for that. Doesn't she like you?" questioned Miss Elting bending a keen look on her companion.

"She doesn't seem to like me very well," answered Harriet, then changing the subject she began discussing a tall tree that stood just in front of the tent occupied by the Chief Guardian. It was one of those spindling pines that seem to pierce the sky. Harriet asked the guardian if there were not great danger of its being struck by lightning.

Before Miss Elting could answer, the honk honk, honk of a motor car was heard nearing the camp.

Among the tall spruce trees they made out an automobile, that had left the log road and was being recklessly driven through the forest toward the camp. It did not seem possible that the driver of the car could pursue such a perilous course without wrecking the automobile which was going far more rapidly than safety warranted. There would be a brief hesitation as the front tires came in contact with a log, then the car would go over it with a bump and a bounce, and a triumphant honk, honk!

"Who can it be, Harriet?" cried Margery, who with Hazel had strolled out to meet Harriet and her guardian friend.

Just then the car lurched into the camp. The driver put on more speed, the car circled about the camp a couple of times, then came to a halt in front of the row of tents. There were a man and a young woman in the car. The young woman jumped out and seeing Grace Thompson stared at her for a moment then throwing up her hands, uttered an Indian war whoop that brought out from their tents all those who had not been aroused by the honk of the motor car.

"It's Crazy Jane," cried Harriet. "Look! She has found Tommy."

Jane had lifted little Tommy off her feet and was kissing her delightedly while Tommy lisped "Thave me, oh, thave me!" causing the other girls near at hand to laugh amusedly at the funny scene.

At that moment Crazy Jane catching sight of Harriet and her companions, bounded toward them. Jane was bare-headed. Her blonde hair was flying about her face and neck; her dress unprotected by a dust coat was covered with the gray dust of the highways, over which she had driven, and her whole appearance was disheveled and travel-stained.

Jane fairly flung herself into the arms of Harriet Burrell, giving her a hearty hug, then treating Margery, Hazel and Miss Elting to the same sort of greeting.

"Dad's over there. Come on and shake hands with him. He's going back shortly. You can help me unload the car. Oh, we're going to have a great time, aren't we darlin's!"

"You don't mean that you have come to join the camp, do you!" questioned Miss Elting.

"Of course, I have," retorted Crazy Jane. "What did you think I had come for? Meadow-Brook is like a graveyard since you girls went away. Oh this is great, isn't it? We'll rattle the bones of this old camp, won't we?"

Harriet laughed merrily. Miss Elting looked grave.

"Does Mrs. Livingston know -- did she know you were coming?"

"Of course, she did. Dad looked after that. Where is she. She'll be delighted to see me, I'll wager."

"Yeth," nodded Tommy who had joined them. "The'll be tho glad that thhe'll cry her eyeth out. How long are you going to thtay?"

"As long as you do. Now let's get that car unloaded and start something. This place is so quiet it gives me the blues."

Margery threw up her hands in despair, Harriet smiled amusedly, Miss Elting shook her head hopelessly. Jane darted off with long strides. She had grabbed a hand of the protesting Tommy and was fairly dragging the little girl along with her. It was a strange figure that Mrs. Livingston, who stood talking with Jane's father, saw approaching her, and during the weeks that followed she was to understand quite fully why Jane McCarthy's friends had named her "Crazy Jane."



Chapter XIV

Crazy Jane Is Introduced


"Oh, how do you do?" greeted Jane when her father had introduced her to Mrs. Livingston.

Mrs. Livingston extended her hand to Jane.

"I hope you may be happy with us," said the Chief Guardian. "We shall do our best to make you so. What do you think of our forest home?"

"Stupid place, but I think I'll will be able to start something to stir up these sleepy old woods."

A shade of annoyance passed over the face of the Chief Guardian, then gave place to a tolerant smile. She read Jane McCarthy at a glance and in her saw much that was worthy of development.

"Come here, girls, and help me unload this stuff," called Jane, turning her back on the Chief Guardian. "Dad must get out of the woods with the car before dark or he'll break his precious old neck. Dad wouldn't be worth a cent with a broken neck, so help me to get him started on his way home."

Harriet and Miss Elting were the only ones who accepted the invitation. First, Mrs. Livingston pointed out the tent where Jane was to live, then Jane backed her car down to it see-sawing to avoid obstructions, until finally sending the car back a few inches too far, she crashed through the tent entrance, smashing the end pole, bringing the front of the tent down over her head.

"Good gracious! That's too bad. I never did such a clumsy thing in my life," declared Jane. "Here, Dad! Settle the damages with Mrs. Livingston. Anything broken in there?"

"Nothing particular. The tent is wrecked. That's all," sarcastically answered Patricia Scott, who was standing near to Jane. "However, don't let a little thing like that trouble you."

"I won't," answered Jane coolly, turning her back on Patricia and beginning to unload the car, aided by Harriet and Miss Elting.

By this time the entire camp was excited. The advent of this apparently lawless new girl had set every tongue wagging.

"Who is she?" asked girl after girl.

"She is a very dear friend of Miss Burrell, I believe," Cora Kidder informed them. "Some strange people come out of Meadow-Brook, don't they, girls?"

"Yes," agreed Patricia, "One hesitates to even remain in the same camp with them. I am sure my parents wouldn't allow me to stay here if they knew that such crazy girls were admitted."

Several girls turned their backs on Cora and Patricia and walked away, for Harriet and her chums were becoming popular with the Camp Girls, whereas there was a feeling of resentment developing against Patricia especially, on account of her bad disposition and her readiness to condemn others -- a trait not to be tolerated for long in Camp Wau-Wau.

Another end pole had been brought and the collapsed tent put back in place. All this was quickly done by the Camp Girls. Jane had watched the operation with keen interest.

"Say, you girls are all right, aren't you? Did you see that, Dad?"

Mr. McCarthy nodded.

"You'll have to teach me how to put up a tent, I can run an automobile and I can ride a horse, but that's about all Crazy Jane McCarthy knows how to do except to make her father tear his hair with worry for fear she will break her neck driving her car recklessly. Never mind, Dad, I shan't have the car for a couple of weeks, but trust me to stir up something else just as exciting."

Mr. McCarthy would not venture to drive the car back to the log road, after it had been finally unloaded of trunks and bags and a great assortment of odds and ends. Jane could not have required more luggage had she been going to a fashionable summer resort for her vacation. She called to the girls to get in and ride out to the log road with them. Harriet and Tommy accepted the invitation with Mrs. Livingston's permission. The Chief Guardian thought that Harriet's influence might have a wholesome effect on this wild, motherless girl. Harriet was glad when the drive came to an end. Time and time again it seemed as though the machine would be wrecked, but Jane jockeyed her car over the dangerous places, missing trunks of trees and rocks by the narrowest possible margin.

"There!" she said driving the car triumphantly out onto the log road. "If you can't get home alone now, Daddy dear, you don't deserve to. Come back to see me next Sunday. Maybe they won't want me after that. Maybe they won't be able to stand me that long."

Jane leaped back into the car, from which she had descended, giving her father an affectionate hug and a kiss. Then she suddenly threw in the clutch and sprang out. The car shot ahead, lurching from side to side of the narrow logging road, greeted with shouts of delight from Jane, her father making frantic efforts to regain control of it, which he finally did after threatening to wreck it. He shook a fist over his shoulder at Jane, then disappeared around a bend in the road.

"Isn't he the prize old dad?" laughed Jane, a suspicious moisture appearing on her eye-lashes.

"He ith too eathy with you, that ith what ith the matter with him," declared Tommy abruptly.

"Of course he is," admitted Jane. "He is afraid to be otherwise. Let's go back and see what's going on. It looks like a regular circus. What time do they feed the animals?"

"Dinner is at half past six, if that is what you mean," replied Harriet rather severely. "May I make a suggestion or two, Jane?"

"Sure you may. Is it a lecture?"

"A sort of lecture."

"Advance your spark. I'm in on the back seat."

"You should try to control yourself here. The girls will think you unfit to associate with them if you are so boisterous. Besides, Mrs. Livingston will not tolerate it."

"What, be a goody-goody girl?" demanded Jane, opening her eyes in amazement.

"No. But try to curb your spirits a little."

"Darlin', I can't do it. I've got to be my own natural self. If they don't like me they can tell me to go home. I don't care so long as you and Tommy dear, and Hazel, and cross, cranky Margery like me a little bit."

"We do like you," answered Harriet impulsively. "We will see that the other girls do not misunderstand you altogether, if we can make them see you as you really are."

"There goes a bell. What is it, fire?" demanded Jane, looking up expectantly.

"Goodness no!" answered Harriet laughing. "That is the 'get-ready' bell. We must hurry and prepare for dinner. You will want to change your gown, will you not?"

"Change! Well, you watch Jane McCarthy. Where do they feed the animals?"

"In the tent with the blue flag. Be sure to be on time. Half past six, remember," cautioned Harriet as the girls separated at Jane's tent. Jane promised to be on time, then she disappeared into her tent.

Harriet and Tommy went directly to their own quarters where they washed their hands and faces and rearranged their hair before going to dinner. There was no necessity to dress as on week days all the girls were required to wear their uniforms.

"I think there ith going to be thome fun in thith camp," observed Grace from behind the towel with which she was rubbing her face.

"You mean with Jane?"

"Yeth, Crathy Jane."

"She is a good soul, but won't she shock some of these really nice girls with her abrupt ways until they get to know her for the fine, big-hearted girl that she is!"

Mrs. Livingston and the guardians appeared soon thereafter, then after pleasant greetings the Camp Girls moved into the cook tent, taking their places behind their chairs, where they awaited the command of "seats." Mrs. Livingston gazed up and down the rows of tanned faces, at the many pairs of bright, sparkling eyes.

"Where is Miss McCarthy? Is she aware that dinner is about to be served?" asked the Chief Guardian.

"Yes, Mrs. Livingston," replied Harriet. "She went to her tent to make herself presentable. I think she will be here in a moment. It has been at least half an hour since I left her."

"We will be seated. Under the circumstances no discredits for tardiness will be imposed. Seats!"

Instead of proceeding at once with the serving of the meal a few moments were occupied in chatting, in which guardians and Chief Guardian took an animated part. Finally, it was decided to go on with the meal. Before doing so, Mrs. Livingston requested a girl to go to Jane's tent to bring her. Then Mrs. Livingston bowed her head to say grace.

Her words were interrupted by a lively chatter outside the tent and a loud laugh. She continued to say grace, but just as she was pronouncing the concluding words, Crazy Jane tripped into the tent. The girl paused at the entrance and surveyed her companions quizzically.

"Hello, girls!" she cried. "You're all as solemn as a pack of aged owls at midday. May I come in?"

There was a titter at her words, then a horrified gasp as the eyes of the Camp Girls were raised to the face of the new girl.

Jane had appeared in full evening dress. Her gown of old rose messaline was cut very low in the neck, with mere abbreviations in the way of sleeves. The skirt was cut "en train," and the frock was far too elaborate for a girl of her age, even though it had been suitable for the occasion.

A little wave of suppressed giggles rippled over the assemblage as Jane walked toward the Chief Guardian with easy assurance.

Mrs. Livingston rose and advanced to meet the new girl. There was a humorous twinkle in the eyes of the Chief Guardian, but her face was almost stern.

"Isn't she a fright?" muttered Cora.

"The worst I ever saw," agreed Patricia under her breath. "I should like to see myself making friends with her."

"Young ladies," said Mrs. Livingston, facing the tables. "Permit me to introduce to you Miss Jane McCarthy of Meadow-Brook. Miss McCarthy has not been with us long enough to become familiar with our regulations regarding dress. You will therefore, with me, excuse her somewhat elaborate costume for this once."

"What's the matter with my gown? Don't you like it?" demanded Jane, twisting her head sideways for a better view of the general effect of her costume.

"Thave me! Oh, thave me!" wailed Tommy, dropping her head on the shoulder of Harriet Burrell.



Chapter XV

The Ghost Of Wau-Wau


A silence so deep that the light breathing of the Camp Girls was plainly heard, had settled over the interior of the tent. The faces of some of the girls wore a horrified expression; on the faces of others there were lurking smiles. Harriet suppressed her laughter with difficulty. But Mrs. Livingston understood how to deal with Crazy Jane.

"It might be an appropriate costume for some occasions, Miss McCarthy," she said quietly. "If you will glance about you will see that the Camp Girls dress alike, and in the most simple costume. Have you a uniform with you?"

"Uniform? Gracious no. I'm not a soldier."

Mrs. Livingston explained that the dresses worn by the Wau-Wau Girls were called uniforms. Jane McCarthy had known nothing about this before coming to the camp. Her wardrobe was an elaborate one. The Chief Guardian said she thought she might have a uniform that with slight alterations would fit Jane, but that she had better sit down now and eat her dinner. Jane promptly accepted the suggestion. Her chagrin at the Guardian's criticism of her costume quickly passed and within a few moments Jane was monopolizing the greater part of the conversation to the delight of some of the girls and the disapproval of others.

Harriet was amused to see the shocked expressions on the faces of several of the Wau-Wau Girls. The dinner ended, Harriet, regardless of the glances of disapproval on the faces of some of her companions, linked her arm within that of Jane and walked with the latter to her own quarters. Hazel, Margery and Tommy followed. For the rest of the evening the Meadow-Brook Girls chatted with Jane who showed them her frocks, told the girls how much the frocks cost, then all at once, as Mrs Livingston in company with one of the girl leaders came in, Jane spied three strands of brightly colored beads on the neck of the latter.

"Oh, how pretty," she cried.

The leader smiled, permitting Jane to finger the beads.

"I must have some of those," she decided with enthusiastic emphasis.

"You may, but you know you will have to earn them," Mrs. Livingston informed her.

"Earn them? Why should I have to earn them? I've got plenty of money. I'll buy them. Earn them? I guess not. Harriet, I'll buy you some more. Why, you've got only two beads on your string. That's a shame."

"You do not understand, my dear," explained the Chief Guardian. "A girl wins her beads as she would win honors in any other position in life -- by accomplishment. You would not value your beads so highly if you were to purchase them, as you would were you to earn them by doing something worth while."

"Tell me what I can do to earn them," urged Jane after brief reflection.

"For instance, you drive an automobile?"

"Yes; what of that?" asked Jane brightening.

"In that line a girl may win an honor if she is able to drive an automobile for five hundred miles in one season without help or advice --  -- "

"Five hundred miles, why Mrs. Livingston I've driven that old rattle-trap of mine more than two thousand miles already this season and done all the repairing myself."

"That entitles you to a bead, a red one."

"Only one!" pouted Jane.

"Only one," smiled the Guardian.

"How may I earn another?"

"By some other achievement such as --  -- "

"I can climb a tree."

"Tho can I," piped Tommy. "But I can't get down again."

"You ride horseback, your father tells me. You may win a bead by riding forty miles in any five days."

"I've done better than that, too, this season."

"That is two beads. You see you were earning them all the time and did not know it."

Jane was becoming enthusiastic. Mrs. Livingston was instilling the Camp Girl spirit into her almost without Jane's realizing it.

"What else can I do to earn a bead? I nearly ran down a man coming out here to-day. Do I get a bead for that?" asked the girl, causing her companions to indulge in a merry laugh.

"Mithith Livingthton, pleathe give her a bead becauthe thhe didn't kill me one time when thhe nearly ran over me," urged Tommy.

"I will tell you how you may win two more beads."

"Yes, yes."

"You are a resourceful girl, I know. Now suppose you get up some sort of entertainment and carry it through; some entertainment for the girls of the Camp, something unusual."

"A candy pull!"

"Well, perhaps. We do not eat much candy here. However, I think a candy pull might prove entertaining even though it is not an unusual thing to do."

"I'll make it unusual," promised Jane.

"I'll tell you what to do. Make it a candy pull and ghost party," suggested Harriet.

"What do you mean, Miss Burrell?" questioned the Guardian.

"Pull candy and have certain girls tell ghost stories."

"Yes, that will be entertaining. Miss Thompson, do you think you would have the nightmare after an evening such as that?" asked Mrs. Livingston with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I hope not," answered Tommy with promptness. "Not if I didn't thee the ghotht."

"Then you may see what you can do, Miss McCarthy. I have all the supplies necessary to make the candy. I shall look for you to distinguish yourself. Good night, young ladies. I called to see if you were well taken care of, Miss McCarthy."

"Fine. This is a jolly old shack. Good night, Mrs. Livingston," added the girl with more gentleness than she had yet shown. "Good old party, isn't she?"

"Oh, Jane don't speak like that. Mrs. Livingston is a very superior woman. She is more than that here; she is the mother of us all and she is so good."

"Then I'll call her mamma. But Harriet?"

"Yes?" smiled Harriet.

"You'll have to mix the stuff for the candy."

"Why?"

"I never made any in my life."

"That is too bad. I can't make it for you. That would not be honest, but I will write down the recipe and tell you how to make it. You must do the actual work yourself. There is another thing I think perhaps I should mention to-night. The girls hazed myself and Tommy the other night. They may try to haze you, though I hardly think they will dare so soon after the other affair. There was considerable trouble raised over that."

"Haze me?" Jane laughed merrily. "Feel that," she commanded, extending a bare arm that to Harriet's touch seemed as hard as iron, "Do you think they will haze Crazy Jane, eh?"

"I hardly think they will," answered Harriet, smiling and nodding. "I should feel sorry for them if they tried."

"They'd feel more sorry for themselves."

"It is nearly nine o'clock, dear. You had better get ready for bed," advised Harriet. "All lights must be out at nine o'clock except on special occasions like to-morrow night when we shall undoubtedly get permission to sit up later."

The next day was an active one in camp. There was a baseball game in the morning, a basketball game in the afternoon with tether ball and quoits on the side. Jane was admitted to all these. She was strong and active, but she lacked the skill of her friend Harriet. The latter's playing in basketball and tennis was a revelation to the guardians who had never known a high school girl who could play such an even and skilful game. It was a foregone conclusion that Harriet was in a fair way to earn more beads by her accomplishments in the games of the camp.

Tommy with her usual bad luck came to grief in pitching and catching the medicine ball, a large ball stuffed with yarn. The ball weighed ten pounds, and after catching it successfully once or twice Tommy failed to stop it with her hands. It struck her with considerable force and losing her balance she fell backward down a little hill and rolled into the brook which ran at the foot of the incline. There she splashed about frantically and implored her companions to "thave" her until helped to terra firma by Harriet.

The day was a busy one for Harriet and Jane. The latter was making many mysterious preparations for the evening. She had studied Harriet's directions for making molasses candy as faithfully as she could study anything, consulting learnedly with Mrs. Livingston about the quantity that should be made, but making no reference to the other part of the entertainment.

When evening came and the candy was brought out in great yellow heaps to be pulled there was excitement in plenty. Tommy followed the girls who carried the candy licking her fingers daintily.

"Have you been eating molasses candy already?" demanded Margery.

"Yeth. Tho have you. I thee thome on your fathe. Ithn't it delithiouth?"

"I should say so!" exclaimed Margery. "Jane McCarthy, you certainly know how to make molasses candy."

"Thank you." Jane's cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled with excitement. She never was so happy as when leading, no matter whether it were in making candy or racing with a motor car.

The candy pull was a great success, the ropes of sweet stuff being thrown over low-hanging limbs where the candy was pulled and pulled amid much laughter and many shouts. Several trees were used for the purpose. The candy pull being finished all the girls gathered about the fire, sitting down Turk fashion.

"The little ghost will now appear among you and relate some live stories from ghostland," announced Crazy Jane.

A slender white figure stepped from behind a tree so quickly as to bring little screams of alarm from several girls. The figure was dressed in white with a white mask covering her face. Some of the girls recognized Harriet Burrell, but the majority did not. They did, however, shout with laughter when a second ghost, the assistant to the first tripped out from behind another tree with a little chirp that was distinctly unghostly.

"Hello, girlth," she piped.

The second ghost's usefulness was thereupon ended for the evening. The girls grabbed and unmasked her. Harriet raised a wand, in this case a burning fagot.

"Maidens fair," she began in a deep impressive voice. "Do you know what a banshee is?"

"I know," cried Hazel. "A banshee is a ghost, that the peasants in Ireland believe in. It stands outside their windows at night and wails dismally. Its appearance is supposed to foretell the death of a member of the family."

"Quite right," replied Harriet. "Now listen to my story. Once upon a time there lived a family of poor people in County Mooreland in Ireland. With them lived their beautiful child Muriel. Now the fairies and the banshees, the wood nymphs and the sprites coveted this beautiful child Muriel because they knew she would make a good fairy. But they dared not approach the hut where Muriel made her home, in the daytime. At night little Muriel was sound asleep behind closed doors. There was no way for the banshees and the wood nymphs and the sprites to get into the house and take her while she slept, for there always was a fire in the fireplace. As everybody knows a fairy cannot pass through flames without singeing her wings --  -- "

"Why didn't thhe wear water wingth?" piped Tommy Thompson.

"Every night the fairies used to perch in the flowers and under the shamrock that grew in Muriel's door yard, waiting and hoping to catch the little one and kidnap her."

"Some one should have called the police," ventured Margery.

"If the sprites could reach Muriel," went on Harriet, ignoring Margery's flippant remark, "they could quickly transform her into something else and in that manner get her away. You see these were bad fairies and gnomes and sprites and things."

"Yeth," agreed Tommy. "I thee."

"Well, one night a very powerful banshee came along and asked them what they were doing there. They told it they were waiting for the beautiful child Muriel that they might bear her away, but that they could not get to her.

"'Oho, aha!' cried the banshee. 'I have a plan. I will call upon the friend of my people, the west wind, to blow hard. Stand close and when the door of the cottage blows open see that you enter by one door but do not go out by the other. The west wind will blow thrice, then will die away. It is for you to gather the child then. I can summon the wind but once.'"

"It thertainly had thome confidenthe in itthelf," observed Grace Thompson, nodding her head.

"The fairies and the gnomes and the sprites and the banshees gathered about the door of the shack," continued the first ghost, "Suddenly they heard a wild, weird wailing off on the moor. The ghostly little conspirators trembled with fear, for these midnight wailings, these moaning winds across the moor boded no good for all of their kind. It meant that the spirits of evil were abroad.

"Suddenly a mighty gale struck the little house, causing it to tremble from cellar to roof. Then the front door burst open with a crash. The west wind with an awful wail and roar rushed into the shack, carrying with it the fairies and the gnomes and the sprites and the banshees. No sooner were they inside the cottage than the other door burst open and all the fairies and the gnomes and the sprites were hurled out and carried away on the great gale. But one little banshee had found lodgment on a beam where it clung until the gale had passed.

"And what do you think it did?"

"Carried away the child?" suggested a voice.

"Did you ever hear of anything so perfectly ridiculous?" exclaimed Cora Kidder.

"I gueth it went to thleep and fell off into the fire," suggested Tommy.

"No. It waited until the gale had passed, then dropping down touched the sleeping child with its magic wand, whereupon Muriel became a butterfly. The banshees carried the butterfly away with them and in their home she grew to be as beautiful a banshee as she had been a child. But she grew and grew. There was no stopping her. She grew almost as rapidly as Jack's beanstalk by which he climbed to the home of the giant."

"What a fright she must have been," interrupted a voice.

"As she grew she began to hate the banshees who had taken her from her home and made her become like them. She determined to avenge herself. This she did by making war upon all the other banshees. So powerful was she and so familiar, too, with their hiding places in the flowers that she had little difficulty in clearing the country of the little pests. Those who were not killed were driven from the country, all of which accounts for there being no banshees in Ireland now. But they are to be found in some other parts of the world."

"Are -- are there any over here?" questioned a timid voice from among the girls.

"I have never seen any," replied Harriet. "Still, we do not know. A banshee might fly into any one of our tents on a dark night and change us into butterflies or banshees or something of that sort, and we wouldn't know anything about it until we had been changed. When we woke up we should be in so different a form that we shouldn't know ourselves if we were to look into a mirror."

"I know who that draped figure is now," exclaimed Patricia. "It's that hateful Harriet Burrell. Isn't she silly and presuming?"

"Yes," was the reply. "I am amazed that Mrs. Livingston allows her to be so forward. She and that McCarthy girl make an excellent team. One is as tiresome as the other."

"I have heard," continued the ghost, "that this great and powerful banshee came to America to look for the descendants of the banshees who made her become one of them. It has even been hinted that she has been seen in the Pocono Woods."

"Oh, my gracious!" exclaimed Hazel, glancing about her apprehensively. "What if we should see her? I'd die of fright, I know I should."

"Fiddle! Who ith afraid of a banthhee?" jeered Grace. "Now if I thaw that banthhee I'd jutht thtep on her with my heel, tho!" She dug her little heel into the ground to show how she would crush the banshee.

Harriet might have been observed to gaze off into the forest almost apprehensively herself now and then. There was a quizzical smile on her face, but it was hidden by the white mask she wore.

Suddenly she cried out: "Oh, girls! girls!" Then pointed directly over their heads into the forest. "The banshee! The banshee! Look! Oh, look!"

Tommy sat shivering, not daring to turn her head. A few girls mustered up sufficient courage to look behind them. Then a series of wild screams rent the air. There was a mad rush for the protection of the tents, in which even the guardians -- or nearly all of them -- joined. What they had seen had sent a thrill of terror through every girl that had gazed upon the terrifying sight.

Tommy Thompson rose and stood trembling. "Thave me!" moaned Tommy. "I'm tho thcared!"

"It's the Banshee!"



Chapter XVI

The Laying Of A Spook


"It's the banshee! It's the banshee!" screamed a score of voices.

What they had seen had been enough to startle the bravest person. A figure had suddenly appeared out of the gloom, a huge towering figure that looked to the startled girls to be almost as high as the trees themselves, though it was not more than eight feet tall. The figure was clad in long, flowing white robes that hung gracefully to its feet. Two arms almost as long as the figure was high, were waving frantically in the air. The face was small and as white as the garb of the strange weird creature. It did, indeed, look as though it might be the fabled banshee from the moors of County Mooreland.

"Woo-oo-oo," wailed the apparition.

"Come back, girls!" cried Mrs. Livingston. "Come back, I tell you!" The Chief Guardian had herself been startled at first. Standing their ground were half a dozen other girls, among them was Hazel Holland. Patricia Scott and Cora Kidder had long since retired to a safe distance from the apparition.

The words of the Guardian somehow seemed to reassure the trembling Tommy. Then, too, she saw that Harriet did not run. Harriet had thrown herself upon the ground and was sitting with her head in hands, her shoulders shaking. What Tommy did not know was that Harriet was not shaking with fear, but with laughter.

The apparition was slowly approaching the little group of girls, with arms waving and the weird "woo-oo-oo" becoming louder and louder. Two of the half dozen who had stood their ground now turned and fled precipitately.

Tommy Thompson still stood her ground, with trembling limbs. All at once her eyes narrowed. A crafty expression took the place of the look of fear on her small face. Then to the amazement of the girls who still remained, Tommy crept cautiously around until she got to the rear of the approaching figure. Now and then as she thought the giant banshee was about to turn around, Tommy would leap back as lightly as a cat.

Mrs. Livingston forgot her dignity and laughed until her eyes were dimmed with tears.

The little girl made a sudden dive and a grab. Her fingers closed over a piece of the banshee's robe. She felt something else in her grasp and gave a mighty tug.

There was a shrill scream from the banshee. Harriet sprang away believing that the apparition was about to fall on her. The girls fled. This was too much for them. They did not think far enough to realize that what they had heard was a most human scream and that it could have come only from a human throat.

Down came the giant banshee in a mighty fall.

"Save me!" wailed the gigantic falling figure.

It was now too late to do anything toward saving the luckless banshee. The drapery fell away in its struggles to right itself and the terrified apparition perched upon a pair of stilts fell sprawling close to the fire which by this time had burned very low, else the banshee's robes might have been permanently singed.

Tommy uttered a little shriek.

"It'th Crathy Jane! It'th Crathy Jane! Thomebody thave her!"

Harriet Burrell was the "somebody" who sprang to the rescue. No sooner had Jane touched the ground than Harriet was dragging her away, rolling her on the ground, patting out the little flames that sprang up here and there from her clothing. This was made the more difficult because of the long stilts upon which the daring Jane McCarthy had walked. The long arms had been sticks on which sheets had been draped. The arms had dropped when Jane took her mighty fall and now lay on the ground on the other side of the campfire.

"Are you hurt?" begged Harriet anxiously.

"Oh, my darlin'! I'm killed entirely."

"Wait till I take off your stilts. You will be all right as soon as you get to your feet."

"Tommy has laid the ghost," cried a girl who had last run away. At this the others came hesitatingly back. Mrs. Livingston half laughing, half crying was assisting Jane to her feet. Jane's face wore a sheepish grin as she shrugged her shoulders to make sure that they had not been dislocated. Harriet had thrown off her mask. Her white robe was blackened from the smoke and the fire from which she had rescued the singed banshee, and Margery upon returning to the scene was complaining that she had bursted half the buttons off her waist.

"There is your ghost, young ladies," smiled Mrs. Livingston. "Let it be a lesson to you to never forget your self-possession, never to be carried away by your impulses. Always use reason."

"Yeth. That ith what I did," declared Tommy.

"Why didn't you run?" asked Miss Partridge, who had remained near the scene, but at what she considered a safe distance from the apparition.

"I thaw a lock of Crathy Jane'th hair thlipping out from behind her mathk. The minute I thaw that hair I knew it. Then when I got behind her I thaw the thtiltth. You thee the light wath on the other thide. I could thee right through her drapery."

Now that the banshee had been "laid" the frightened girls could afford to laugh and they did.

Mrs. Livingston spoke again.

"Miss Burrell has fairly won an honor. Some of you observed her presence of mind when she rolled Miss McCarthy on the ground to put out the fire in the latter's clothing, thus possibly saving that young woman's life. For this you are awarded five red beads, Miss Burrell, for fire is red and fire is the enemy that you overcame."

"Do I get a bead for laying the ghotht?" interrupted Grace.

"Yes, you do," answered the Chief Guardian with a smile. "Miss McCarthy also shall have two beads, one for making the finest molasses candy we have ever eaten, the second for providing the most unusual amusement ever known at Camp Wau-Wau. And now we will go to our quarters. It has been a most entertaining evening, even if it did cause some of us apprehension."

Jane McCarthy stepped up to Mrs. Livingston, looking the latter squarely in the eyes.

"Mrs. Livingston, I do not think I am entitled to either of those rewards," she said.

"No? And why not?"

"I never made any candy in my life before. I didn't even know whether you used baking-soda or flour in it. Harriet helped with the recipe and told me all she could about how to go to work. Oh, I want to be perfectly honest about it all. Harriet suggested the ghost party too, though the big banshee and the idea of the story were mine. I don't want the beads, Mrs. Livingston. I want Harriet Burrell to have them. She earned them, I didn't."

"Fine! Splendid! You are a Camp Girl in reality now. The spirit of Wau-Wau has taken possession of you. My dear I congratulate you. The beads are yours. Your truthfulness and unselfishness would win them for you even though nothing else could. The fire-makers will subdue the flames after the others have reached their tents."

Three happy girls went arm in arm to the camp street. They were Crazy Jane, Harriet Burrell and Tommy Thompson, the latter more proud than she had ever been in her life, because she had done what not one of some forty others had dared to do -- she had laid the ghost. Tommy expressed her admiration for herself that night when snuggling down under the blankets she murmured:

"Well, I gueth I'm thome folkth."



Chapter XVII

The Soup That Failed


Almost the sole topic of discussion at Camp Wau-Wau on the following day was the train of exciting events of the previous evening. There were, too, murmurs of disapproval at the trick that Harriet Burrell and Jane McCarthy had played on the girls. Some of the Camp Girls were ashamed that they had shown such cowardice, others were angry at the Meadow-Brook Girls for making them appear at a disadvantage. Among the latter were Patricia and Cora. These two were talking it over when Harriet in passing, bade them a pleasant good morning.

"Now look at her superior smile, will you?" jeered Patricia. "I just would like to take her down a notch or two, and I will before I leave this camp."

"How?" asked Cora reflectively.

"I don't know. I'll catch her somehow and make a laughing stock of her before the rest of the girls."

"Patricia, have you forgotten the bath towel -- have you forgotten what she knows about us?"

"No, I haven't," answered Patricia Scott, with a toss of her head.

"And she hasn't said a word to any one about it."

"You don't know that. Have you noticed that that Miss Elting looks at us very queerly when she passes us? She is very cold and distant, too, just as though she knew something about us. You mark my words, that Meadow-Brook Girl has told her all about finding the towel, but if it gets to the Chief Guardian I know how I can turn the tables on that impudent Harriet Burrell."

"How?"

"In the easiest way you can imagine. I'll say that Harriet never has liked me and that she had taken my towel and hidden it purposely, just to produce it at the right time and accuse me of having been implicated in the hazing."

"But it wasn't your towel," protested Cora. "It was mine."

"That's all right. That will make it all the better. She will say it was your towel and I will say it was mine. Don't you see how that will mix the affair up? You must stand by me if it comes to that."

"Of course," answered Cora Kidder, but in rather a weak voice. She was not a bad girl at heart, but she was easily influenced; it was not difficult to persuade her to look at any matter with other eyes than her own. It was the bad influence of Patricia Scott that already had led Cora so far into mischief, and that gave promise of leading her still farther. Patricia, on the other hand, possessed a jealous and revengeful disposition. It had caused her trouble in her own home and lost her many friends in her home town. She had been sent to the camp in the hope that the wholesome life in the woods might give her a new point of view, and that the association with the Camp Girls might make a better girl of her. Thus far the desired result had not been attained, though she had managed to hide her shortcomings from Mrs. Livingston and the guardians. At times Mrs. Livingston, close observer that she was, had wondered as to the girl's real character, but Patricia's sweet smile, easily assumed to fit the occasion, had on each occasion disarmed the Chief Guardian.

"You must pretend to be very indignant if ever you are called to account, and I will pretend to be indignant, too. I almost hope she does complain of us, and she will, too. She is a sneak."

"I don't hope she'll complain of us," cried Cora in alarm. "I know I should die of mortification."

"You haven't any courage, Cora Kidder," declared Patricia scornfully. "I see I shall have to look out for both of us, and --  -- "

"No, no," protested Cora. "Tell me what you want me to do. I will do it. I don't want to be found out for what I already have done and be sent home. What would I do? Oh, what would I do?"

Patricia gave her a withering glance.

"What you need is backbone. You haven't any more courage than a two-year old child. What ails you?"

"You say I haven't any courage," answered Cora hotly. "I'll show you whether I have or not. What do you want me to do?" she demanded, straightening up to her full height and looking Patricia squarely in the eyes.

"That's the way to talk, dear," nodded Patricia. "Let's take a walk. Forget the mean things I just said to you, but I had to do it to put some spunk into you."

"There comes that Margery girl," exclaimed Cora.

"Don't mind her. She wouldn't see the side of a house if it were set up right in front of her. I can't say as much for that perfectly impossible Grace Thompson. She is as sharp as she can be, and she isn't afraid to speak right out before everybody. Didn't you see how she held her ground last night when most of the others ran away."

"Oh, she was in the secret. She knew all about it," answered Cora Kidder.

"That's where you make a mistake. She didn't. Didn't you see how frightened she was at first?"

Cora shook her head.

"You must keep your eyes open," advised Patricia. "You've gone too far to take any chances; that is, any more than you have to take. She was going to run, then she held herself steady by sheer grit. I don't like her, I don't like any of them, but I know real courage when I see it and she showed it last night."

"Harriet knew, though?"

"Oh, yes; she was in the game. Of course she was. It was a shame. She ought to be put out of the camp. She will be. There isn't room here for her and me."

Patricia linked an arm in that of Cora's, walking away to a spot where they might be more by themselves. There were too many girls passing back and forth now to make prudent a discussion such as was theirs.

A good part of the afternoon found Harriet Burrell in the kitchen of the cook tent. Harriet was trying to win an "honor" by making soup. By making five standard soups consecutively she would win another bead, provided the soups were favorably received by the Camp Wau-Wau Girls.

Harriet's first day in the kitchen resulted in more confusion than the kitchen had known that season. It seemed that everything was misplaced. The dinner was late that night, but the soup was excellent. The other girls in the kitchen made no complaint about the confusion, which they believed to be due to carelessness on Harriet's part, because the misplaced articles and various ingredients scattered about were those which she had used in her work.

The next day conditions were no different. Patricia, who was preparing salads for an "honor" finally threw up her hands in disgust. She declared she could stand it no longer and if some of the girls didn't remove Harriet from the kitchen, she, Patricia would have to get out herself. Somehow this word reached Mrs. Livingston, with the result that Patricia herself was asked to drop her "honor" work in the kitchen for the present.

It was a blow to Patricia Scott. She had not looked for this result, and though she had not made the complaint in person, her criticism of Harriet had been a boomerang that had returned and hit Patricia. This made the girl even more bitter against Harriet than before.

The following two days brought with them less friction in the kitchen. Harriet Burrell's soups delighted the girls and the guardians; many were the compliments bestowed upon the blushing Harriet.

It was now the fifth day of Harriet's soup-making; the last in the test for the "honor." It seemed a foregone conclusion that the young woman had won her bead for this achievement in cookery. Harriet naturally felt gratified. It meant something to win even one bead in the Camp Girls' Association as every member of the organization had soon come to know. No girl ever had won all of the "honors" these "honors" covering so many fields of achievement as to make this well-nigh impossible.

"Well, Miss Burrell," smiled the Chief Guardian that evening after they had sat down to the tables and grace had been said. "I suppose you will be entitled to wear a new bead to-morrow."

"I hope so, Mrs. Livingston," answered Harriet with a blush.

"Wait till you try the thoup," suggested Tommy.

"I agree with you," said Hazel.

"Your friends do not seem to have the same confidence in your soup making that the rest of us feel," smiled Miss Partridge.

"Perhaps that is because they know my shortcomings better than you do, Miss Partridge," replied Harriet.

A close observer might have seen Patricia and Cora exchange meaning glances.

There was a lively chattering along the tables while the girls were waiting for the serving of the first course, the soup. This was brought to the table in great tureens, one for each table, the guardian who sat at the head of the table serving the soup which was passed along to the other end by the girls themselves. In this case it was Miss Elting who was doing the serving at the table at which the Meadow-Brook Girls were seated.

"This consommé certainly looks delicious," she said with a smile.

"From the smell I should say it must be," declared Jane McCarthy. "I know I could die eating that soup."

"Be careful," warned a voice. "You may."

"I say girls, let's wait till Harriet samples it," suggested Hazel. "It is her last chance at the soup. There's no telling what she might do to us."

"Yeth, that ith right," nodded Grace. "No poithon cup for uth."

"Taste it, darlin'," urged Jane.

Harriet with a good natured smile dipped her spoon in daintily, carrying some of the steaming soup to her lips. She tasted the consommé gingerly, then took another spoonful, and hurriedly put the spoon back in the dish. A horrified expression appeared on the face of the Meadow-Brook girl.

"There! What did I tell you?" cried Margery.

"What is the trouble?" asked Miss Partridge.

"Oh-h-h!" gasped Harriet, making a desperate effort to control herself.

A girl on the other side of the table from Miss Burrell, sampled the soup, then hastily dropped her spoon. Margery followed suit a moment later.

"How is it?" questioned Hazel.

"Please don't ask me," declared Margery gloomily.

Miss Elting made a wry face when she tasted the consommé, but said nothing. Some went on eating, others laid down their spoons and leaned back in their chairs. Tommy was the first to break the silence that had settled over the table.

"There ith thomething the matter with thith thoup," she declared in a loud voice.

"That's what I say," answered a voice.

"And I, and I, and I," cried other voices.

"Yes, I agree with you," answered Miss Partridge gravely. "Harriet what did you put in the soup?"

"The usual ingredients."

Mrs. Livingston at this juncture sampled the soup. Her face darkened. She swallowed a spoonful, then quickly laid the spoon on the soup plate.

Harriet had shrunk back into her chair. A deep flush rose to her face. To cover her confusion she essayed to take some more soup, but the effort was a failure. She simply could not eat the consommé.

"It tathteth to me like thoap," declared Tommy.

"I believe it is soap," spoke up Patricia Scott. "How perfectly frightful!"

"I am afraid, Miss Burrell," said Mrs. Livingston, "that you have lost the 'honor' for this season. This consommé seems to be a dismal failure. This of course does not preclude you from taking up some other branch of cookery and winning an 'honor'."

Harriet was on the verge of tears, but she held herself under good control. Her humiliation was apparent only in her flaming cheeks and almost imperceptible beads of perspiration that stood out on her forehead.

"This is a matter that must be looked into, Harriet," said the Chief Guardian. "Young ladies, eat no more of the soup. There is something seriously wrong with it. It tastes like soap to me, too; I am free to admit that. I hope no one has been playing pranks," fixing a keen glance on Harriet's face.

"Oh, Mrs. Livingston," cried Harriet, shocked almost beyond words.

"I am not accusing you of any such thing, my dear," explained the Chief Guardian. "You would be unlikely to play pranks and lose your 'honor' mark. The guardians will please accompany me to the kitchen. Young ladies, you will proceed with your dinner. Upon second thought, Miss Partridge and Miss Elting will accompany me. The other guardians may remain here."

Mrs. Livingston rose, as did the two teachers whom she had named. A heavy silence settled over the cook tent after the three women had disappeared into the kitchen, a small tent at the rear of the cook tent. They were gone for some time. Finally, Mrs. Livingston and Miss Partridge returned. Miss Elting was not with them. The Chief Guardian's face wore an expression of sternness such as none of the girls ever had observed there before.

Harriet appeared wholly to have lost her appetite. She was making a brave effort to eat, but the food choked her. The meal was finished in silence. At the conclusion of the meal, Mrs. Livingston rose and requested the girls to come to order.

"Young ladies," she began, "a most serious thing has occurred. I make no accusations. Miss Burrell, where is the key to your supply box?"

"I hung it on a nail on the outside of the tent pole just behind my work table, Mrs. Livingston."

The Chief Guardian turned to Miss Partridge.

"Do you mind bringing Miss Burrell's key and box, Miss Partridge?" she asked. The young guardian rose promptly and left the tent. A few moments later, she returned bearing a galvanized box, slightly larger than a baking powder case. This she placed on the table before the Chief Guardian, laying a key beside it. Harriet saw that the box was hers, but she did not know why it had been brought to the tent.

Mrs. Livingston unlocked the supply box, then tilting it so that the light from the hanging lamp nearby shone into the box, she peered in. Harriet saw her grope in the box, saw her withdraw some small object and examine it in the palm of her hand amid a breathless silence. Then the Chief Guardian raised her eyes, fixing them on Harriet Burrell with an inquiring, sorrowful gaze.



Chapter XVIII

An "Honor" Fairly Lost


"Miss Burrell," began the Chief Guardian in an impressive voice, "I find that a serious offense has been committed, an offense that cannot be overlooked. A prank is allowable within reasonable limits, but any such trick as this borders on the disgraceful."

"Wha-at do you mean, Mrs. Livingston?" questioned Harriet.

"We have examined the pot in which the soup was made. We have, after careful examination, decided what it is that gives the consommé the peculiar flavor that you all have noticed."

Harriet listened with an expression of grave concern. She forgot in the interest she felt in what the Chief Guardian was about to say, her own humiliation at having lost the "honor" she had so nearly earned.

"We came to the conclusion that nothing but soap could give the soup the peculiar flavor that makes it so unpalatable. Then again we observed little beads floating on the surface," continued Mrs. Livingston. "While attractive to look at these were very disagreeable to the taste for they were soap bubbles. However, an entirely different complexion has been placed on the matter since my examination of your box before me on the table. Miss Burrell, I find in this box a small piece of castile soap from which some shavings have been left in the box and on the paring knife with which the soap was shaved off."

"Soap in my kit?" cried Harriet, rising slowly to her feet.

"Yes."

"But -- why -- what is it doing there?" gasped the astonished girl.

"That is what we should like to know. No one had access to your kit except yourself. The box was locked and the key hung where you placed it when you last had occasion to close the box."

"Yes, yes, but --  -- "

"We also found flakes of soap scattered about on the floor in the kitchen. I slipped on a shaving of it and nearly fell just now when I visited the kitchen. Did you have any soap in your kit?"

"Certainly not, Mrs. Livingston."

"Then how did it come to be there just now when I opened the box?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered Harriet despairingly. "But surely, Mrs. Livingston, you do not accuse me of anything so dreadful as mixing soap with the consommé? Oh, you don't mean that; you can't mean it?"

"While I am not by any means accusing you, the facts on the face of the affair speak for themselves, and --  -- "

The Chief Guardian was interrupted by the sudden springing to her feet of Crazy Jane. Her face was flushed; her hair was disarranged her arms were raised above her head.

"Oh, Shame On All of You!" Cried Jane.

"Oh, shame on all of you!" cried the girl. "My darlin' Harriet wouldn't do such a thing. Never! Show me the one who did it, knowing that the darlin' girl would be accused. I'll scratch her eyes out, I will!"

Jane was in a towering rage. The calm voice of Mrs. Livingston interrupted the tirade.

"Miss McCarthy, be good enough to resume your seat," she said.

Jane hesitated. For a few perilous seconds she struggled with herself. The girls expected an outbreak more vehement than her first. Instead, Jane sat down with an emphasis that jarred the dishes on the table.

"We will now continue with this matter. Can any person here explain, first how the consommé happens to be soaped, and secondly why soap is found in Miss Burrell's kit?" questioned Mrs. Livingston.

A painful silence reigned in the cook tent. There seemed to be no explanation of the mystery.

"There was nothing of the sort in the box when last I used it," reiterated Harriet, "I am positive of that, Mrs. Livingston. Nor could it have been at the bottom of the box under the other things. Knowing that I had finished my work in the soup test, I examined the contents of the box to put everything in order."

"You locked the box afterwards?"

"Immediately. I hung the key in its accustomed place, too."

"You have no idea when the soap was dropped into the soup kettle?"

"No. But wait! Just before I came into the cook tent to sit down I tasted the soup, as I had done a dozen times before while in the kitchen to make sure that it was exactly as it should be."

"Did you taste it just before you came in to dinner? Did you detect anything wrong with it, Miss Burrell?"

"There was nothing wrong with it then. I mean -- you know what I mean. There was none of this soapy taste in it at all. To me it tasted delicious. The first I realized that something had happened to the consommé, was when I took a spoonful of it at the table here. Then I knew something was wrong with it. That is all I can tell you. But you must know that I would not do a thing like that, Mrs. Livingston. Please don't say that you think I might be guilty of any such thing. Do you think I would spoil my chance of winning an 'honor' for the sake of playing a contemptible trick?"

"No, Harriet, I do not think you would," decided Mrs. Livingston after gazing steadily into the troubled eyes of Harriet Burrell for a moment.

Harriet caught her breath sharply.

"It ith a mean thhame," declared Tommy in a voice that reached every person in the tent. "I gueth the banshee mutht have done it."

A chorus of giggles greeted this sally. The laughter was suppressed by the Chief Guardian.

"We will leave the mystery of the doctored soup as it stands until after breakfast to-morrow morning," announced Mrs. Livingston. "After that, if the guilty girl makes no confession in the meantime, we shall begin an investigation of our own."

The Chief Guardian rose, the girls doing likewise, after which they filed out of the tent. Once outside they began to talk excitedly. Most of them took sides with Harriet Burrell. They did not believe she could have been guilty of such a trick. Besides, she would be defeating her own ambitions if she did do so. She was certain to lose the coveted "honor." Despite this, however, there were those who did believe that Harriet had put soap in the consommé.

It had been an evening full of excitement and unexpected happenings. And now Harriet Burrell would not have another opportunity to win her "honor" in this line until three months had passed.

Harriet's face was stony as she fled to her tent. Jane McCarthy reached the tent a few minutes behind her friend. Jane threw her arms about Harriet, expressing her opinion of the whole affair in her own hot-headed way. Harriet's eyes were dry but her cheeks were hot. She was holding herself well in hand, yet when she spoke there was a slight quaver in her voice. She was not a girl given to tears.

"I don't care for the 'honor' so much," Harriet said, "but I just can't stand it to have the girls believing deep down in their hearts that I could have done that awful thing. They will say it; at least some of them will."

"I dare them to!" flamed Jane. "Just let me hear them. Oh, just let me hear one girl saying a word about Harriet Burrell. Oh!"

"I don't want you to mix in this trouble at all, Jane," objected Harriet. "It is bad enough as it is. If I could find out who the guilty one is --  -- "

"What would you do if you did find out?" demanded Jane.

"I don't know. Nothing I suppose," returned Harriet with a wan smile.

"That's just it. You've got to fight if you don't want to get walked on in this world. My dad says so. He's a fighter, he is, little one, and he has a daughter who can take her own part and half a dozen other people's besides. My sleeves will be rolled up all the time after this. You watch me get into action when I discover the girl, and --  -- "

"I think you had better leave all that to me, Miss McCarthy," advised a voice at the door of the tent.

At the first sound of the voice Harriet thought either Patricia or Cora had come in. Then she saw that it was Mrs. Livingston.

"Please don't involve yourself in difficulties, my dear. Now, will you leave us, please! I wish to speak alone with Miss Burrell."

Jane went outside the tent where she paced up and down waiting until the Chief Guardian should come out, when Jane intended to return to the tent and talk further with her friend. She intercepted the other Meadow-Brook Girls who had come over to sympathize with Harriet. All save Tommy returned to their own tents.

"Now, my dear," said Mrs. Livingston, seating herself beside Harriet on the edge of the latter's cot, "please do not take this quite so hard. You will have plenty of opportunity to win other 'honors' before leaving Camp Wau-Wau."

"It is not the loss of the 'honor' that is disturbing me, Mrs. Livingston. It is the thought that you suspected me of being the author of that trick," answered Harriet quite frankly. "You will understand that I am not saying this in an impertinent sense."

"My dear girl, I know of course that you are not. Let me tell you something. It may serve to make you feel this less keenly. I sought for the moment to be a little harsh with you thinking that possibly the girl who had done this might rise and confess at once rather than see you bear the burden of the accusation?"

"There is little danger of her doing that."

"So I infer. But you have a suspicion as to who she may be?" added the Chief Guardian quickly.

"I may have, but I should not wish to name any one. You see my suspicion may be entirely wrong. In fact I am convinced that it is."

"My child, if you have a well-founded suspicion of any girl here you should make it known to me. It is your duty to do that."

"That is just the trouble," answered Harriet with a faint smile. "My suspicion is not a well founded one. Even if it were I should not be sure that I ought to tell you."

"I will not press you to tell me, my dear. I will leave it all to your good judgment. At breakfast to-morrow morning I shall announce that you are in no way held to blame for this unpleasant incident."

With a kind "good night, Miss Burrell," the Chief Guardian left Harriet.

Patricia and Cora were about to enter the tent when they espied Jane walking up and down.

"On guard, eh?" sneered Patricia.

Jane strolled over, peered down impudently into the face of Patricia Scott, gazing at the girl for all of half a minute.

"Yes," answered Jane shortly, then turned her back on the two girls.



Chapter XIX

When The Storm Broke


Instead of entering the tent after Crazy Jane's snub, Patricia and Cora Kidder gazed at the girl pacing back and forth before it, then laughing sarcastically turned and walked away. Mrs. Livingston saw them in the distance when she came out, but her attention was immediately centred on Jane.

"Miss McCarthy," she said. "I wouldn't keep Harriet up long, were I in your place. The poor girl has had a trying time of it this evening. Were the two girls who just walked away from here, Miss Scott and Miss Kidder?"

"Yes, ma'am. And I gave them a good stiff punch -- I mean I told them -- I let them know how much I loved them."

"Try to love every one, Miss McCarthy. It doesn't pay for one to go about with any other feeling in the heart."

"I guess I must have been born with the other feeling," returned Crazy Jane. "But at any rate, I know I have the other feeling now."

"Try to be like Miss Burrell, sweet and forgiving. Good night."

"Good night, Mrs. Livingston. I'll just say 'good night' to Harriet. I won't stay a minute."

Jane was true to her word. She ran into the tent and gathering Harriet in her arms, kissed her on the forehead, very gently, too, for Jane; after which the impulsive girl ran out without giving Harriet a chance to say a word.

The hour for "lights out" not having arrived, most of the girls were out by the campfire chatting. Harriet preferred to be alone on this occasion. She did not feel equal to talking with any one. She felt that the day had been a miserable failure. There had been two days of it. First, everything in the kitchen had gone wrong. This condition had somewhat improved after Patricia had left the kitchen, only to become many times worse after three days had elapsed.

Harriet tried to reason out the mystery. Her first thought was that Patricia might have had something to do with the spoiling of the soup. But she had not the slightest proof that Patricia was the culprit.

Harriet was at a loss to know what to do. The problem was too much for her. Her head whirled with her effort to solve it Before retiring for the night, however, she moved her cot to the extreme rear of the tent so that the light would not be so strong in her eyes when Patricia and Cora came in to retire. After a time Harriet dropped off to sleep. She was awakened by voices outside at the rear of the tent.

The light was out and the tent was in darkness. Harriet did not know what time it was, but hearing regular breathing she decided that of course the two girls must have come in and retired without having awakened her. But as Harriet listened she recognized the voices. They were outside the tent within a yard of her head at the moment.

"To 'The Pines'?" came the question in Patricia's voice.

"Yes," replied Cora. "Charlie Collier wants me to go with him. He says he will come for me in his car. They are going to have a perfectly lovely dance at 'The Pines.'"

"Have you spoken to Mrs. Livingston?"

"She wouldn't let me go. Of what use would it be to speak to her? I'm so angry I could howl."

"What a simpleton you are, Cora Kidder," chided Patricia. "If I had an invitation to that dance and wanted to go -- really were crazy to go -- I'd go!"

"How?"

"Cut for it."

"You mean go without permission?"

"Of course. I'd do it just to defy her."

A brief period of silence followed. Then Cora spoke.

"If I thought I could do it and get back without discovery, I would," she said slowly.

"Of course you can get back. Tell Charlie Collier at what hour you must return and see that he starts back to camp in good season with you. Is he coming alone?"

"Oh, mercy no. His sister will come with him and return with us."

"When is the party!"

"The day after to-morrow night."

"How are you to let him know that you will go?"

"He is going to call here with his sister to-morrow."

"Good! Now don't be afraid. Tell him you'll go."

"I believe I will," replied Cora. By the way, Patricia, the soap trick worked all right, didn't it!"

"It certainly did," was the answer, and Patricia broke into a merry laugh, in which Cora did not appear to join so heartily.

Harriet heard no more. The two girls had gotten up and moved out of her hearing. But she was shocked beyond expression. The soap in the consommé was no longer a mystery. She had never believed that Patricia was quite so unscrupulous. Now she knew the worst. Harriet did not know what course to pursue, but after thinking it over she concluded that there was nothing for her to do. As to the proposed trip to "The Pines," surely were she to go to Cora and tell her what a wrong thing she was planning, Harriet would merely be snubbed. Besides, it was not at all certain that Cora Kidder would go.

She heard the two girls slip into the tent and knew from their light footfalls that they were wearing their slippers. Harriet knew, too, that they had been sitting outside clad in their wrappers, for they got into bed immediately. There were a few whispered words, which she failed to catch, then silence settled over the tent, broken occasionally by Tommy's unintelligible mutterings. Tommy was dreaming again -- giving promise of having a mild form of nightmare later on.

A gust of wind set the tree-tops to rustling. All Nature stirred restlessly. The listening girl heard the disturbed chirpings of the birds in the trees. Following this came the patter of raindrops on the roof of the tent. A brilliant flash of lightning made the tent as light as day for the fraction of a second. Harriet could plainly see the faces of the three girls in their cots. They were asleep, or at least appeared to be sleeping, for their eyes were closed. Then came the distant rumble of thunder.

Though unafraid, Harriet shivered a little and snuggled down under the blankets. The rain now began to fall, at first mildly then increasing to a roar as heavy drops began beating on the canvas roof. The sound lulled her to sleep. She simply could not fight off the drowsiness that had taken possession of her, and unmindful of the storm outside, Harriet soon passed into peaceful slumber.

The storm grew heavier. The tents were illuminated almost incessantly by flashes of lightning. It was quite evident, however, that the camp was not in the heart of the electrical disturbance, although a veritable deluge of water was now falling upon it.

Nearly every girl in the camp lay wide awake with head buried in her pillow, shivering, momentarily expecting to be struck by lightning. Harriet was suddenly startled by a scream following a particularly vivid flash of lightning.

"Did some one call?" she asked.

"Oh, yeth, yeth," moaned Tommy. "It wath awful."

"There is nothing to fear," returned Harriet. "Lie down and cover your head if the lightning disturbs you. Are the other girls asleep?"

A flash answered the question for her. Patricia and Cora were sitting up in their beds, with blankets wrapped about them. Their faces were pale with fright.

"Don't be frightened, girls," Harriet called soothingly. "You can tell by listening that the worst of the storm has passed. It has gone to the north of us. The wind is blowing strongly from the south."

Cora gave her an appealing look that made Harriet feel sorry for the girl. Patricia never looked at her at all.

"It may rain all the rest of the night, but the dangerous part of the storm has passed," continued Harriet. "I'm glad of it myself. One doesn't feel any too secure in these flimsy tents in a heavy gale. But don't worry."

"Oh, thave me!" wailed Tommy, quickly pulling the blankets over her head as the tent was illuminated by a particularly brilliant flash of lightning.

The downpour became heavier. Next the tent began to leak. Harriet felt several large drops of rain strike in her face.

"I think I had better move," she said laughingly. "How is it with you, girls?"

"I'm soaked," answered Cora.

"Drag your cots into the middle of the tent. I think we shall find it drier there."

This suited Grace. She felt the need of closer companionship. Then followed the sound of cots being scraped along the floor. Harriet had reasoned correctly. The middle of the tent thus far had not begun to leak.

They crawled in under the blankets once more, but three of the Camp Girls were trembling and shivering with fear at the fury of the storm. Ten minutes later the tent sprang a leak directly over their heads. Very shortly after that the four cots and the bedding were thoroughly soaked by the merciless downpour.

Patricia, Cora and Tommy hurriedly crawled out of their water-soaked beds. Harriet decided that she would be as well off in her cot, so she lay still. She did suggest that one of the girls might try to light the lantern. Patricia fumbled about in the darkness for the matches, and finally found them, only to discover that they were so wet that they would not light.

Suddenly a new and terrifying sound was borne to the ears of the four girls.

Tommy screamed with fright. Cora uttered a terrified wail. Harriet and Patricia, however, were silent. At the first suggestion of the threatening sound Harriet had leaped from her cot. She stood with one hand slightly raised, her head bent forward ever so little, her eyes tightly closed, every nerve in her body centred on listening to the disturbing sound, seeking to discover its meaning. Then all at once it occurred to her what it was.

Harriet acted instantly.

"Down!" she cried sharply. "Under the cots! Quick! Do as I tell you! Tommy! Are you under?"

"Yeth. Oh, thave me!" came a muffled voice that seemed to be under the floor of the tent.

Patricia and Cora, recognizing that Harriet had some well defined plan in mind, obeyed her without the slightest hesitation. They threw themselves on the floor hastily crawling under the cots. Then Harriet Burrell made a sudden dive. She was standing several feet from her own bed. The dive sent her sliding underneath the nearest cot. Her progress was stopped by the body of one of her companions.

She had sought cover none too soon. The most terrific crashing that any of those girls ever had listened to, filled the air. Above the uproar was heard faintly the scream of a girl somewhere outside the tent. Then the blow fell, a mighty, crushing blow that seemed to set the universe all a tremble.



Chapter XX

The Fall Of A Forest King


"Thave me!" moaned the unhappy Tommy, but her voice was lost in the volume of sound that fairly overwhelmed the occupants of the tent.

Almost at the instant that the first alarm had reached her ears, Harriet Burrell recognized the nature of the sound. She had heard it before though in a lesser degree. A tree was falling. She remembered a tall aged pine that stood a short distance to the south of the tent. Between the tree and the tent was a fairly open space, that was filled principally with saplings and scrub undergrowth. Harriet in that moment understood, she thought, that the heavy downpour of rain had weakened the hold of the aged roots of the tree in the ground. The heavy wind blowing against the old pine had been too much for the weakened roots. The tree was falling with mighty crashings and reports that sounded like the explosions of firearms.

To run, Harriet believed might be attended with serious consequences to them, for the long limbs of the tree were penetrating the tent roof before she had fairly gotten her companions underneath the cots. The tent was swept down as Harriet was diving under the bed. She realized that if the full force of the trunk fell on the cots nothing could save the girls beneath them. Still, Harriet did not believe the tree could fall so flat as that. Its limbs, she thought, would support its trunk, keeping the latter from falling flat on the ground.

Her three companions screamed with terror. Harriet was silent. She was listening to the terrifying sounds, straining every nerve to the task, fully expecting to be blotted out of existence at any second. She felt the first result of the falling tent when a flood of water that had rained down on the tent floor splashed into her face and over her body. Everything seemed to cave in. Some of the larger limbs of the tree struck the floor of the tent so close to the cots that the girls under them were paralyzed with fear for a few awful seconds.

It seemed to them that the crashings and crunchings never would cease. But they finally did. The girls then realized that the air was close and that it was insufferably hot where they were.

"Is -- is it all over?" gasped Cora.

"Yes, I hope so," answered Harriet in a matter of fact voice.

"Wha-at was it?" questioned Patricia in a smothered tone.

"The old pine tree fell. It was fortunate for us that we were in the centre of the tent, for the trunk of the tree is kept from us by the branches that are resting in the tent and on the ground at each side. But girls, we must get out of here. Is any one of you hurt?"

The girls replied in the negative. How to get free of the tent was a problem. The canvas roof was drawn taut over their haven of safety. The air in their strange prison was getting very close.

"Oh, let's get out of this awful place," moaned Cora.

"We must wait a little," answered Harriet. "You lie perfectly still. I will try to get some fresh air in here. Oh, I wish I had a knife," she added as her groping hands came in contact with the canvas over which she was searching for some little opening into which she could insert a finger and tear the canvas. A moment later Harriet uttered a glad little exclamation. She had found the opening that she was searching for. She ripped the canvas after great effort, for the cloth was tough. Then to her dismay she found a great fold of the canvas on the other side of the opening thus made. All her labor had been fruitless.

Harriet raised her voice in a shout for assistance. The cry was muffled and could not possibly have reached far. Their positions were growing more and more desperate. Harriet Burrell's three companions were so firmly held by the weight of the cots over them, that they were barely able to move. Harriet being near the edge of the heap had a little more freedom. Of this she was taking full advantage, wriggling desperately to enlarge the space about her, seeking here and there for an opening through which she might crawl in order to make a way for her companions, who were now crying hysterically. Patricia, however, was more calm than any of the others save Harriet herself.

All at once, the girl became conscious of a confused murmur of voices that seemed to come from some distance away. She shouted again and again. At last her calls were answered.

"Help is coming, girls," she cried in an encouraging voice. "Keep up your courage."

"H-a-r-r-i-e-t?" wailed a voice. "Are you there?"

"Yes, Jane."

Then she heard the voices of Hazel and Margery. The latter two were half crazed with fear for Harriet. The next time Jane cried out she was nearer to the imprisoned girls.

"Call to me, darlin', so that I may know where you are," she shouted.

"We are right in the middle of the heap under the tent," answered Harriet. "None of us is hurt. Is any one else hurt?"

"One girl was badly bruised. But oh, this is too bad. I'm coming. No, I can't get any closer. What shall I do?" wailed Jane.

"Get something to cut away this canvas as soon as you can get to it. We are smothering," returned Harriet.

"Jasper is going to cut the limbs of the tree away," answered Jane.

"No, no, no!" shouted Harriet. "He must not do that He will have the trunk down on us and then we shall all be crushed. Have him try to reach us by cutting away only the smaller branches of the tree, but don't let him cut off any of the larger limbs. Tell him to hurry for we shall soon smother in here. Watch him, Jane, to see that he doesn't do anything to increase our danger."

"I'll watch him, my darling" returned Jane. "Oh, what a mess! What a mess!"

Mrs. Livingston had caused the general alarm to be sounded, guardians being ordered to have every available lamp in the camp lighted and brought to the scene. Jane's, however, was the commanding force. Carrying a lantern she took the directing of the rescue into her own hands, ordering Jasper and the girls much as her father in other days had bossed gangs of men.

First of all the canvas of the tent was cut near to where the four girls lay. Then at Jane's suggestion the smaller branches of the tree were carefully cut away about them to give room for the work of assisting the four girls from their perilous position. By this time Jane and Harriet were exchanging humorous little remarks, keeping up a running fire of comment and trying to make light of their dangerous predicament. Cora and Tommy were trembling so that when they did speak, their words were scarcely intelligible to the girl who was coming to their rescue. Patricia, however, was silent.

"That's enough, Jasper," commanded Jane at last. "Now hold the lantern."

All at once there was an ominous creaking and snapping directly above where they lay.

"I'm being crushed!" screamed Cora.

Harriet had heard the sound. She knew the meaning of it, too. Some part of the tree was settling over the cots as the result of Jasper's efforts to reach the imprisoned girls. Harriet Burrell's mind worked rapidly. She turned as quickly as she was able until she lay at right angles to the cots and wholly beneath them with her head inward, her feet toward the spot where Jasper and Jane were working feverishly to reach the girls.

"I don't know that I can do it, but I can try," muttered Harriet. She was barely able to breathe. "Hurry!" she called. "We can't stand it much longer." The girl braced herself, arched her back and stiffened her muscles. To her joy, she found herself able to raise the cots a trifle. The weight that had last crushed them down, was not so great but that she could raise it, though when she desisted from her efforts the weight above, held her down firmly across the bodies of two of her companions.

"Here we are darlin's," came the welcome voice of Crazy Jane close at hand. "Hurry, now. This old house may tumble in again."

"Tell me when you are ready. Help Patricia out first. I'll lift the cots while you pull her out. All ready?"

"Yes."

Harriet threw all her strength into the task of raising the cots, underneath which she had burrowed. Patricia was quickly dragged out. The cots sagged under the weight that bore them down and Harriet Burrell sagged under the weight of both.

"Cora! Be quick!" she gasped.

"I -- I can't move."

Harriet put forth a greater effort of strength. Cora Kidder was dragged out from under the cots gasping. Then came Tommy more dead than alive, uttering frightened little moans. Harriet suddenly collapsed under the weight she had been holding up, her three companions in the meantime being on their way to safety.

Jane heard the crackling of the limbs of the tree and the snap of a brace on a cot. Her frantic calls to Harriet were unanswered. Crazy Jane knew that Harriet Burrell was in mortal danger.

Jasper was still holding the lantern, just outside the danger line, so that Jane was now working in the dark. Making her way to the pile of cots she groped helplessly about, her hands at length coming in contact with Harriet's feet. Five seconds later Jane was bending all her energies to the work of raising the cot from the body of her friend. It was useless -- Harriet was pinned down under the weight of the tree pressing upon the cot.

"Jasper, where are you?" cried Jane.

"I'm holding the lantern out here."

"Bring it nearer, you wooden Indian!" cried the girl indignantly.

Jasper obeyed with alacrity, holding the lantern as close to where Jane worked as was possible.

Jane made one more frantic effort to raise the cot, then finding it useless she clambered back to where Jasper stood peering anxiously at the fallen tent. Glancing hastily about, she instantly formed her plan for rescuing Harriet.

Seizing one of the side poles of the tent she ran one end of it under the cot; then bracing her shoulder against it, used it as a lever in the endeavor to pry the weight off her friend. The pole broke in the middle.

Nothing daunted, she placed the two broken ends of it together under the cot, and thus doubling their strength, she shouted excitedly to Jasper:

"Take hold, you owl-faced sleepy-head!"

Jasper did so, and with difficulty elevated the cot a few inches above the body of Harriet.

But that was enough! Like a flash Jane bent down and dragged Harriet from her perilous position and out into the open air.

Harriet lay on the wet ground gasping for breath. She was completely exhausted. Her hair was a tangled mass, her face was scratched and bloody, her wrapper was badly torn.

"Get away from here!" commanded Crazy Jane, turning on Jasper almost savagely, and Jasper lost no time in obeying her. "Are you much hurt, darlin'?" she begged grasping one of Harriet's hands in both her own.

"Oh! Wa -- ait till I ge -- t my breath," gasped Harriet.

"Take your time. Oh, I'm so glad. I thought I'd never get you out."

Harriet roused herself.


"Is Harriet all right?" cried the anxious voice of Hazel Holland.

"Yes, she is, but don't you bother her," warned Jane. "She's all in."

"I -- I'll be all ri -- ight Don't worry," gasped Harriet.

She struggled to a sitting posture. Then her head drooped forward. Her arms fell limply at her sides, and with a little moan Harriet toppled over, unconscious.



Chapter XXI

A Day Of Excitement


"Get back!" commanded Crazy Jane, pushing a crowd of girls away. "Do you want to smother the poor child?"

"We must get her into one of the tents," declared Mrs. Livingston.

"Wait till she comes to," answered Jane, turning Harriet over on her back so that the rain, which was falling in a fine drizzle now, might beat on the face of the unconscious girl.

Now Harriet began to move her head from side to side to avoid the drizzle that was beating into her face. Soon her eyelids began to quiver. Her breathing became stronger. Mrs. Livingston was kneeling beside her, chafing the girl's hands and smoothing back the tangled hair from her white forehead.

"I think she should be carried in to one of the tents now," said the Chief Guardian.

"Sure," agreed Jane, gathering Harriet into her arms and staggering away. She shook her head vehemently as half a dozen girls sprang forward to help her with her burden.

Harriet struggled from the friendly arms of Jane.

"I -- I can walk," she said weakly. Jane threw an arm about her waist and led her into the nearest tent, followed by Mrs. Livingston and more than twenty Camp Girls.

"You had better all go to your tents, dry yourselves and get into bed," advised the Chief Guardian. "We don't want any of our Camp Girls to become ill, you know. Miss Burrell will be all right now, I think."

The Camp Girls obeyed reluctantly, though Harriet's chums asked and received permission to remain with their fellow Meadow-Brook girl. Upon entering the tent Jane saw the tousled head of Patricia Scott above the blankets of another girl's col Patricia had crawled into the first cot she came to.

"Get up, young lady, and give Harriet a chance," ordered Jane.

Patricia merely stared, then her black eyes snapped. She made no move to rise. Crazy Jane did not repeat her order. Instead she strode up to the cot, grasped the edge of it and turned it over. Patricia went sprawling.

Harriet had sat down heavily on the floor of the tent as soon as her friend released her. Jane patted down the quilts and stepping over to her companion assisted her to the suddenly vacated cot.

"Get in, honey," smiled Jane.

Patricia had scrambled to her feet, her eyes snapping menacingly, her hands clenched so tightly as to show white ridges at the knuckles. Then she caught sight of the Chief Guardian about to enter the tent and brought up abruptly in her charge on Crazy Jane who had not deigned to look at Patricia after dumping her out of the cot.

"You may go to my quarters and lie down, Miss Scott," ordered Mrs. Livingston. "The rest of you may do the same when you feel equal to it."

Patricia flung herself out of the tent angrily. Cora remained a few moments, acting as though she wanted to say something. However, instead of doing so she finally followed Patricia and went through the rain to Mrs. Livingston's tent.

"Ith -- ith Harriet better now?" questioned Tommy in a hesitating voice.

"Yes, dear, we hope so. She will be as well as ever by to-morrow morning. Miss McCarthy, do you know what she did to save those girls?"

"No, Mrs. Livingston, I don't know. She saved them all right. That's as much as I care to know. Has any one a wrapper? Harriet is soaking wet."

Hazel and Margery immediately began rummaging in the tent. They failed to find a kimono or dressing gown, because the girls who occupied the tent were wearing their own. Mrs. Livingston thereat, removed Harriet's torn, dressing gown, wrapping her in dry blankets, Harriet protesting all the time that she was not in need of all these attentions. One of the regular occupants of the tent was sent to another tent where she slept on the floor for the rest of the night. She had offered no objection to giving up her bed, nor would she have done so had she found Patricia there, as Patricia Scott well knew. Jane declared that she would not leave Harriet.

In the meantime, Miss Partridge, who now was Mrs. Livingston's Chief Assistant, was making hot tea for the girls who had been caught under the falling tree. Mrs. Livingston remained with Harriet for a little time, leaving soon after Miss Partridge came in with the tea. Shortly after that she might have been seen, enveloped in a hooded raincoat tramping about the camp with Jasper, examining the trees to learn if there was further danger from any of them. Having satisfied herself on this point and making a final round of the tents to see that her girls were all comfortably settled for the night, Mrs. Livingston returned to her own tent.

Morning dawned bright and beautiful after the storm. It was not until then that the Camp Girls realized what a narrow escape Harriet Burrell and the three other girls had had. There was nothing to be seen of the tent save here and there a white patch of canvas observable under the mass of limbs and foliage. Jasper was at work stoically chopping away, both for the sake of clearing up the mess and providing some excellent wood for the campfire. After dinner enough of the wreckage was cleared away so that the girls were able to catch a glimpse of the four cots drawn up close together, though they were now crushed down and lay in confusion on the floor of the tent.

Harriet had gotten up shortly after the usual hour. Her eyes were bright, but her face showed the effect of the trial through which she had passed. It still bore scratches. The girl was so lame that every step she took gave her pain and her back was so stiff that she stooped considerably when walking. Mrs. Livingston had tried to get the story of Harriet's saving of their lives from the three girls. Patricia and Cora were uncommunicative. Tommy had no very clear idea of what had occurred, except that she "wath thmothered almotht to death." But Mrs. Livingston was not to be put off so easily. She found an opportunity to speak with Harriet early in the afternoon. The first question she asked was why the cots had been placed in the middle of the tent floor.

Harriet smiled as she told the Guardian that they had been dragged there so that their occupants might escape the rain.

"What followed?" urged Mrs. Livingston.

"Everything happened. It seemed as if we were being slowly crushed to death. Then Jane and Jasper came to the rescue."

"How did you get such a lame back?" asked the Chief Guardian suddenly.

"I think it was trying to lift the cots," answered Harriet, then she blushed. "I mean when the cots --  -- "

"I understand," smiled the Guardian. "You held up the cots so that your companions might not be crushed."

"I had to do so," admitted Harriet. "But it was no more than I should have done. You see the branches suddenly began pressing down on the cots pinning the girls underneath them. I knew they never could get out if the whole weight of the tree once settled down on them. Jane was near at hand. I knew she would reach us in a very few moments. It was nothing, Mrs. Livingston. I didn't wish to speak of it. Please don't say anything to the girls about it unless you wish to embarrass me," added Harriet, laughing. "I have been more conspicuous already than I like. You see they have not forgotten the soapy soup."

"Nor have I," answered the guardian with a quick compression of her lips. "That affair is being investigated, though I have now little hope of fixing upon the guilty person. Perhaps this interruption may bring out something however. That makes two mysteries for us to clear up. First the hazing, then the incident of the consommé. There are one or more guilty girls in this camp who must be found and dismissed. I am determined upon that. Now about your sleeping quarters."

"Oh, yes, I was going to speak with you about that."

"The only tent we have is a small A tent with room enough for two persons. Do you think you can get along with that, allowing one other girl to share the tent with you, say for instance, Miss Kidder?"

"Oh, yes. But I rather thought I should like to sleep out of doors for a few nights. May I?"

"If you think you are well enough. I would suggest that you place your bed near the tent that we shall erect this afternoon, then if you wish to go inside you will not have far to go. Why do you wish to sleep out of doors?"

"I thought I should like to try for the 'honor' for sleeping out doors for five consecutive nights."

"Oh, yes. That reminds me. You have some 'honors' coming to you as it is. At dinner this evening I shall have something to say that undoubtedly will please you. But we have a visitor. I must leave you."

The visitor was none other than Charlie Collier. He was alone and was shaking hands with Cora when Harriet first caught sight of him. Harriet Burrell's face assumed a thoughtful expression as she looked the young man over. She had no particular fault to find with his appearance, but the conversation she had overheard between Cora and Patricia outside the tent, instantly recurred to Harriet. Mr. Collier was undoubtedly there to get his answer regarding Cora's accompanying him to the dance at "The Pines."

"Oh, I hope she doesn't do anything so foolish," thought Harriet.

The guest was soon chatting with Mrs. Livingston, then after having paid his respects to her, he walked with Cora, greeting the other girls to whom he had been introduced on his previous visit. He glanced at Harriet and she was positive that he asked some question of his companion concerning her, for Cora turned quickly toward Harriet, then seeing she was observed, shifted her glance.

"I wish she would introduce me. I know I could very easily spoil her little plan," thought Harriet. However, she was not asked to meet Mr. Collier. Very shortly afterwards, he bade the girls good-bye, saying that he must be getting on as he was to have an active part in the preparations for the dance at "The Pines" that evening. More than one girl in camp wished that she might be numbered among those who were going to dance at "The Pines."

Jane came running up to Harriet saying that Mrs. Livingston had said Jasper was to fix whatever sort of a bed Harriet wished. Jane suggested that they bring a cot out from one of the tents, and build a roof over it.

"That isn't the kind of bed I am going to sleep on," answered Harriet, glancing up brightly. "Did you ever see a woodsman's bed?"

"Gracious, no!" exclaimed Crazy Jane. "What sort of a freak is it?"

"There comes Jasper. I will tell him what I want. He doesn't look particularly happy, does he!"

Harriet told Jasper to cut two six-inch tree trunks and fetch them to the site of the new tent. He brought some that had already been cut for a Council Fire. Harriet directed him to place them on a level piece of ground, parallel to each other and about four feet apart.

"Now bring me all the pine boughs you can get. I shall need a lot of them," said Harriet brightly.

Jane herself carried a great many of these boughs to the spot. Harriet broke them off to a length to suit her, after which she began sticking the boughs in the soft earth, tops uppermost. Armful after armful was disposed of in this manner until a fragrant green mound had been built up. On top of this when she could find no more room to stick the sharp ends of the boughs, the girl laid other boughs, being careful not to leave any sharp ends projecting.

"Now, Jasper, if you will bring me my mattress, we will try the bed," she said after completing and surveying her work critically.

Jasper did as she requested, for Harriet's lame back would not permit of her lifting anything of weight. The mattress was placed on top of the heap. Harriet pointed to it, nodding brightly to Crazy Jane.

"Try it, dear," she said.

By this time quite a crowd of girls had gathered about Harriet to watch the making of the bed, never having seen anything of the kind before. Jane very cautiously placed herself on the new bed. To her amazement it did not break down with her. Instead she seemed to be lying on fragrant air. Jane uttered a little cry of delight.

"How do you like it?" chuckled Harriet.

"Oh, girls this is simply great. I could just die on this bed."

"Please don't. I want to sleep on it to-night," answered Harriet laughingly. "I didn't make it for you to pass your last moments on. I made it to sleep on and I propose to have a real sleep there this very night."

However, as a matter of fact, Harriet Burrell was not destined to enjoy her night's rest on the bed of pine boughs.

On the contrary she was destined to pass a most miserable night, in this her first sleep in the open.



Chapter XXII

Slumbers Rudely Disturbed


"Miss Burrell, are you going to sleep outside to-night?" It was the first time Patricia Scott had addressed Harriet in some days.

"Yes, if the weather remains clear," returned Harriet.

"I should like to occupy the other cot in your tent. I wish to be near my friend."

It will be remembered that since the night of the storm, Harriet had been sleeping in a small A tent, in which there were but two cots -- one of them occupied by Cora.

"You may occupy it as long as you wish, Miss Scott," replied Harriet cordially. "I shall be out here for five nights at least and perhaps longer unless a storm should come up. If it does storm I'll run in and bunk on the floor."

"Thank you." Patricia turned away with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes that Harriet Burrell did not see. Harriet remained a few moments to finish making her bed so that she need not return to her bunk until the hour for "lights out" had arrived. Patricia had gone to the cook tent before Harriet started for there. Harriet thrust her head into her tent to see if Cora were there. She saw the girl lying on the cot wearing a kimono.

"Aren't you coming to dinner?" inquired Harriet.

"No, I don't feel very well, thank you," answered Cora Kidder indifferently.

"Shall I bring you something to eat!"

"No, thank you. You are very kind."

Harriet noted that the girl's cheeks were flushed and her eyes very bright and her first thought was that Cora had a fever. At the dinner table Patricia reported that Cora was not feeling well and that she would not be in to dinner. Mrs. Livingston thoughtfully inquired whether the young woman wished a tray of food carried to her tent.

"I offered to take her something, but she said she did not care for anything to eat," spoke up Harriet.

Patricia shot a peculiar look at her, but Harriet chanced to be looking toward Mrs. Livingston at the moment.

Immediately after dinner Mrs. Livingston hurried over to Cora's tent to see if the girl needed attention. Cora said she was not ill, but just a little nervous after the excitement through which she had passed.

"Then get a good rest, my dear," urged Mrs. Livingston. "You may take late sleep leave to-morrow morning if you wish. Miss Scott may bring you a tray. You need not get out of bed."

Cora, muttered some unintelligible word of thanks to the Chief Guardian who immediately left the tent to attend to other duties. Instead of making the announcement that she had promised for the dinner hour, Mrs. Livingston later in the evening visited the campfire about which the greater part of the camp had assembled and there she told the girls what she had to say. It was in reference to what had occurred on the previous evening.

"I take pleasure, young ladies," she said, "in informing you that for heroic conduct in the face of great peril, Miss Harriet Burrell has been awarded five honors. She will add five more beads to her string to-morrow."

Harriet blushed.

"How much doeth thhe get for the thoup?" interjected Tommy, which sent the girls into screams of merriment.

Mrs. Livingston smiled tolerantly.

"And our new Camp Girl, Miss Jane McCarthy for distinguished services, which also undoubtedly saved four girls from serious even if not fatal results, also will increase her string of beads by five."

"What, five wooden beads all in a bunch!" demanded Jane.

"Yes."

"Hurrah! I'd rather have them than a rope of pearls and I'm just daffy over those things. I've got a string of them at home that would make your head whirl, Mrs. Livingston. Come over to Meadow-Brook and I'll show them to you."

"Miss McCarthy, try to choose your words more carefully. Slang also should be avoided."

"Slang? Why I cut out slang two years ago," exclaimed the girl, earnestly.

It was not long afterwards that the girls began moving toward their sleeping quarters. Jane accompanied Harriet with a hand resting gently on her shoulder, both girls pausing at the entrance to the tent, the interior of which was in darkness. Patricia already was in bed, an early hour for her to retire, Harriet thought. Cora appeared to be sleeping, too, though there was no sound of breathing from her cot.

Harriet undressed, keeping very quiet so as not to awaken the sleepers, then putting on her wrapper and her slippers ran out to her bed of pine boughs and tucked herself in.

"Oh, this is heavenly!" breathed Harriet.

The Meadow-Brook girl did not know when she went to sleep. Slumber stole over her unawares. Her sudden awakening however was both startling and abrupt.

Without moving, Harriet lay still, though a thrill had run through her. She knew the reason for that thrill. A distinct growl had brought her wide-awake.

"Mercy! What is it?" she breathed, looking from side to side without making a movement that would cause the slightest sound.

A faint scratching noise to the right of her attracted her attention in that direction. The shadows were deep on that side. Harriet at first was able to make out nothing there, but she knew something was at work close by and believed it to be some sort of an animal. Most girls would have screamed under similar conditions. Harriet Burrell did not. She lay perfectly still listening, with every faculty on the alert.

The scratching stopped instantly she had moved a little to get a better view of the spot where she had heard the noise. Now came heavy breathing.

"What can it be?" whispered the girl. "I -- I wish I had my shoes on -- no I don't, I shouldn't ran if I had. But I'll see if I can Blip my slippers on in case I do have to run," she decided wisely.

The first movement toward putting on the slippers, which lay on the cot within easy reach of her hand, caused a commotion in the shadows. There was a sudden movement, a half growl, then silence.

Harriet lay absolutely motionless. Her breathing was scarcely perceptible. Some animal lurched out of the shadows and for a moment stood with ears pricked up. It was almost between the girl and the campfire.

"Oh, pshaw! It's a big dog," she said aloud. She did not stop to consider that it would be rather unusual to find a dog prowling about their camp so far from all human habitation. Her words, however, appeared to have a most startling effect on the "dog." The animal suddenly gathered itself into a ball and leaped swiftly away, halting not more than twenty feet from where Harriet Burrell lay. Then she saw that which sent a fresh thrill through her.

The animal was now standing squarely between herself and the campfire, giving the girl a clear outline view of it. She saw with wide-open eyes that it was not a dog.

"A bear!" she gasped.

Harriet uttered a shrill scream that was heard all over the camp. It was not exactly a cry of fear. Rather was it intended to arouse the camp. The scream served the purpose. It aroused the camp. Likewise did it arouse Mr. Bruin. The bear started away at first at a swift amble which had increased to a gallop by the time Harriet had drawn on her slippers and leaped from the cot.

Without thought of fear the girl ran stumbling along after the galloping beast. Guardians and girls were rushing from the tents on all sides, crying out to know what had happened. They saw Harriet running, before they caught sight of the strange beast that was making such strenuous efforts to get away. When they did catch sight of Mr. Bruin as he dashed past the fire, there was a chorus of shrieks that not only awakened Jasper whose tent was some distance further to the north than the last tent of the row occupied by the girls, but brought him out without his boots on. Jasper was no coward. He was more afraid of the Camp Girls than of any animal that inhabited the Pocono Woods. Armed with an axe Jasper, his whiskers standing out almost at right angles to his body, charged on the camp. He had no idea what had occurred, but he knew it must be something very serious to cause the frightful uproar that now came from all sides.

Harriet continued right on. The bear, seeing the girls ahead of him, and being frightened by their screams, turned tail and took the back trail. By that time Harriet had reached the fire. She snatched up a burning brand. She was upon the bear before it realized its peril. Harriet seeing it so close to her thought the bear was chasing her. She struck out with the burning fagot with all the force of a muscular arm. The burning stick hit the bear on the nose.

A frightful howl of pain followed. Harriet leaped back amazed at her own courage. Perhaps some of it was impulse. She decided next day that it must have been that. Then a new sound reached her ears.

"Oh, mercy on us! Trouble, trouble!" yelled Crazy Jane. With one rung from a broken chair that Jane had picked up and tucked under her cot for emergencies, she came charging down the street just in time to see Harriet give Mr. Bruin the rap on the nose. It was then she uttered the exclamation that Harriet heard.

Jane was rushing toward the bear from the rear, while Harriet was also attacking it from the rear, while Jasper stood some distance from the nearest girl, which in this case was Crazy Jane. Guardians were crying out to Harriet and Jane to run. They did run, toward the intruder, rather than away from the beast. Bruin became confused. He was a young bear. An older or more wary animal might not have ventured into the camp where it knew there were human beings as this bear's scent surely must have told it. Perhaps it scented something good to eat. It was in a panic at the present moment and went into a worse one after a rap from the hard wood chair rung in the hands of Crazy Jane McCarthy. Jane was doing a great deal of shouting, too. The two girls continued to chase the beast around the campfire. Jasper was bearing down on them, having discovered where the trouble lay.

"Run, you kids! It's a b'ar!" he yelled. "No, hold him till I git thar."

"Yes, we'll hold him," flung back Jane.

Just at this moment Harriet struck the bear's hip with the torch. There was a sizzle of hair. Uttering a terrifying growl of fright Bruin suddenly straightened out and took the direct trail for the stream.

"Hold him! I told ye to hold him!" roared Jasper.

"Oh, listen to the man!" gasped Jane.

Jasper seeing that the beast was going to cross the stream, ran on an oblique line hoping to head the animal off. In his excitement he hurled his axe through the air, the tool falling short of its mark by several yards.

Harriet Burrell was still on the trail, her slippers left behind her, her bare feet scarcely touching the ground.

"Look out for the creek!" shouted Jasper.

Harriet in her excitement did not heed what he was saying. The bear, after a brief hesitation on the bank before jumping, landed in the creek with a splash. Then a few seconds later there came a second splash. Harriet uttered a little cry of alarm as she felt herself going into the creek and cried out again when the cold water enveloped her.

By this time the bear was scrambling up the opposite bank. A few seconds later he was leaping into the depths of the forest, his back humped, looking in the half light like a great round black ball.

Jane hearing the splashes knew instantly what had occurred to both the bear and Harriet. She also knew that she was going to land in the creek, too. With quick presence of mind Crazy Jane threw herself on her back and went slipping and sliding into the stream feet first. She landed with a splash, and sat down heavily on the bottom of the stream.



Chapter XXIII

Harriet's Grave Mistake


"Is that you, Jane?" cried Harriet, splashing toward the spot where the third splash had been heard.

Jane gazed about her in comical dismay.

"Oh, what a mess! A frisky gasoline buggy never stirred up so much trouble for a poor girl. Where is he?" she asked.

"Lost in the woods," answered Harriet, laughing as she swam toward her companion. "Get out of the water."

"I'm going to. Is it over my head?"

"I guess not unless you lie down flat in it. Oh, Jasper! Please lend a hand to Miss McCarthy. The bank is steep."

"Girls! are you crazy!" It was the voice of the Chief Guardian that greeted the two as they emerged from the water.

"No, Mrs. Livingston, but the bear is," chuckled Jane.

"That b'ar never'll show up around these parts again," averred Jasper.

"Come to my quarters, girls," commanded Miss Partridge, suddenly discovering that both girls were wet and shivering. After dry wrappers had been furnished them, they returned to their own tents, Harriet to resume her outdoor nap which had been interrupted by the visiting bear. Harriet first entered her tent to get another blanket. She struck a match to assist her in finding it Patricia lay in bed wide awake. She was regarding Harriet angrily.

"Hasn't Miss Kidder come in yet?" asked Harriet, observing that Cora's cot was unoccupied.

"You don't see her, do you?"

"No."

"Then she hasn't."

"Thank you," answered Harriet sweetly, blowing out the light and going out. She was smiling an amused smile at the snappiness of Patricia Scott. She puzzled a little over the fact that Cora had not yet come in. However, the camp had been so upset that many of the girls were still talking in their darkened tents, unable to go to sleep. It was possible that Cora might still be visiting somewhere on the grounds. Harriet did at that moment recall the conversation that she had recently overheard between Patricia and Cora. She was exhausted after her bear hunt and dropped off to sleep quickly after getting into bed.

In the morning Harriet ran into the tent to wash and dress. Patricia yawned, then turned over without opening her eyes. Harriet glanced quickly at Cora Kidder's cot. The clothes had been tumbled about and the pillow patted down, but Harriet saw instantly that the bed had not been slept in that night. Then all at once a thought came to Harriet. Cora had gone to the dance at "The Pines" with Mr. Collier. She had not returned, though it was now broad daylight. The thought made Harriet Burrell gasp. If the Chief Guardian were to know of this, the girl would be dismissed in disgrace for flagrant disobedience of camp regulations. A great wave of pity for the lawless girl welled up in Harriet's heart. It made her very unhappy. The young Meadow-Brook girl went about her dressing almost without realizing what she was doing. She walked to the cook tent in much the same frame of mind. Her companions noted her abstraction and commented upon it. They joked with her about her midnight chase after a bear. Harriet scarcely smiled, though she tried to hide her unhappiness that morning.

"Where is Miss Kidder?" asked Miss Partridge as they were seating themselves at the table.

"She was not feeling quite well last evening," explained the Chief Guardian. "She did not come in to dinner. I told her to take a late sleep this morning. How is Miss Kidder feeling this morning, Miss Burrell?"

"I -- I don't know," stammered Harriet.

"She is not coming in to breakfast, then?"

"I -- I be -- lieve not."

Harriet's heart was thumping wildly. It seemed to her that a great gulf yawned before her and that she was about to plunge into it. Mrs. Livingston was speaking again. Her voice sounded far away to Harriet.

"Will you take a breakfast tray to her when you return to your tent, Miss Burrell?" asked the Chief Guardian.

"I will take it to the tent, Mrs. Livingston," faltered Harriet.

"If Miss Kidder is not feeling well this morning, kindly come and tell me. I will see her myself."

"Very well," hastily answered the girl.

Glancing up she saw Miss Partridge's gaze fixed inquiringly upon her. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over Harriet. She realized what she had done. She wanted to scream out that she had deceived them. A look of terror leaped into her eyes. Miss Partridge saw the expression, as did Miss Elting from the other end of the table. It was quite evident that none of the guardians knew that Patricia Scott had slept in Harriet's tent that night. Harriet glancing quickly at Patricia saw that she was sitting with eyes fixed on her plate calmly eating her breakfast. There was a half smile on the lips of Patricia. For the moment Harriet was filled with anger. Anger again gave place to horror over her deception.

Miss Partridge was still looking at Harriet with a pained expression in her eyes.

"Oh, she suspects me," thought Harriet. "What shall I do?"

After breakfast the girl summoned all her will to her aid, waited calmly until the tray for Cora had been prepared, then with trembling hands carried it to her tent. Just before reaching her quarters Harriet saw a slim figure clad in a raincoat with head completely enveloped by a hood dart into the tent. And when Harriet stepped inside, there was Cora tucked under the quilts apparently asleep.

"Oh!" Harriet gave a little cry of amazement. She wondered for the moment if she had been dreaming, if Cora had not been there all the time. Harriet then recalled that a moment before she had seen some one entering her quarters from the rear of the tent. A bit of sleeve observable at the edge of the blanket told her that Cora was fully dressed, not in her uniform but in a blue evening gown that Harriet had seen among Miss Kidder's personal effects.

"Why did you wake me up?" demanded Cora petulantly, opening her eyes.

"I beg your pardon," answered Harriet coldly. "Here is a tray that Mrs. Livingston asked me to take to you."

"Put it on the chair. I wish you would go out and leave me. I don't feel like talking. If any girl comes here ask her to stay out of the tent for the next half hour. I'm going to get up and dress soon."

Harriet set the tray down and walked from the tent. Her heart was heavy on account of the deception she had practised. Her pride had been wounded, too. Did Cora Kidder think her so stupid as not to know what had been going on? Then the next thought was one of remorse that she had deceived Miss Partridge and Mrs. Livingston.

"My offense is as great as theirs," accused Harriet.

At that juncture her attention was attracted to a girl running toward her. It was Crazy Jane. Harriet walked away from the tent. Jane came up with her a few yards further on.

"Harriet, what is the matter?" she demanded, bending a keen glance into the face of Harriet Burrell.

"Oh, Jane. I'm so unhappy," replied Harriet sadly.

"Tell me all about it darling" begged Jane soothingly, linking an arm within that of her companion, leading her farther into the woods.

"Oh, yes, I will tell you. I must tell you. I am bursting, I shall go mad if I do not tell some one. But Jane, you must keep secret what I tell you. You must promise me that."

"If it's your secret, I'll promise. If it isn't, I won't promise."

Harriet regarded her companion steadily for a moment.

"I must tell you," she whispered. Then, haltingly, at first, Harriet told Jane that Cora Kidder had slipped away in the night and gone to the dance at "The Pines." There could be no doubt of it. Jane learned from Harriet of the conversation that she had overheard, was reminded of the visit of Mr. Collier the day before and was made acquainted with Cora's return to the tent while the Camp Girls were at their breakfast, a time when one might be certain of finding the camp clear of prying eyes.

Jane's face wore a serious expression.

"You say his sister went with them?"

"That was the plan. But, oh, Jane, I am suspected of treachery. I know Miss Partridge and Miss Elting suspected that I was deceiving them this morning. I didn't mean to, but I just couldn't see Cora disgraced and sent home. Don't you see what it would have meant to her?"

Jane regarded her thoughtfully.

"Cora doesn't like you, Harriet. She and Patricia are your enemies, but I don't know why. I have wondered if those two girls didn't have something to do with that soup affair. Do you know that Cora came into the cook tent from the front just as you sat down that night?"

"Yes, I know she did. She helped to haze me that night too. And -- and -- oh, Jane, don't betray her, but I overheard Cora and Patricia talking the other night. Words were dropped that left no doubt in my mind that Cora had done that awful thing."

"Spoiling the soup?"

"Yes."

"The miserable sneak!" exploded Jane. "Let me tell her!" Jane sprang up. Her face was flushed, her eyes snapping.

"Oh, no, no, no! She isn't to blame. It is Patricia, who is so vengeful, and Cora is so weak. She has been influenced by the other girl. Oh, you mustn't, you mustn't say a word to her! Promise me that you will not."

"I'd like to tell her what I think of her," breathed Jane in a low, tense voice, shaking a clenched first "Oh, wouldn't I like to."

"You must keep out of it. I must suffer for my deception. Oh, Jane, I can't stay here after this. I never shall be able to look any of them in the face after this. Go away now and let me think."

Jane left her companion abruptly. On her way back toward the campfire she saw Miss Partridge hurrying to Cora's tent. The Assistant Chief Guardian remained inside but a few moments after which she was seen returning, walking with less haste. Harriet stole into the forest that she might be alone.

Miss Partridge, satisfied that all was well with Cora was puzzling her mind as to what had so disturbed Harriet, when Jane seeing her return, acted upon a sudden impulse and hurried to Cora Kidder's tent. She paused in the doorway. Cora was in her wrapper, looking as if she had just gotten up.

"Well, what do you want?" she demanded, turning on Jane.

"I want to talk with you."

"Please go away and let me alone."

"Where were you last night?" Jane flung the question at her without warning. Cora flushed to the roots of her hair. Jane saw that her hands trembled too.

"Is there no such thing as privacy in this camp?" flared Cora.

"Yes, for those who are entitled to it."

Cora drew herself up, enraged past all endurance.

"Steady there! Steady! I know where you were last night. I know you went to 'The Pines' with that Collier chap. Oh, I know all about it, and what's more, you went with him alone."

"I didn't. His sister was with us. She came back with us, and --  -- "

Crazy Jane threw back her head and laughed softly.

"Thanks, darlin'," she chuckled. "Confession is good for a guilty soul."

"Oh!" gasped Cora Kidder, realizing that she had confessed, that Jane had trapped her into the confession. Then she burst forth angrily.

"It's that hateful Harriet Burrell! I might have known it. She has been spying on me all the time. I hate her! I hate her! Oh, how I hate her! I could claw her eyes out, and --  -- "

"Softly, my darlin', softly!"

"I don't care. I'm going anyway. I'll have Jasper take me to the train to-day. I don't want to stay here with such sneaks following me and spying on everything I do. You're no better than the rest. I suppose she's told Mrs. Livingston, I suppose every girl in the camp knows about it by this time. I haven't done anything of which I'm ashamed."

"Oh, yes, you have," interjected Jane quickly. "Harriet has not told the Chief. Cora Kidder, sit down there and listen to me; listen to the story of the finest bit of loyalty that any girl ever heard."

"I won't! Get out of my tent!"

"Sit down there. Harriet Burrell has not told any one."

"She told you; you know she did!"

"I had to drag it out of her. Then she tried to make me promise I wouldn't tell the Chief Guardian."

"And you will? You'll give me away?"

"You have given yourself away, Cora. Now that I've had it from your own lips I am free to tell whom I please. But I think you are going to tell Mrs. Livingston yourself."

"Never!" with a stamp of the foot.

"Listen! Harriet Burrell deceived them this morning. When they asked her about you she led them to believe that you were sleeping. She was trying to protect you. She did wrong. I shouldn't have done it if you had been as mean to me as you have to her. Oh, my stars! what a girl!"

Cora Kidder opened her eyes. She regarded Crazy Jane wonderingly.

"She knew all the time that you were planning to go to the dance, but she never said a word to any one, though it most broke her precious heart to think you would do such a thing. Last night when she came in here after we had chased the bear, she found you gone. Patricia was mean to her when she asked about you. This morning when she came in to dress, you weren't here. She saw that your bed hadn't been slept in. Then she knew. She was very unhappy. When they asked her about you this morning at breakfast Harriet avoided the questions and gave Mrs. Livingston indirect answers. She even brought a tray to you to keep up the deception. Now do you realize what that means to a girl like Harriet? The moment she gave a second thought to what she had done she was horrified. There isn't a more unhappy girl in the world than Harriet Burrell at this minute."

"Oh!" exclaimed Cora weakly.

"That isn't all. She knows more about you than this, even if this weren't enough."

"What does she know?" demanded Miss Kidder with a violent start, the color leaving her face suddenly.

"She knows you and Patricia were in that hazing affair. Then she knew something worse than that. She knows that you were the one who spoiled the consommé and lost the 'honor' bead for her."

Cora sat down heavily on the edge of the cot. Her eyes were wide with terror.

"She -- she knows?"

"Yes. And I shouldn't be surprised if she knew more. She isn't the girl to tell all she knows. Now, what are you going to do about it, Cora Kidder?"

"Oh, I don't know," moaned the unhappy girl, burying her face in the pillows, her shoulders rising and falling with her smothered sobs.

Jane watched her in silence. There was an expression of compassion in the eyes of Crazy Jane. Finally she rose and stepped softly to the cot. Cora was aroused by a gentle touch on her shoulder.

"Dearie!" murmured Crazy Jane soothingly.

"Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do?" moaned Cora.

"Go straight to Mrs. Livingston and tell her everything. Do not spare yourself, nor Patricia, for she is the one who is to blame. She has been using you to avenge what she thinks are her own private wrongs. Tell it all, and set right that noble girl who has protected you, and who has gotten herself into an awful mess in doing so. Cora will you do it?"

"I can't, I can't," moaned Cora.

"Then I will do it myself," warned Jane, withdrawing her hand sharply.

"No, no, no! Don't! I'll do it. I'll go. I'll tell her everything. I don't care what she does to me. I just can't stand this! Oh, I never thought there were such people in the world! I'll go to Mrs. Livingston to-night, and --  -- "

"Not to-night. Go, now, Cora. You can't tell what might happen between this and to-night."

"Yes, I'll go," was the faint reply. A veil seemed to fall from before the eyes of Cora Kidder. She saw herself as she had never done before, saw her own unworthiness, saw how she had been led to commit acts that were foreign to her real nature. She wondered how she ever could have been so blind. Cora rose and hurriedly began doing up her hair. Jane gave the girl an encouraging pat on the shoulder and slipped from the tent without another word.

"What a mess, oh what a fine mess," muttered Crazy Jane, swinging into a long stride as she started for the other end of the camp.



Chapter XXIV

Conclusion


"Miss Burrell, can you come to my tent?" asked Mrs. Livingston as Harriet was seen slowly returning to camp.

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Livingston, I want to come. I must speak with you." There was an agony of appeal in her voice. "I deceived you. You must know that I did," she burst out after they had reached the Chief Guardian's quarters.

"Sit down, my dear. I know something is wrong. I felt sure you would come to me and tell me all about it. Now calm yourself, and tell me why you are so unhappy."

Harriet did so, explaining as clearly as she could that she had deceived the Chief Guardian that morning in leading her to believe that Cora was in her tent when she was not there at all. Little by little Mrs. Livingston drew from the penitent Harriet her reasons for having led them to believe that Cora was in her tent taking a morning rest after the indisposition of the previous evening. But when the Guardian asked where Cora had been, Harriet begged so piteously to be excused from answering that Mrs. Livingston did not press the question further.

"I will speak with Miss Kidder," she said. "But, my dear, what do you think I should do in your case? You have done very wrong."

"Do with me, Mrs. Livingston. Why -- why, there is only one thing to do -- send me away! I am not worthy of your consideration. Oh, to think that I could do such a thing."

"My poor, dear girl!" said the Guardian tenderly. "You have done wrong, very wrong, but that wrong is tempered with a nobility of soul that is rare, indeed. I suspect more than you think. I have suspected from little things that have developed in my investigation that Miss Kidder and Miss Scott might explain something of the mysterious happenings here that I have no need to mention. I have believed all along that you at least suspected. Am I right, Harriet?"

"Two nights ago I learned something that set me to thinking," answered Harriet weakly. "Oh, you are so good to me! But I couldn't tell you. I just couldn't," moaned Harriet.

"I understand, my dear. I forgive you for your shortcomings. Sometimes one is ennobled by being tried by fire. I shall take this matter up immediately and act promptly."

Harriet left the Chief Guardian's headquarters with a full heart. It was all she could do to keep the tears back So engrossed was she with her own thoughts that she did not observe Cora Bidder at the entrance to the tent. Cora tried to slip in without being seen by any one, but there were too many keen eyes in Camp Wau-Wau to miss anything that promised excitement They saw Harriet too, saw that she was unhappy. Crazy Jane smiled as she noted Cora's entrance to the Chief Guardian's tent.

Cora Kidder remained closeted with Mrs. Livingston for more than an hour. She was weeping when she emerged. Instead of going to her tent she hurried out into the forest, in order to be away from the prying eyes and the questioning of her companions. They saw Patricia summoned to the Guardian's tent, then shortly afterwards they were amazed to see Jasper carrying Miss Scott's belongings up the path that led to the log road. Patricia, with lowered head and downcast eyes, was following a short distance behind him. What could it all mean? There was no answer to their eager questioning. Hazel, Margery and Tommy were searching anxiously for Harriet. They found her just as she was returning to her tent.

"Oh, what is it? What is it?" begged Margery.

"I can't tell you, dears," answered Harriet.

"I have been unhappy, but now I am so happy and so sad. Don't ask me, please don't."

They did not press her further, but they clung closely to her, walking beside her, Tommy clinging to a hand on one side, Margery and Hazel on the other as the four Meadow-Brook Girls walked slowly toward the cook tent. An oppressive silence hovered over the ordinarily merry party as they seated themselves at the tables. Cora sat pale and motionless. Patricia's place was vacant. No sooner had grace been said than Cora rose.

"May I speak, Mrs. Livingston?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Girls," began Cora. "I have a confession to make. I have been a despicable creature." Her voice faltered. For a few seconds she threatened to break down entirely, "I have proven myself unfit to associate with good girls like yourselves. I might never have known what a miserable contemptible girl I was had it not been for one girl who by her beautiful spirit of forgiveness showed me to myself in my true light. It was I who hazed Miss Burrell and Miss Thompson, or who was one of the leaders in that hazing; it was I who spoiled the soup and tucked the soap into the cooking kit of Miss Burrell. Then worse than all I deceived Mrs. Livingston by going to 'The Pines' to the dance last night with Mr. Collier and his sister One girl knew I had gone. She had every reason to hate me as I thought I hated her. But she did not speak. Instead, she protected me. She got herself into difficulties in trying to do so. I might never have known what she had done for me, for she was too noble to speak of it to me, had not Jane McCarthy come to me and told me the whole miserable truth. It was then that I saw my real self for the first time in my life. I went to Mrs. Livingston and told her all. Another girl was sent from the camp, sent home disgraced. I was told that I might stay. I don't know why, for I also deserve to be sent away. I now wish you girls to say whether or not I shall go. If, after Mrs. Livingston has told you all that I cannot tell, you think I ought to go, as I feel I should, I will do so, knowing that you are right."

Mrs. Livingston rapped sharply on the table.

"Miss Kidder wishes an expression from her companions," she said in the matter of fact tone of a presiding officer. "Any who believe that she should be dismissed, will please rise."

Not a girl moved, scarcely a breath was heard.

"All in favor of her remaining will please rise."

Every girl in the room sprang to her feet. Mrs. Livingston smiled, a smile of happy satisfaction. Cora Kidder stood pale and trembling. She stepped forward until she was facing Harriet Burrell, whose face was as pale as her own.

"Ha-arriet! Can you forgive me?"

"I -- I think I forgave you long ago, Cora, for I knew that it was not yourself. I, too, was at fault. I think my fault was the greater of the two," answered Harriet steadily, sweeping the tense faces of her companions in a slow glance. "Shall we agree to let 'bygones be bygones' and be friends."

A moment later the two girls' hands met in a firm clasp.

"Come, girls!" admonished the voice of the Chief Guardian. "Our dinner is getting cold."

A new era in Camp Wau-Wau dated from that moment. The following days were the happiest that the Chief Guardian and the Camp Girls remembered to have passed in camp. The Meadow-Brook Girls were not the only ones to profit by their experiences there, and they will be heard from again in the next volume entitled: "THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY; Or, The Exciting Tramp of the Young Pathfinders." It is a splendid narrative of the doings and the adventures of these wide-awake girls.

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Ethel Hollister's Second Summer As A Campfire Girl

By

Irene Elliott Benson



Synopsis Of Preceding Book


Ethel would have never become a Camp Fire Girl excepting for her great-aunt Susan.

Susan Carpenter was her Grandmother Hollister's only sister, living in Akron, Ohio. Her family consisted of Mr. Thomas Harper and herself. Tom's parents had been her friends, and when they were taken Aunt Susan legally adopted him and his little brother Fred, but the younger one died before graduating, while Tom went through college and was now a rising young lawyer.

Aunt Susan Carpenter was a philanthropist. At the time of her adopting the boys she was reputed to be a millionaire. She gave her beautiful home to the city for an Asylum for partially insane people and endowed it with fifty thousand dollars, after which the leading men in town raised fifty thousand more, thereby making it self-supporting. She was also on the board of managers of many other charities, and was adored by her townspeople.

Four years previous to her visit to New York, she had lost every penny of her immense fortune, -- lost it through the rascality of a large and well advertised concern calling itself the "Great Western Cereal Company." The whole thing was a rotten affair from the first and was floated by ten unscrupulous men who after obtaining all the money they could fled from the country before the exposure came; that is, save three, one of whom was arrested while the other two committed suicide. Aunt Susan wrote nothing of it to her sister lest it should worry her, and as she had never met her nephew's family in New York, and they knowing no one in Akron, they were in ignorance of the change in Aunt Susan's affairs and still thought her a wealthy woman.

Mrs. Archibald Hollister -- Ethel's mother -- was worldly and ambitious; not so much for herself as for her daughter. Grand-mother Hollister, whose husband had belonged to one of New York's oldest families, owned the house in which they lived, free and clear. It was an old-fashioned brown-stone affair near Riverside Drive. Archibald, her son, paid the taxes in lieu of rent, but as his salary was only three thousand a year it was extremely difficult to make both ends meet, and Grandmother had no money save what was in the house. But Mrs. Archie was clever. She could make a dollar do the work of five. With her own hands she would fashion for Ethel the most dainty and up-to-date gowns, wraps, hats, etc., imaginable.

The Hollisters kept but one maid. She always appeared trim and tidy, yet she did the entire housework. Upon the days that Mrs. Archie gave bridge parties or afternoon teas for Ethel's young friends, she hired two extra girls who had been so perfectly trained that the guests never once doubted but that they were part of the household -- allowing to Mrs. Archie's clever management.

Ethel attended a fashionable school costing her father more money than he could afford, but she met there the very best class of girls and really formed for herself the most desirable acquaintances. Her mother scrimped and saved in every way possible, while the guests who came to the old-fashioned house with its handsome antique furniture and portraits were wont to declare that "the Hollisters were certainty aristocratic and of blue blood, as their house showed it -- so severe and yet elegant." So Mrs. Archie felt that the Hollister name alone should procure for Ethel a monied husband, and she held it constantly before the girl. She must associate only with those in the "upper circle," and marry a man who could give her a "fine establishment."

Among Ethel's school friends was a girl -- Nannie Bigelow by name -- of whom she was very fond. Nannie had a brother in Yale whom she (Ethel) disliked. He was a member of the ultra fashionable set and was desirous of making a wealthy match, as his family as well had little but their name. One of his sisters had married a titled man and lived abroad. It was Mrs. Hollister's ambition to have Ethel like Harvey Bigelow, although she knew that he had as little money as she. She tried to adjust things satisfactorily, and being a clever woman she hit upon a plan which we shall reveal later. Of course, the girl was only sixteen and must first graduate. Ethel, who had imbibed many of her mother's fallacies, did not openly rebel. She was quite a little snob in her way, nor did she realize what the family daily sacrificed for her, although her heart smote her when she saw how her father was aging, for she adored him; nor were her eyes opened until after she had joined the Camp Fire.

Grandmother Hollister had two sons, John and Archie. Kate Hollister was the daughter of the former. They lived in Columbus, Ohio, and Kate had been invited to visit her New York relatives. She was a tall, handsome girl much older than Ethel, for she was over thirty. Kate was the Guardian of a company of eight Camp Fire Girls called the "Ohio." She had told her grandmother and Ethel all about the new movement one evening, and Ethel who loved the romantic side of camping out was crazy to have Kate obtain permission from her mother to let her join, as her father had said that she might visit Columbus that coming summer. But lo! when she spoke to Mrs. Archie -- or Aunt Bella -- about it she was politely snubbed. When Kate tried to explain how wonderful was the organization and what benefit a girl -- especially a delicate girl like Ethel -- could derive from belonging, the lady sneered and likened it to the Salvation Army and forbade her guest from mentioning it to the girl or even speaking of it in her presence. But alas! the deed had been done and Ethel knew of it; but while in New York Kate had refrained from again touching on the subject. At that time an aunt of one of Ethel's schoolmates had formed a company and many of the swell set had joined. Ethel longed to belong but dared not offend her mother.

Now for Mrs. Hollister's plan. She suddenly conceived the idea of inviting Aunt Susan on for a visit, supposedly to give Grandmother a chance to see her only sister once more, but in reality to have Ethel ingratiate herself with the old lady, thereby causing her to leave the girl the bulk of her fortune. Ethel read between the lines and at first refused, but after listening to her mother for a while and thinking perhaps she was right, she allowed herself to promise to further the plan.

Aunt Susan was a woman with fine eyes and teeth, as well as a charming manner, but her style of dressing dated back to the eighties -- full skirts, flat hats with strings, beaded plush dolmans, etc. Ethel was ashamed to be seen with her but she had promised to help and she had to do her share. In the meanwhile her mother had spread the report that Aunt Susan was a millionaire and that Ethel was to have her fortune at her death. Everyone fell in love with Aunt Susan and ascribed her peculiar dressing to the eccentricities of a wealthy woman.

Mrs. Hollister's joy knew no bounds when Aunt Susan invited Ethel to return with her to Akron. Her scheme was beginning to work. Ethel was a lovely girl. Aunt Susan would grow fond of her and the fortune was assured. Besides, as it would cost a small fortune to take Ethel to a fashionable summer resort, Mrs. Archie could save money for the winter. But, accompanying the invitation, Aunt Susan requested that during July and August, Ethel might join her other grand niece's "Camp Fires" and live in the woods. "It will be the making of your girl," she added, "as now she looks thin and peaked."

At first Mrs. Archie indignantly refused. She almost felt that she had been trapped, but Aunt Susan met every objection and even told the lady that she feared she was shallow and an unnatural mother to refuse to consider her daughter's health. Mrs. Archie dared not let Aunt Susan know that she considered the whole organization conspicuous and common, nor that she did not wish Ethel to learn to do the work of a servant, etc., or run the risk of meeting girls of humble origin. So after some sharp rebukes administered to her by the old lady on the sin of worldliness and the fact that she was not doing a mother's duty by her daughter, she consented, mentally declaring that she would see that Ethel should forget all about it on her return.

While visiting Aunt Susan and living in Camp in a truthful atmosphere Ethel Hollister began to change. She saw how the old lady was beloved. She heard on every side of the good she had done, and when one day Aunt Susan told her that she had been a wife and mother, and what she had suffered at the hands of a brutal husband, she was spellbound. For years she had been deserted, but when one day he was supposed to be dying she was sent for that he might beg her forgiveness. She went and found that for four years he had been stone blind and that he had sunk so low that she shrank from the squalid house in which he was living. She took him away and stayed with him until his death, making the last days of his life more bearable.

As the girl listened and thought of the old lady's goodness and how she was visiting her and making over her old gowns, hats, etc., into fashionable ones to ingratiate herself for an object she saw herself as she was -- a hypocrite -- and she fell on her knees to Aunt Susan confessing everything and begging her forgiveness, whereupon the old lady took her in her arms and told her that she knew everything -- that Grandmother and she had made up their minds that Ethel might lose her worldliness under different environments. Then she told her of the loss of her fortune and the girl was glad, saying as she kissed her, "Now you know that I love you for yourself, Aunt Susan."

Ethel liked Tom Harper. He was a fine young man. He supported Aunt Susan and gave her a liberal allowance but she banked nearly all of it, as she told Ethel "to have something at her death to leave to those whom she loved."

After visiting her Uncle John's family, whom she liked at once, Kate, Ethel, and the eight girls started for Camp. It was situated in a stretch of woods on the banks of the Muskingum river. One of the girls -- Patty Sands -- became Ethel's chum. She was motherless and the only child of Judge Sands, ex-congressman of Ohio, and greatly respected. The rest of the girls were also congenial save two -- one a Mattie Hastings, whom Ethel avoided saying that her eyes were too close together. Mattie's parents were poor people but she was one of Kate's Sunday School class and has asked to be allowed to join the "Ohios." The other girl was a large, raw-boned Irish girl, or rather of Irish parentage. Her voice was shrill and unpleasant, while her hair was black and her eyes dark blue and lovely, her face was covered with freckles and she dressed loudly and in bad taste. Pat Casey -- her father -- -was one of the wealthiest men in town. He was a contractor and an honest, respectable man, but his wife was a pusher, trying to bluff her way into society. She was ignorant and disagreeable. People refused to receive her. Nora had been only half educated at a convent. Mrs. Casey, hearing of the Camp Fire Girls, bethought herself that it would be an opening for Honora, so she boldly called upon Miss Kate and asked -- yes, begged -- that Nora might belong; and Kate, who was kind-hearted, received the girl to the great joy of Mrs. Pat. Having been born in the old country, both parents spoke with a brogue. Occasionally, from association, Nora would use it; then she would stop suddenly, turn red, and speak perfect English. Ethel disliked her even more than she did Mattie.

One day as she was helping wash dishes she lost a valuable diamond ring. It had been her Grandmother's engagement ring and she was heart-broken. Although they searched everywhere no trace of it could they find, but as they were walking up the hill a week or so afterwards they thought they saw Mattie Hastings through the trees. They called as a jest, "We've seen you and you're discovered -- come out!" Whereupon someone shrieked, and proceeding to the spot they found Mattie lying upon the ground. She had walked in the sun and had started to run and had fallen over some stumps. Instantly they saw that she had been prostrated by the heat, and having recently studied "First aid to the injured" they proceeded to remove her blouse and open her corset, when lo! there upon a silver chain around her neck was not only Ethel Hollister's ring but another belonging to Honora Casey. She had missed it a few days after Ethel had lost hers, but she wisely refrained from speaking of it to anyone but Patty Sands, adding, "Shure, it would only be afther worryin' Miss Kate, and it might turn up. I'll bide me time."

Mattie, upon recovering consciousness and seeing that her secret had been discovered handed the rings to Ethel saying that she should kill herself. The girls, seeing that she was desperate, replied that as one of their "seven laws" was to "render service," if she would confess why she had taken the rings they would shield her. Overjoyed, the girl did so. She told everything. She had done it for her young sister who had dislocation of the spine, whereby she might be converting them into money have the child placed in the Cripples Hospital and treated. A physician had assured her that the case was not incurable, and for two hundred dollars the child could be watched and nursed, and eventually her spine might be straightened. She said that since the accident that had made the child as she was, her mother had become a drug fiend. One evening her cousin -- a young man who was a chauffeur -- invited her mother to join a party and they took a joy ride. On their way home, being under the influence of wine, they knocked down and ran over a child near Mrs. Hasting's house. Letting her out, they sped quickly on for fear of arrest. Upon discovering that it was her own child, and what was worse, that from that night she was to be a hopeless cripple, the mother nearly went insane. Still she kept her secret and no one suspected that she had been one of the parties in the car. Her remorse drove her to take the drug. Under its influence she told Mattie. At that time the girl was earning six dollars a week, three of which she was paying to her mother, supposing her to be buying food for the invalid. When she discovered the truth she threatened her with exposure and tried to buy little Mollie nourishing delicacies herself, but three dollars would barely pay for the necessities of life, and she became discouraged and desperate. In the store she saw a customer drop her purse. She placed her foot upon it and when the lady had gone she picked it up. The purse contained forty dollars and some cards, etc. After depositing thirty-five dollars in the bank she took five and bought the child fruit, books, and ice cream. It seemed to put new life into Mollie. She took small articles from time to time, and pretending that they had been given her she sold them. Her remorse was terrible. She was unhappy. If only she could work harder and earn more. At that time she heard of the Camp Fire Girls -- of the useful and wonderful things that they learned so that in time they became competent to demand and receive large salaries. She loved Miss Kate and asked her if she might join. Kate assented, and it was then that the girls first met her. Gradually the desire to collect the two hundred dollars for Mollie came back, and with it the temptation to steal. She took money from every girl. She was even willing, after placing Mollie in the Hospital, to go to prison, if only the child could be cured. She felt that some day she would be caught with the goods. She adored Miss Kate and took nothing from her. Finally she began taking jewelry to sell.

This morning she was on her way to find a hiding place for the two rings and a diamond locket taken from another girl, when she heard Ethel and Patty call. Then she was sure that they had discovered her secret, and trying to run away she tripped and lost consciousness. "Now that I have told you all," she added, "your father -- Judge Sands -- will send me up," and she sobbed piteously. Her grief was sincere. She had not stolen for herself. She had been desperate. Pity crept into the hearts of the two girls and they constituted themselves her friends. They made her replace the jewelry in Nora's and Edna's suit cases. They found the lady's card from whom she had taken the purse and had Mattie return the money and bag with a note withholding her name. They had her draw out the money obtained from the sale of the purloined articles and return it to the head of the Department Store saying that the things had been taken and sold under great provocation for a sick child, enumerating them and the prices, after which she felt happier, for she knew that the girls would remain her friends. "Some day," she said, "I may make good."

Ethel wrote and got Aunt Susan interested in little Mollie. Being a manager of a Cripples School that lady at once placed her free of charge in one of the wards as a boarder and pupil. The resident physician said that in a year's time he should send her out cured. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Hastings were overjoyed, while Mattie's gratitude knew no way to express itself. She simply regarded Ethel and Patty with looks of adoration, while in time they overcame their prejudice, Ethel even kissing her goodbye.

There had been wrought in Ethel Hollister a great change. Much of her pride and worldliness had dropped from her. She had gradually become an earnest believer in truth despising all subterfuges and shams.

Upon her arrival home, Mrs. Hollister, while noting her new and splendid health, was appalled at the change. From an obedient child, easily convinced that no matter what her mother said was right, she had become a girl of great character with ideas of her own. Mrs. Hollister angrily denounced her mother-in-law and Aunt Susan, saying that it was their work and that her child, for whom she had slaved all of her life, had become wilful, stubborn and disobedient. "She even refuses to go into Society this winter. She talks of taking up low down settlement work. She'll end in becoming a suffragette, and standing on a soap box she'll address the street rabble, perhaps wearing a large bonnet and standing beside a kettle holiday time ringing a bell and holding out a tambourine, -- a Salvation Army woman. Oh! what a fool I was to let her go away from my influence," and she sobbed, -- "to toil and save for her to make a brilliant match. See the way she rewards me. Why did I bring into this world such an ungrateful child! It's all that wretched Camp Fire business."

Then Ethel gently put her arm around her mother and told her that only since she had been a Camp Fire girl had she appreciated how hard she had worked for her. "I know, Mamma," she said, "how you and Papa, and even Grandmamma, have sacrificed for me. I see myself as I have been, (not as I am now) -- a selfish, wicked girl, not even appreciating what you have done for me, and I am appalled. I am going to do for you now. I am going to see the roses come back into your cheeks and the wrinkles leave your pretty face. Uncle John is Papa's senior by ten years but he looks much younger -- why? Because Papa is bent and worn getting money for me -- for us to make a show on. Everything is sham, Mamma, and let us give it up -- let us keep only friends who care for us ourselves and we shall be happier. I shall take you up to camp next summer. You can help us so much; you are so clever and can teach the girls. And as for a grand marriage for me, I'll promise never to marry at all unless you approve of the man, and I may make a better marriage than you dream of. So just let us be happy and natural and live within our means," and she took her sobbing mother in her arms.



Ethel Hollister's Second Summer as a Camp Fire Girl



Chapter I

Ethel's Plans


The morning after Ethel had declared herself her mother came up to her room. She could see that Mrs. Hollister had not slept and her eyes were red from weeping. Ethel kissed her, saying:

"Mamma, we are going to be very happy together -- you and I. I don't want to disappoint you, dear, nor would I do so willingly; but I simply can not live as I've been living. Sit down and let us talk."

Then she told of Aunt Susan, -- of her kindness, unselfishness and self-sacrifice. She told of Mattie and how they had helped her, and of her Uncle John; of Patty and Judge Sands; and lastly of Kate and what a wonderful character she was.

"Wait, dear, I want to show you my ceremonial gown," and she quickly slipped it on. The girl's hair was still hanging unbound, having slept in it that way, and she hooked about it her coronation band. Said her mother:

"Well, I must say it is becoming. What a Pocahontas you would make in private theatricals!" she exclaimed with maternal pride; "But then, why should I speak of theatricals? You've given up all such things."

"Why, Mamma," laughed Ethel, "I'm not going into a convent. I have given up nothing but the unreal part of life."

"I suppose you'll tell everyone how poor we are, and how I have put you forward under false colors. Then people will despise me."

"No, Mamma, I shall not do a thing to put you in any awkward position. Keep on. Give your teas for me if you wish, -- even have the two extra maids. It costs very little and we have a social time; it cheers Grandmamma and there's no need to stop them. But this is what I shall not do: First I shall tell Harvey Bigelow that Aunt Susan was once a millionaire but that she lost all of her money. I shall tell of her wonderful gifts to Akron, -- of her charities, and how well she is beloved, but that I shall inherit no money from her. Harvey will tell his mother and she'll spread the news. If people care any the less for us after hearing it, let them go; but I don't propose to tell what Papa's salary is, or that you -- poor dear -- sit until morning sewing for me, -- a thing that I'm not going to allow you to do any longer.

"Then I shall give up attending Madam's. Yes, don't start. Every bill Papa pays is a nail in his coffin, I know. Tomorrow I shall go to Barnard and try to pass an examination, and for one quarter what Madam charges I can get a sound and solid education, and were Papa to die I can leave with my teacher's diploma knowing something that will be of use to me. I could help support you and Grandmamma. What could I do were I forced to support myself after leaving Madam's. Why, an education such as her girls receive is of no earthly account unless for music or such accomplishments; but with a degree from Barnard I can earn good money. I am so glad that I am young and that I shall have a chance. You'll be proud of me, Mamma, -- just wait and see," and she kissed her mother affectionately.

They went down to breakfast. Archibald Hollister listened to his daughter's plans. He was proud of her and his face showed it.

"You see, Papa," continued Ethel, "every penny is spent on me. Do you and Mamma ever go to a theatre? No. Do you ever take a drive? Never, -- why? Because you can't spare the money. Now at least we shall be able to go to the moving picture shows and take Grandmamma. I bet you'd enjoy it, wouldn't you, Grandmamma? And, do you know, the best people go, and a quarter is the highest priced seat."

The girl chatted on until the postman delivered the mail.

"Oh! a letter from Kate. Let's see what news she has written," and she gave a gasp as she read the first page.

"Poor Mrs. Casey died Saturday from pneumonia. Nora is heartbroken, and poor Pat Casey acts as though he knew not which way to turn. Nora looks really refined in black, -- almost handsome. She loved Mrs. Casey, who in spite of her peculiarities was a good wife and mother. Later: Mr. Casey wishes to take Nora away. He suggested New York, so you may see her, etc."

Then Ethel described Honora.

"It is strange but I can never like that girl. There's something about her that's antagonistic to me, and yet when she comes here I must be polite and ask her to visit me."

"If she's in mourning she'll not expect to meet people," said Mrs. Hollister quickly, "nor to go to any places of amusement, thank heavens."

"Oh, she's very generous. Probably she'd invite us, Mamma. Well, poor Nora, she loved her mother. I'm sorry for her."



Chapter II

Ethel Enters College


The next morning Ethel Hollister walked up to Barnard and put in her application for admittance. The following week upon her first examination she failed, but she entered the class with conditions. The girl studied hard and soon made good.

She liked the girls of her class. They were intelligent, athletic, and agreeable.

Her former friends and companions from La Rue's declared that of late -- in fact, since she had become a Camp Fire Girl -- Ethel Hollister had developed fads. This Barnard was one. But as Ethel kept on steadily progressing in college, and she was so very young -- not yet seventeen -- people began to consider her a girl of great ability and intelligence. Mrs. Hollister grew to be proud of hearing her praised on every side and Archibald seemed less worried over money matters. She was rather glad that things had changed. Perhaps it was all for the best, and people would respect them no less.

Grandmother never wearied of hearing her grandchild tell of her visit. "And to think," she'd say, "that Susan has had all the trouble she tells of and has made no sign. How gladly would I have helped her. Still, had I done so we would have had no house. Well, the Lord knows what's best. We could only have offered her a home. I'm glad the Insane Asylum was endowed and the boys educated before the crash came."

Nora did not visit New York in the winter. She went South with her father. The girls -- Kate and Ethel -- corresponded, and in that way Ethel heard all of the news. The Judge came often and took Patty and Kate on long motor trips. Mattie was doing nicely. She was employed in a Woman's Exchange where she received twelve dollars a week and taught cooking and sewing. Mollie was improving daily. Mr. Hastings had a fine position with Judge Sands. Honora was away, but the rest of the girls were as usual. The Camp Fires met weekly and everyone missed Ethel, but no one missed her as did Aunt Susan. "Why," wrote Kate, "she says the light has gone out of her life, and Tom roams around disconsolate. But," she added, "you should see the up-to-date way in which he dresses. He is the pink of fashion, I tell you."

Ethel laughed, and while reading would stop every now and then to explain.

Then Ethel answered:

"I have joined Miss Westcott's Camp Fire Girls, and if you believe it, Mamma goes with me. She doesn't like it, but she's a great help to me and to the girls, for she teaches them so much. She's consistent and it will take her some time to overcome her prejudices. Nanny Bigelow belongs, and Harvey takes us when Mamma can not go. By the way, Harvey seems quite interested in medicine, and after graduating he is going to study it. We call him 'Doctor' Bigelow.

"Dorothy Kip's Day Nursery has proved a great success. It is the dearest little flat, and the babies are sweet. Dorothy's old woman is a great help, and I want you to know that Dorothy works hard. Why, she almost runs the place on contributions and her allowance, and the little ones are just as happy and comfortable as possible. She has books and toys, and we girls take turns in going in and reading to the elder children, as well as amusing the younger ones. That is a good charity, and Grandmother (Kate noticed that Ethel had begun to call Mrs. Hollister 'Mother' and the old lady 'Grandmother') goes nearly every pleasant day and takes flowers. She generally spends the afternoon with them, so in a small way Dorothy Kip is emulating Jane Addams. Who knows but some day she may be her equal, -- Oh!"

The second letter said:

"I must tell you something. The other evening Harvey Bigelow called. You know I never liked him any more than I liked Mattie nor Nora. Now I like Mattie and I am beginning to like Harvey. I hope I shall change towards Nora, but I see no sign now. Well, Harvey began.

"'Miss Ethel,' he said, 'I've determined to become a physician. I presume you've heard that, and I'm determined to become a good one, too. You may not know it, but I have always liked boys. I don't say that I dislike girls, -- but I do like boys. (Harvey is developing a sense of humor.) When I visited my college chum -- Joe Atkinson -- this last summer, I was surprised to learn that he was the Scout Master to a troop of eight boys. He lives in Springfield, Illinois. I had a corking visit and a fine time with the kids, two of whom are his young brothers.

"'Do you know, I became mightily interested in the movement. I have studied and watched it and I think it's the finest thing ever started. I came home quite enthusiastic and I talked of it to the two younger Kip boys and Alan McAllister, -- Grace's brother. If you'll believe it, before I realized what I'd done, these boys had formed a troop and began to importune me to be the Scout Master of it. There's the two Kips, Tom Wilder (Sara Judson's cousin), a brother of Grace McAllister, Tommy Westcott, and my cousin, Jack Atwater, besides two other boys from the East Side Y.M.C.A. Miss Westcott, the Guardian of the Camp Fire Girls, asked that they might be allowed to join, making eight in all.'

"I caught him by the hand and I said:

"'Harvey Bigelow, I take off my hat to you. I never liked you so well in my life."

"He blushed awfully and seemed embarrassed, but he simply said:

"'Don't you think it about time that I became in earnest over something in life? The opportunity presented itself and I grasped it -- that's all.'

"Well, to make a long story short, several of these boys are desirous of going West next summer and spending their vacations instead of East, and he called to ask me about the Muskingum Camp. He is going there, Kate, and he'll be near us. I made him write to Mr. Adams -- your father's man -- who did everything for us, and ask him to reserve a place for the Scouts. I'm just wild for summer to come. I'm going to bring Mother and Grandmother. Grandmother will visit Aunt Susan, and Mother can spend her time between Aunt Susan's, your house, and the Camp. She doesn't say much but I really think the change is a relief to her -- poor dear little mother. I was the selfish juggernaut who made her sacrifice everyone for me. I realize it now, and thank God it's not too late to mend.

"I am doing finely at college. I should like to form from some of my class another Company of Camp Fire Girls, but the trouble is they are too busy with study. They say that they're worn out when summer comes and have to go away to rest, but they intend to join during their third year. Then it won't be such a continuous grind as it is now.

"I am so glad that I had the good sense to start in college. I intend to be self-supporting after I graduate. I consider it a glorious thing for an unmarried woman -- don't you?

"Well, dear, I must close. Kiss Uncle John, etc."

That was great news for Kate -- that Harvey Bigelow should have become a man. It was too good to be true. She sent the letter to Aunt Susan, whom she knew would be interested in it.

"I tell you, Ethel is made of good stuff!" ejaculated Uncle John. "She was in the right church but in the wrong pew -- that's all."



Chapter III

Ethel And Harvey Become Firm Friends


Vacation arrived. Ethel had acquitted herself well, and her examinations were excellent. She and her mother began making preparations to go West.

This time it was Grandmother and Mrs. Hollister whose wardrobes needed replenishing. Ethel bought for herself two new suits and some blouses. She had actually outgrown hers of the preceding summer.

"My dear, I am spending very little money now," said Mrs. Hollister, "and I'm going to put some by for your trousseau."

Ethel laughed merrily.

"Why, Mother, where's the man?"

"Never mind," replied her mother, "he'll come."

"Mother, you're a born matchmaker!" exclaimed the girl. "I wish you had had other daughters."

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Mrs. Hollister with a funny little smile. "One is enough."

"Is that intended for a compliment?" laughed the girl. "If so it's a doubtful one."

During the month of May, Harvey would invite her to go horseback riding up to Van Cortlandt Park. They had to make it Saturdays, as that was Ethel's only free day. They usually started early. On the country roads the apple and peach blossoms were like pictures. To the girl they brought back the previous spring at Aunt Susan's, and especially the morning when she had revealed to Ethel the sad story of her married life. On one of these excursions the girl related it to Harvey.

"By George!" he ejaculated when she had finished, "that old lady is a sport and no mistake. She's all right. I imagined she was made of different stuff from other women, and do you know I sort of suspected that she hadn't all the money that your mother thought she had. She was too refined and showed good blood. Had she been so wealthy, from her dressing people might have taken her for a miser, and gentle folks are seldom misers. I thought that it was necessity that caused her to wear those old-fashioned clothes, so I argued that though Mrs. Hollister imagined her wealthy and that you were in a line to inherit her money there was a great mistake somewhere. But pshaw! as for that every mother is ambitious for her daughter. Why, my mother left no stone unturned until she had married Edith to Lord Ashurst, and I must admit that I was easily led by my mother. Why, I've been out for a rich wife ever since I left school; but, Ethel, I've changed. Now I propose to pay my bills with the money I earn, not with hers; nor shall I allow her to buy what she wears."

"Does your mother realize how you feel?" asked Ethel, pushing her fair, curling locks from her eyes.

"Bless you, yes. She and I had one long talk, and after it I tell you there was something doing in the Bigelow family; but Nannie who has lots of horse sense sided with me, and together we were too many for mother. She saw that it was up to her to make the best of it and she did, but like your mother she still cherishes her ambitions. Nan said to her:

"'You have one daughter who has done the grand marriage stunt and she's some class. Do let us choose for ourselves."

"What did your mother say to that?" laughed Ethel.

"I think she boxed Nannie's ears and then apologized. She loses her self-control sometimes. Poor mother," and Harvey laughed. "Nannie has some temper, too, and don't you make any mistake."

Ethel was beginning to have a real friendly feeling for Harvey. He asked many questions about her cousin Kate.

"She rings true," he said. "I liked her from the first."

"She is true," replied Ethel. "You'll see her this summer, and I'm sure you'll like Uncle John and his wife. He's just a dear."

Those were red letter days for Ethel. She enjoyed the air, the scenery, and the rides; and she enjoyed talking to Harvey, for now that he understood she could talk to him as though he were one of the family -- without restriction and without embarrassment.

"What puzzles me," said Ethel, "is the way our mothers argue. When they plan our marriages it's only money and position. Love never seems to enter into their heads. Oh! I grew so tired of it. Thank God it's over, and our family are now normal. Even Grandmother wished me to marry well. I had far rather be an old maid than to be tied to a man for whom I care nothing, and have to sit opposite and pour tea for him three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. Imagine the horrible monotony of that. I heard that advice given to a girl in a play and I never forgot it; and if only girls could be brought to realize beforehand the sin of it there would be fewer unhappy marriages."



Chapter IV

Ethel's Second Trip


The time arrived for the Hollisters to start. There were tears in Archibald Hollister's eyes as he kissed them goodbye at the train. Within the last year his life had been happier. He had seen more of his wife and had grown to love her better than he had since Ethel was a child. She and he were together nearly all of the time, and it was like reading over a forgotten love story.

"Don't you worry, papa," said Ethel, patting his cheek. "We're going to keep well and have a lovely summer, and when you come up for your vacation you'll be like a boy again."

"Yes, Archie," spoke up Mrs. Hollister "Be sure that Mirinda gives you good things to eat and has them well cooked. She'll have little else to do, and you go out and call on the Bigelows and Judsons. Take in the moving pictures and roof gardens. I'll trust you," she laughed, "but don't fail to write me three times a week, will you, telling me how things are going on. And don't let Mirinda's young man come to the house but once a week and on Sundays."

"Remember everything," laughed Ethel.

Grandmother kissed her son and murmured:

"God bless you, Archie. I expect to take on a new lease of life."

"Do mother," said the man, "we all need you."

The trip was pleasant. The scenery was fine and the country looked as though it had been freshly swept and dusted, everything seemed so clean. Grandmother's eyes glistened with pleasure. They were to stop at Akron first, where they were to leave Grandmother, and after a visit of a week Ethel and her mother were to go on to Columbus and hence to Camp.

As the train drew into the depot at Akron, there stood Tom with Aunt Susan, but what a metamorphosis! Tom just escaped being a fashionably dressed swell. He was too manly for that. He wore a blue serge suit, colored negligee shirt with tie to match, a Panama hat, and russet ties. His handsome face was so full of character that Mrs. Hollister whispered to Ethel:

"What a remarkably distinguished looking man he is. You never told me of his being so."

Ethel blushed when Tom took her up and kissed her as he might have done had she been his sister, and as for Aunt Susan, even Grandmother gazed at her with amazement. She was attired in a modish little automobile bonnet, close fitting and of grey, while her grey linen suit gave her an up-to-date air, for now, she proudly informed Ethel, Tom owned his own car.

"Aunt Susan, you look out of sight," said Ethel, kissing her. "I never knew you."

Mrs. Hollister was happy. Ethel had not half told her, and she was agreeably disappointed. They took their seats in the new and commodious car and soon reached the little house. The ingrain and rag carpets had disappeared. In their places were Oriental rugs. Striped red awnings shaded the windows and piazzas. The porch had been converted into the cosiest of lounging places with willow furniture, scarlet cushions, rugs, birds, plants, etc., as well as small tables filled with the latest magazines and Aunt Susan's sewing baskets. They had a hammock at either end, and altogether it was lovely. Mrs. Hollister simply raved over it and the artistic interior with its fine old furniture.

"Ethel is responsible for this change," said Tom, removing his hat and wiping his handsome brow. "Last summer when she came here I dressed like a countryman, but in the most tactful manner she suggested high collars, different ties, and fairly talked my army hat right off my head, saying that I looked like a G.A.R. Little by little she's converted Aunt Susan into a fashionable woman. But how careless of me. Let me get you a cup of tea," he said to Mrs. Hollister, placing a table before her and a stool under her feet.

He soon returned, bringing the tray and a plate of delicious jumbles.

"You see," he continued, "Aunt Susan will not keep two girls, so I have to be waitress now and then. She is attached to Jane, who though is a good cook, but her trouble is she's set in her way and refuses to stay if we allow another girl to enter the house. We are handicapped, you see, for we can't spare Jane, nor could we replace her."

Gradually he took Mrs. Hollister into his confidence and told her of his early life and of Aunt Susan's misfortunes. "But bless you," he continued, "the Lord is good to us. She'll never need a penny for my income is increasing and my practice is more than I can attend to. I should have a partner but she won't hear of my taking one. She is too cautious. So I have several young students who study law in my office and help me as well."

Then he proceeded to extol Ethel.

"Mrs. Hollister," he said, "she's a girl of wonderful character and she'll make a magnificent woman. I notice she's improved since she was here."

"Yes, it's her college," replied her mother, "and the life at camp last summer. I must admit she knew more than I when she broke loose from my foolish and unwise influence. I was not fit to guide her, Mr. Harper, I realize it now."

"Never mind, madam; it's to you she owes her beauty. Why, you and she look exactly like sisters," whereupon Mrs. Hollister capitulated to Tom Harper. She couldn't speak of him with enough enthusiasm and praise. She wrote pages to Archibald.

"My dear, everyone says he'll yet be Governor, and while I wouldn't have you breathe it for the world I'm sure he's in love with Ethel. What a couple they'd make. Of course she has no suspicion of such a thing, nor would I hint it to her; but you wait and see."

Mr. Hollister smiled as he read his wife's letter, and his heart was glad. He had known Tom Harper's father and had respected him highly.

"Well," he thought, "this time Bella is on the right tack. I'll not interfere," and he softly whistled "Comin' Thro' the Rye."



Chapter V

Camp Again


"Aunt Susan, you've grown so young," said Ethel, "and as for Tom, well he's the glass of fashion and mould of form. He looks fine. Oh! I'm so glad to be back and to have Mother and Grandmother with me; and Father will be here soon. It seems like a dream -- too good to be true. Hasn't Mother grown lovely?"

"Never saw anything like the change," replied the old lady. "In fact, you've worked wonders in us all, my dear," she said. "Look at me. Why! I feel like an up-to-date fashion plate."

Ethel laughed.

"Yes, Madam, you're up-to-date all right and no mistake. I didn't know you that day at the depot."

"I often wonder," continued the elderly woman, "if people think I'm putting on airs. Really, Jane told me of some woman who said 'old Mrs. Carpenter was mighty upraised, dressing like a young girl.' It's funny, isn't it, what dress will do. But I should look young for I'm so happy to have Alice here again, and to think that we shall be together all summer. I don't yet seem to realize it."

"Did you notice how Grandmother cried as this house came to view, -- her birthplace?"

"No wonder. She hasn't been here," said Aunt Susan, "since Mother's funeral, I presume it brought it all back to her. Poor Alice! I ought not to say it, but Archie Hollister was not the man to make her happy. He ran through with nearly all of her money. It slipped through his fingers just like water, and I guess her life with his family was none too peaceful and happy. They had the name of being great fighters. Of course she has her recompense in John and Archibald -- that's something. A woman needs peace. Now take your mother, for instance. Why has she grown young? Because she's quit worrying -- that is the secret."

"Yes, and when I think that she did it all for me -- why, Aunt Susan, I can't lay up anything against her; I love her too well. She sees now how useless it all was. But what do you know about Harvey Bigelow? Isn't he developing into a fine man?"

"He certainly is," replied Aunt Susan, "and I always liked him. He looked one squarely in the eye, and such a man can be trusted."

"I don't know," answered Ethel, "of late everyone seems to be changing for the better. The whole world appears different to me. It makes me happy to see others happy," and the girl went out to call her mother and Tom in to tea.

"I'm transferring my allegiance to your mother, young woman," said Tom.

"I'm not a bit jealous," replied Ethel. "Mother is really more interesting to men than I, and what's more, she's always been. But hurry in; Jane will be furious if her biscuits grow cold."

The two weeks passed only too quickly. They spent their days touring all over Ohio, so it seemed to Ethel, and at night the young people came in shoals to see her, while the grown-ups had bridge parties. Said Mrs. Hollister:

"How hospitable and lovely these Westerners are. I had no idea that they were so refined."

"What did you expect to meet, Mother?" laughed Ethel -- "not cowboys?"

"Susan," said Grandmother one morning, "I notice that you curl your hair. It's very becoming, I think."

"Alice, you don't consider me too old, do you? Sometimes I wonder if I'm not sort of making a fool of myself, but Ethel got me in the way of it and I try to keep the front as fluffy as possible, for she asked me to. And I've another confession to make," said Aunt Susan. "Alice, I blue my hair -- regular bluing water so as to keep it white. There now -- what do you think of that?"

"So do I, Susan," laughed her sister. "I've done it for several years. It certainly does improve the color. Grey hairs grow so yellow looking. The child is right. We ought to keep ourselves up while we're able. We polish up old mahogany and keep it fresh and clean -- why not old women?" and the two laughed merrily.

"I think the Camp Fire business has made a woman of Ethel, don't you?"

"How could it fail to?" said Aunt Susan. "Women are coming into their own, Alice. They're growing sensible and self-reliant. Look at our Grandmothers and at us. Do you notice the difference? And our grandchildren will be just as far ahead of us as we are of our grandmothers. Isn't it wonderful?"

"I like you Western people," said Mrs. Hollister, coming in at that moment followed by Ethel.

"I've just told Mother," said the girl, "that Western people can give points to us. They are natural, kind-hearted, hospitable, and they seldom measure their friendship by the amount of people's bank accounts. With them it's character that talks."

"How did you like my sanitarium, Bella?" asked Aunt Susan.

"I couldn't half express myself," replied Mrs. Hollister. "You're a wonderful woman, Aunt Susan, and the people here have cause to bless you. I've never before admitted this to Ethel, but I'm very glad that she came here last summer. I see my short-sightedness every day when I look back and realize how I was bringing her up," and Mrs. Hollister wiped her eyes.

"You've been a lovely and kind mother to me," replied Ethel. "You have sacrificed far too much for me and I never half appreciated it."

"I have been an unwise mother my dear," said she, "and you stopped me just in time. I only now begin to realize my limitations. I've been self-centered and conceited."

Ethel kissed her mother affectionately, and the two old ladies coughed and knitted vigorously.

"We are all liable to make mistakes, Bella," said Aunt Susan. "Yours has been in loving your child too dearly."



Chapter VI

Uncle John's


They arrived in Columbus where Uncle John greeted them affectionately and insisted upon kissing his sister-in-law. Mrs. Hollister was persuaded not to go to camp until after a few days, when the girls should be settled. Then Uncle John was to take her up. So Ethel, Kate, and the girls, with one new member, went alone.

Save that Nora Casey wore mourning and seemed quiet, everything was the same as the summer before. Patty Sands was wild with delight upon seeing Ethel. Edna Whitely was the same happy-go-lucky Edna as of old. Mollie Long and Edith Overman had grown very tall, while Sallie Davis had become a perfect roly poly. She had gained twenty pounds and was constantly dieting and taking long walks.

Mattie Hastings cried when she beheld Ethel. Mattie had grown quiet and dignified, while in her face she showed more character.

Ethel looked at them all, especially at Honora.

"Can I not put my dislike of that girl behind me?" she thought. "Why can't I be nice to her?"

She tried hard. She began asking her of her mother, and tears filled Nora's eyes, but after a while her voice began to take on its old shrill tones, while in her manner there came that indescribable something that had always repelled Ethel.

"That girl is my cross," she thought. "I must like her, and yet I can't. I shall never become worthy to be a Camp Fire Girl until I overcome it. I wonder if she'll affect Mother as she does me."

Ethel was now a Fire Maker. In addition to her Wood Gatherer's ring she wore the pretty silver bracelet of the Fire Maker.

The second evening they had a Council Fire. The wood and kindling had been gathered and brought by Edna Whitely and a new girl named Kate Winthrop, who had never been to Camp before. Edna couldn't seem to advance. She was actually too lazy to work for honors and it worried Kate Hollister not a little.

"What's the difference?" she would say. "Someone will have to gather wood and we have but one new girl -- that's Kate. You may be glad that I stayed."

The girls looked pretty in their brown ceremonial gowns and their long hair banded with the ceremonial band. Ethel advanced and lighted the fire, intoning the usual Fire Makers' song. Then they had the exercises. Honors were awarded and several girls advanced to the next higher grade. This is the Fire Makers' ode to Fire that they intoned as Ethel lighted the Council Fire: "Oh, Fire, long years ago when our fathers fought with the great animals you were their protection. From the cruel cold of winter you saved them. When they needed food you changed the flesh of beasts into savory meat for them. During all the ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol to them for Spirit. So (tonight) we light our fire in remembrance of the great Spirit who gave you to us."

In the darkness of the woods with the bright flames shooting upward the effect of the chanting was weird, mysterious and unusual.

Then Kate showed Ethel the typed copy of the Legend of Ohio which had been attached to each count book, handing her a copy for her own.

The roll was called, reports read of the last Council Fire, and of the weekly meeting. Edna Whitely had really exerted herself and had written it in clever rhyme.

Then to their surprise a report of Ethel's and Patty's kindness to Mattie Hastings was read. It seems that Mattie's conscience had troubled her and at one of the meetings she had confessed it all and how she had been saved by the two girls. She also requested that it should be read upon Ethel's return. It told how under unusual distress she had been tempted to do a great wrong, -- -how the two girls caused her to make restitution, and how after that they placed Mollie in the Cripples School, and that now she was on her way to recovery. It said that she began from then to try and lead a better life and that with God's help she was doing so.

The girls looked at one another, but although they made no sign they knew what the wrong was. But they smiled at Mattie in the most friendly way, Nora grasping her by the hand said:

"I hope yere sister will be after walkin' soon."

Then came the Wohelo ceremony. Mattie came forward and lighted a branch, throwing it on the ashes, while Patty Sands knelt and lighted it chanting:

"Wohelo means work. We glorify work because through work we are free. We work to win, to conquer, to be masters. We work for the joy of working and because we are free."

Then she stepped back and Edith Overman came forward chanting and lighting another branch.

"Wohelo means health. We hold on to health because through health we serve and are happy; in caring for the health and beauty of our persons we are caring for the very shrine of the Great Spirit. Wohelo means health."

Then Sallie Davis stepped forward while Edith retired. She lighted the third branch which crackled and threw up numberless red sparks, after which she chanted the last verse:

"I light the light of love, for Wohelo means love. We love Love, for love is life and light and joy and sweetness. And love is comradeship and motherhood and fatherhood, and all dear kinship. Love is the joy of service so deep that self is forgotten. Wohelo means love."

After that this song was sung: "Lay me to sleep in thy sheltering flame. O Master of the Hidden Fire. Wash pure my heart and cleanse for me My Soul's desire. In flame of sunrise bathe my soul O Master of the Hidden Fire. That when I wake clear-eyed may be My Soul's desire."

This is by Fiona Macleod.

They stood around talking to Miss Kate for a little while, who walking over to Mattie kissed her tenderly, after which each girl followed her example before retiring, and poor Mattie was all broken up over it.



Chapter VII

Mrs. Hollister's Visit To Camp


When the morning dawned on the day Mrs. Hollister was expected, great were the preparations made for that lady.

"Listen to me, girls; she's the cleverest woman you ever met," said Cousin Kate. "She has not been exactly in favor of our organization, so I wish each of you girls to do your best, and Mrs. Hollister can teach you so many useful things."

"Yes, indeed," said Ethel. "Cousin Kate is right. There's very little that Mother can not do."

Old Mr. Adams came up with a load of delicacies which had been ordered by the thoughtful Uncle John.

He paid no attention to the girls but as on previous occasions he gave his entire attention to his horses. He wiped off their foaming sweat with his hands. Last year it had been his handkerchief varied with bundles of grass and leaves. After cleaning them to his satisfaction he calmly walked to the clear brook and washed his hands thoroughly.

"Isn't that awful?" whispered Patty to Miss Kate. "I shall never feel like drinking water from that brook again."

"Why my dear," laughed Kate, "that water changes every minute. It's gone now and in its place there's fresh -- don't worry."

"Here they are!" called Nora, and there came to view Uncle John and a lady whom from Ethel's resemblance to her they at once knew and fell deeply in love with, especially Mattie.

And everything pleased Mrs. Hollister, -- the girls, their costumes, their tents, and the delicious dinner cooked over an open fire interested her greatly. She even held one of the forked branches on which reposed the chicken and broiled it as well as a chef, but she thought the green corn was the most delicious thing that she'd ever tasted. After dinner she said:

"Now girls, see if I have it correct: 'After tying a string to the end of each ear, soak the corn in water for an hour. Then lay it on the hot coals, turning frequently. Draw it out by the string and eat with salt and melted butter.' Well, it's simply great. I wish I were young again. I think I'd like to be a Camp Fire Girl." She was as enthusiastic as a child. Ethel looked at Kate and they smiled over the change that had taken place since the day Kate wished to explain to her aunt what the Camp Fire Girl was.

"Don't you think that Mother grows young?" asked Ethel proudly of her cousin.

"She's a changed woman," replied Kate, "in every way. She's simply lovely."

Mrs. Hollister adapted herself and made friends quickly. She became tactful, a quality that had hitherto been unknown. She liked Nora and the girl loved Mrs. Hollister. Ethel marveled. That her mother who disliked anything savoring of loudness could tolerate Nora seemed wonderful.

"The fault must lie with me," she thought. "Even Mother likes her."

Mrs. Hollister went right to work and taught the girls how to cut and fit. She taught them many of the little arts and niceties of dressmaking, and the girls became proficient and at the next Council meeting each received several honors. Then she taught them to trim hats and make the daintiest bows; and after she had taught them how to crochet and make Irish lace their gratitude was boundless.

She also taught them how to cook -- how to make delicious corn bread with one egg, where they had been in the habit of using two, insisting upon their first scalding their meal. Then she made them delicious gingerbread, using cold coffee left from breakfast in place of milk or cream and many other dishes of which they had never heard.

"Really, Aunt Bella," said Kate, as the girls were receiving their honors, "I feel that you deserve some of these beads."



Chapter VIII

The Scouts Arrive


Great was the surprise of the girls when the next afternoon they beheld walking towards the Camp two young men in Scout costume. They were none other than Harvey Bigelow and young Teddy Kip, the Master and assistant Scout Master of the "Flying Eagles" Scout Patrol. Each wore a small flag, and upon a red ground was a black and white eagle. As they advanced they gave their cry -- "Yeh -- yeh -- yeh!"

"Oh! Harvey," screamed Ethel, and rushed forward, greeting them warmly.

Then Cousin Kate came and welcomed them cordially, introducing them to the nine girls.

"Why, Mrs. Hollister," said Harvey, catching sight of her in her tent, "it does seem good to see you here," and he gazed at her thoughtfully and curiously. "'Pon my word you've grown so young I thought you were Ethel at first."

She wore one of her daughter's costumes and really she did look wonderfully youthful.

"Well, you can't complain. The Camp life has done you some good, and there you were so down on it."

"Yes, I was, but people change. Look at yourself," replied she seriously.

"Mrs. Hollister," said he, "I've been here only one week, but I already feel that I'm another man. It's splendid for both boy and girl. It's a boon to be able to get away from city people and fashionable resorts. Nan has put up a big fight and, Ethel, she's coming out to see you next month," he said.

"Oh, how lovely! Kate, hear this: Nannie Bigelow is coming here to see us next month."

"I shall be here until the middle," said Harvey, "and she'll go home with us. I've an aunt in Springfield and she'll go there for a visit first. After that she'll come on here and spend a few days if you girls want her to."

"I'm so glad," said Ethel, and she ran to tell her mother.

Teddy Kip was a handsome lad of about eighteen. Immediately Patty Sands suggested that he must see everything, so she took him off under her wing. The rest sat on the ground while Harvey related several anecdotes and funny experiences that had befallen his patrol since they came to Camp.

"Now you must stay and dine with us," said Kate. "Our cooking may not surprise you, as it is the Scouts' way as well, but we'll give you a change -- a shore dinner. Father sent up some very fresh clams. We'll steam them, and we'll have roasted potatoes, corn, and broiled chicken, a little salad and a ripe watermelon to finish."

"Well, I declare -- 'pon my word, one might imagine himself in Rhode Island. We'll stay," and he smacked his lips.

"Nora, will you take Mr. Bigelow and show him our cellar. And the boys -- perhaps they'll help us to prepare our meal," said Kate.

The young fellows were delighted to help the girls. Nora arose slowly and Harvey followed.

Kate remarked to Ethel that Nora had changed so since her mother's death and asked her if she had noticed it.

"Yes, I do notice that she seems more quiet," replied Ethel.

"But you still dislike her though?" asked Kate.

"I don't know," replied Ethel. "I'm ashamed to admit it, Cousin Kate, but I can never seem to overcome that antipathy to her. If only her voice would lower a little, and if she'd cease to come up and slap one on the back I might feel differently, but she's so rough and unladylike."

"Ethel, environments may have had much to do with that. She seems to love your mother. But here comes Patty with young Kip."

"What a dandy site you have here for a Camp," said the young man. "Gee! it's choice. It beats ours."

When dinner was ready how they ate! They pronounced it equal to the best shore dinner ever prepared, and when finished there was nothing left excepting clam shells and corn cobs.

That was Mrs. Hollister's last day in Camp. She had been with the girls for two weeks. After leaving Camp she was to spend half of her time with Kate's parents and the remaining with Aunt Susan.

Harvey and Teddy stayed until nearly five o'clock, and it was with regret on both sides that they had to go.

The next day being Sunday, Kate read the prayers while they all sung several hymns, after which each girl was left to do as she chose. Ethel proposed to ride horseback. Several joined together and hired a buckboard for the afternoon.

"We'll meet you at the Lake," they said to Ethel, and off they went.

It was a warm afternoon. The sky looked alternately bright, then cloudy, but they started not minding though it rained.

Nora declined to join the buckboard party and strolled off by herself. She looked almost pretty in her clean, white linen suit and her hair tightly bound by a broad black ribbon. The goldenrod and sumac were opening, but the summer flowers looked old and tired, as though they needed new gowns and freshening up a bit. The girl thought of how alone she was and sighed. Then her mother came into her mind. To think that she had to be taken while so young -- not yet forty-five, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. But "Thank God," she thought, "I never caused her any unhappiness, and I still have my dear, kind father," and Nora wiped her eyes. "It's Miss Ethel who dislikes me. No matter what I say to her nor how friendly I am, she won't like me. And when I try to joke or do her a little kindness, if she smiles sure her smile chills me. It's like a piece of ice going down me back. And her 'thank you, Honora' is as cold as charity. I like her mother the best. And yet Miss Ethel kissed me goodbye at the train last summer; but she was kissing everyone and I suppose she had to kiss me, for she's too much of a lady to slight a body. Yet she'd be glad to see the last of me -- that I know."



Chapter IX

Nora Gives Service


Honora was an unconscious lover of Nature. She turned and beheld the sun slowly sinking.

"Ah! it must be nearly six o'clock," she thought. "I must make haste," but she stood spellbound, watching the glowing crimson, purple and yellow changing into orange, green, and greyish pink, and she gazed at the fiery ball sinking slowly behind the hills.

"How lovely!" she thought, "and it's gone down in a cloud. That means rain. It's growing very dark. Me for a quick walk down these hills before I lose my way."

She started down the path not a little worried. She had strayed off the main road and was on a side one leading through the woods. If only it would keep light until she reached Camp, and then if she could strike the broad road she'd be all right.

Walking rapidly through the woods she suddenly fancied that she hard a low moan, as though from someone in pain.

"It's a tramp perhaps," she thought. "He may be in trouble. Well, tramp or no tramp I must help him. I'll see."

Unafraid, Nora walked to the spot whence the cry had proceeded. Her eye fell upon an object huddled together on the ground. As it was out of the beaten path she stepped from branches and logs to stones and rocks before she reached it. She stooped down and gazed at it intently; then she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"It's Miss Ethel!" she gasped. "God help her."

She was right. There lay Ethel Hollister -- the girl who had never liked her -- the girl from whom, no matter how hard she might try, Nora could get nothing beyond a cool "Thank you very much, Nora."

From the arm of this young woman trickled a stream of bright, red blood. Honora wondered if she was dead. She gently shook her.

"Miss Ethel!" she called once and twice, "Are ye much hurt?" Then she half lifted her to a sitting posture and Ethel opened her eyes.

"Oh, Miss Casey -- Honora!" she gasped feebly. "Thank God it is you who have found me. I have been so frightened. Two men were searching for me. I passed them on the road before my horse took fright and threw me. I heard them say: 'It must be the same girl. She rode a white horse. Now I know who she is. She's the niece of John Hollister. Her father is a rich New Yorker. We can sell the horse. We've got him safe, and we can keep the girl for a ransom. Probably she's injured and is lying somewhere around here.' Nora, I dared not breathe lest they should find me. I prayed to God as I've never prayed before to let them pass me and to send me help. He has answered my prayer and I'm grateful. When I heard your footsteps I thought they had returned. Oh! I am so glad that it's you," and she burst into tears.

Nora knelt down and took her by the hand.

"Where is your pain, my dear?" she asked.

"My leg. I guess it must be broken, and my arm -- -I have had that nearly cut off. The horse became frightened and unmangeable. He turned into these woods and started to run. I was knocked off by the branch of a tree. I don't know how long I've lain here -- it seems for hours. I must have fainted, but Nora the pain in my arm and leg is terrible. Whatever can we do?"

The girl's hat hung from the tree. Her hair was unloosed and hanging about her face. Evidently she was suffering agony, and to make matters worse upon the leaves overhead Nora heard a pattering of rain.

"This will never do," she said to herself. Not a sign of a house or a vehicle in sight. A damp chill pervaded the air. They were too far from the main road to seek assistance.

"Your arm has been cut by this jagged stone, Miss Ethel," said Nora, kneeling and starting to roll from the girl's arm the sleeve of her blouse. "I don't think there are any bones broken. But first I must stop its bleeding."

Nora, having had considerable experience with cuts, wounds and bruises, went to work as though she were about to teach the girls "first aid."

Her handkerchief was soiled. Ethel had lost hers. Both women wore silk petticoats. How could she manage to secure a bandage?

Suddenly her mother wit came to the rescue. She slipped off her linen skirt. It was perfectly clean. With her strong teeth she tore into strips the front breadth.

"Hark!" she exclaimed. "Glory be to God! I think I hear running water." She said it devoutly and in gratitude, for now it was water that she needed. Taking Ethel's hat from the tree she started up the road where to her joy she beheld a watering trough that was fed by a little waterfall trickling down the side of the rocks.

After thoroughly washing the long linen strips so as to be sure that the starch was out of them she filled Ethel's hat with water and hurried back.

"Here, dearie," she said, "Let me wash your face. I brought the water in your hat," and with the balance of her skirt she washed the girl's face and then proceeded to tear open the sleeve, cleansing the wound with a fresh hatful of water. She did it carefully and thoroughly, with the skill of a surgeon. It was an ugly wound, but she bound the arm firmly with the strips.

"There now! So much for that," ejaculated Nora, rising and pushing back from her brow one curly lock that always insisted upon falling over her eyes.

"Oh, Honora! you are an angel," exclaimed Ethel, "and I have always been so unfriendly."

Nora appeared not to hear but went on:

"Can you stand, my dear?" she asked.

"No," sobbed the girl, "I guess my leg must be broken. However are we to reach Camp? Oh, Nora, for God's sake don't leave me. I should die of fright were you to do so, and the men may be hiding near even now. Don't go, I beseech. I know I am selfish and I've been unkind to you, but forgive me, Nora. I'll be your slave after this if only you'll stay with me. Don't go for help. Just stay here until I die," and the girl fell to sobbing.

"I'm cold," she murmured -- "I'm so chilly, Nora," and she shivered.

Quickly Nora removed her heavy white sweater that she had just put on, and raising Ethel to a sitting posture she first put in her good arm. Then she fastened the sweater about the girl's neck.

"There, dear, that will keep you warm, and I'll not be after leaving you -- never fear -- not if we stay together all night in these woods. But I must think how we can manage with you and your injuries. Faith it's raining and you may catch your death."

"And I have your sweater on, Nora!" exclaimed Ethel. "Oh, how selfish I am."

"Keep still," replied Nora. "I couldn't wear it now, for I'm going to try and carry you home."

For a moment Nora gazed tentatively at Ethel. Then suddenly there appeared a dawn of hope in her strong honest face.

"Miss Ethel, listen," she began. "When a child did ye ever play pig-a-back? Perhaps I might get you home that way."

"Yes, Nora. Papa always carried me up to bed that way," and the girl burst into tears.

"Ye mustn't cry," said Nora. "If ye do I shan't be able to carry ye. Now wipe your pretty eyes and help me carry ye as Papa used to. Forget your pain and try to be patient, for, Ethel, we must reach camp some way. Doubtless they are searching for us even now, but this is a side road far from the main one. They'll never think to look here, nor could they hear us were we of call. And then those men you spoke of. They may be near. There's no time to lose. Get on my back and cling for dear life."

Nora had great sense. She realized that until she had thoroughly frightened Ethel she would not exert herself and forget her pain. Then, too, if what she had told her were true, the men might really be lying in wait to capture the supposed wealthy New York girl.

Sitting on the ground with her back before Ethel she first gently raised the wounded arm, bringing the other one around to meet it. Thanks to the low branch of a tree and to Nora's recent physical culture exercises, making an almost superhuman effort she arose with her burden on her back. Then grasping the girl's knees she held them firmly, thereby supporting her injured leg, and started for the road, stopping now and then by a fence or stone to take breath and rest. On and on in that failing light she bravely walked.

As she descended the hill she seemed to have gained new strength. Now and then she'd speak cheering words to the wounded girl, trying to encourage her to bear her pain. The rain pelted in Honora's face, often blinding her. The thunder rolled and the lightning played, but she showed no sign of faltering. Onward she went, even faster.

Soon to her joy she beheld the main road, and after a few more rods a light from the Camp Fire.

"Shure," she thought, "now I know why men in olden times looked for the fire from their camps. It does cheer a body and give them new life."

She was ready to drop when she reached Camp. Ethel was no light weight. While in Camp she had gained, and now she weighed nearly a hundred and thirty-seven pounds. As Nora neared home she saw parties of men about to start on searching tours. They had sent word by Mr. Adams to Harvey, and there he and his patrol stood ready to start. Uncle John with the second party were there as well. In some way the horse had escaped from the two men and had returned to Camp, but without Ethel. Then they knew that she had been thrown. And as for Nora, something dreadful must have happened to her, for Nora was so strong and self-reliant.

A shout rent the air when they beheld Nora Casey drenched to the skin, hatless, coatless, with nearly all of her skirt missing, and carrying on her back a hysterical, shrieking girl, while with no apparent effort she walked steadily towards them. Harvery Bigelow's admiration for one so strong and courageous showed itself on every line of his face.

Uncle John took Ethel from Nora and laid her on the Camp bed that had been brought from the tent.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Harvey as he examined Ethel's ankle and pronounced it a compound fracture, "you're all right, Miss Casey, first to staunch the blood and bandage her arm, and second to bind her ankle in such a surgeon-like manner, say nothing of carrying her on your back for over a mile and a half and holding her leg so that you saved her pain. I take off my hat to you, Miss Casey. You have the nerve and strength of a man."

"I don't see," said Uncle John, "how in the name of heaven you managed to raise her, wounded as she was, upon your back -- let alone bringing her through the pouring rain a dark night like this. Why! it's been a regular thunder shower. I'm glad that her mother knows nothing of it."

Nora sighed. She was very tired. Miss Kate came forward and put her arm around her.

"My dear, you are an honor to the Camp Fires. We owe a vote of thanks to this brave girl," and taking Nora's face between her hands she kissed her affectionately.

"I've done nothing wonderful," replied Nora simply, taking her sweater from Patty Sands. "Luckily I heard her moan and found her. I couldn't go away and leave her helpless and alone in a blinding storm, and two men waiting to seize her." Then she told Ethel's story of the conversation that she had overheard.

"Nor could we stay in the woods over night alone."

A buckboard appeared and Mrs. Hollister jumped out. She had heard of the accident through Mr. Adams and had made him bring her up.

After seeing Ethel for a few moments she rushed out and threw her arms about Nora.

"You are a dear brave girl," she sobbed, kissing her. "You have saved Ethel's life. Never while I live shall I forget it."

"Nor I," broke in Uncle John, grasping the hands of the girl. "Miss Nora, you're a fine young woman and you're father has cause to be proud of his daughter."

"Miss Nora," ejaculated Harvey, "allow me to congratulate you. You're a dead game sport," and he wrung her hands heartily, after which Teddy Kip grasped her by the arm saying:

"Why, Miss Casey, you're a regular Scout -- you are, and no mistake."

Nora smiled faintly.

"Thank you all," she said. "I am very tired. I think I shall go to bed. Good night."



Chapter X

A Heroine


So Nora Casey became the heroine of the Camp. An account of her bravery was in all the papers and the entire Camp was written up. The once neglected and disliked girl was now in a fair way to be spoiled. But Nora could not be spoiled. She was too sensible.

"I say, Miss Nora," exclaimed Harvey the next day, "I don't think I'd dare marry a woman with your strength. You'd put me to shame."

Nora laughed good naturedly.

"Quit yere blarney," she said.

As for Ethel, she couldn't bear to let Nora out of her sight, and Nora whose heart was tender and whose nature was forgiving devoted herself to the girl, reading aloud, relating funny stories of her father, and when tired of talking Patty, Mattie, she and Ethel would play bridge.

The men considered that Ethel had had a narrow escape. Uncle John consulted with Judge Sands as to what was best to do about the kidnapers. A few days later two suspicious looking creatures were arrested. They had escaped from Joliet jail and admitted having been for days in the woods. Ethel rode to the trial and identified their voices but she had not seen their faces. They were returned to jail in Joliet and before they left they confessed that they had contemplated finding the girl and holding her for a ransom. They were intending to sell the horse but they had not tied him securely and he had broken loose. They were ugly looking customers.

The next week before the breaking up of camp, when Mr. Casey came to take Nora home, everyone flocked around him telling of his daughter's brave act. He took Ethel by the hand and remarked simply:

"It was like Honora to do that. There's none more brave than she -- God bless her."

From that day Nora had no better friend than Ethel. She felt that the girl had saved her life and her gratitude was boundless.

"Tell me," asked; Nora, "why did you dislike me so?"

"I was wicked, Nora," replied Ethel, "I am ashamed of it now."

"But," persisted the girl, "did you think me vulgar?"

"No," replied Ethel. "I thought you had a loud voice, and there's something about a loud voice that I dislike. But even so I should have overlooked that, had I been a good girl. You are so far above me, Nora, that I am ashamed to even acknowledge it."

"Miss Ethel -- " said Nora.

"Call me Ethel in future," said the girl -- "please do."

"Well -- Ethel -- you are not the first one who has criticised my voice. My teachers have always done so, and even my mother used to say, 'Not so loud, Nora dear. Speak more gentle like.'"

"Did she?" asked Ethel.

"Yes, my mother had her faults, Ethel, but at heart she was a lady. So your dislike of me was not so strange after all."

"But," interrupted Ethel, "Nora, perhaps I wasn't thankful to hear your loud voice when I lay there wounded and helpless, and I'm ashamed to even have told you."

"I wish you to help me," broke in Nora. "I wish to make myself different -- more of a lady. Will you tell me when I talk too loud? It will be a favor if you will."

Ethel assented and kissed Nora affectionately.

Nannie Bigelow arrived and the girl became a general favorite. She at once fell in love with Nora.

"Why, she's a heroine," she said. "She'd give her life for another. I think she's splendid."

Nannie had much to say of their New York Camp Fire, and of the girls who belonged.

"You know some of them are quite unlike us, but Miss Westcott says they'll improve -- that being with us will make them more gentle. And you have no idea how they are improving. And as for Dorothy's nursery, it's just booming. There is a waiting list a mile long," and she chatted on, entertaining the girls with her talk.

At the next and last Council Meeting, the girls received honors for having slept three months out of doors, for learning to swim, and rowing twenty miles on the Muskingum River, and for sailing a boat without help for fifty miles. They also received extra honors for cooking, and for learning and making a mattress out of the twigs of trees; for long walks, and for washing and ironing, which the girls did well.

Whenever she looked at Nora, Ethel's conscience troubled her. She seemed to feel her own unworthiness. Mrs. Hollister suggested to Mr. Casey that Nora should visit them for a couple of months in the city.

"I'll gladly let her go to ye next winter, Ma'am, but not to visit. I would like her to be wid a grand lady like yourself, and if you'll let me pay her board I'll consider it a great favor. And if she might go to some fine school, Ma'am, where she could learn how to be a lady and stay at your house I would pay any price."

At first Mrs. Hollister objected to the money part, but Mr. Casey begged so hard that, realizing what Nora had done for Ethel, she felt she should be willing to do anything to benefit her. So she consented.

"You can put me anywhere," said Nora, "I will be like one of your family."

Mrs. Hollister put her arm around the girl.

"My dear," she said, "the best I have ought not to be good enough for you. It's little enough for me to take you, and I should like to do so without having your father pay me a penny."

So it was all arranged. In November, Nora was to become an inmate of the Hollister household.

Ethel had made up her mind to give the girl her room, she taking one on the top floor.

"I would gladly sleep on bare boards for her," she said to her mother, -- "the brave girl to whom I have been so unjust. I'm glad she's coming. I'll devote all my extra time to her happiness."



Chapter XI

Breaking Up Of Camp And A Surprise


The time had arrived for the girls to separate. The Scouts came up and carried Nannie off. She had become a great favorite. As Patty expressed it, Nannie was a comfortable visitor because she seemed to "belong." She made no fuss and adapted herself to their ways.

She promised to return the following summer and Harvey pronounced their camp as fine as any place they might select.

"So there's no reason why we boys should not come back, too; but you must let us entertain you Camp Fire girls next year. It's been all on your side this."

So they all went to the train to see them off, and people crowded around as though they might be a circus troupe, staring curiously at them and making remarks.

Then after saying goodbye the different members went to their homes. Ethel and her cousin Kate were to go to Akron for a week or so, as Uncle Archie Hollister was coming up to spend his vacation.

The girls met him at the train and Ethel was overjoyed.

"Oh, Papa," she said, "if only you could have been here before Camp broke up. But we are going up for the day and give you a regular Camp Fire dinner," and she kissed him affectionately.

"Next year I'll get off earlier," replied Mr. Hollister, "but our President was very ill and none of us liked to leave."

They gave Mr. Hollister a rousing dinner. Nearly all of the girls were present. They did their cooking like desserts, bread, etc., at home, but the meat, corn and potatoes were roasted on the coals. They had Uncle John, Judge Sands, Mr. Casey and Mr. Hollister for guests, and everything went off finely. Mr. Hollister was loud in his praises of the cooking, and in fact, the whole organization.

"It's great," he said, smacking his lips. "I think the person who invented it should have a gold medal."

They spent a few days at Columbus. Ethel went to see Mattie and her mother. She also spent the night with Nora. Their home was very handsome and Ethel could not help but respect kind-hearted Mr. Casey, who tried to make it so pleasant for her. She had grown very fond of Nora. She saw her good traits, -- her splendid unselfishness, and her tenderness towards her father as she tried to take her mother's place with him.

"What a narrow, selfish girl I've been," she thought, "never to have noticed them before. Why, the way Nora shielded Mattie when the girl took her ring was a lesson to me, and I never took it."

During their stay at Uncle John's Mrs. Hollister came up, and the meeting between her husband and self was like lovers. Ethel was glad.

"And it was I that kept them apart," she told Kate -- "I with my society and expensive schools. Poor Father! what could he do but grind from morning until night; and Mother with her hopes and ambitions -- what could she do? Why, they had no time to speak to each other except on business and money. It was all so false and wrong. Now they are as they should have been, but think of the lost years, and all for me." "Never think of it, Ethel," said Kate, "it's past and over. Everything has come smooth. Forget it, dear; you were not to blame."

Judge Sands called nearly every evening. He and Uncle Archie struck up quite a friendship. The Judge took him on auto trips far into the country, Kate, Patty, and Ethel going along.

One evening, after they all had gone back to Akron, Judge Sands called Patty into the library.

"I wish to have a little talk with you, my dear," he said.

"Are you going to scold me for running over my allowance last month?" she replied, "because if you are I just couldn't help it. I wanted to give all of the girls a little remembrance, and -- "

"Patty, my child, have I ever scolded you for anything -- think? Haven't you done exactly as you chose since your childhood?"

"Yes," replied the girl, "but I know that there are times when you should scold me, Papa, for I know I am self-willed and disobedient."

"Well, we shall forget that. You're a pretty good girl considering that you have but one parent. Now this is what I wish to see you about. Your mother died when you were three, dear, and you've been with me ever since. It's been lonely for both of us at times, and for me especially so while you are away at school. Patty, how should you like a mother? Of course, no one can take the place of her who has gone, but I mean another one."

The girl began to cry.

"I should not like it, Papa."

Then she looked at him. He was a handsome man, and if ever she were to marry he would be alone, in the prime of life.

"I suppose I'm selfish," she sobbed, clinging to him, "but I should hate a stepmother. Think of her taking Mamma's place. Oh, Papa! I couldn't bear it."

"But supposing she was a woman of whom you were fond. Would you feel that way then?"

"I couldn't be fond of her."

"You might be fond of her already," said the Judge.

"Who -- who can it be?" asked Patty, wiping her eyes and pushing back her hair.

The Judge smiled.

"Think, my dear."

"Is it Miss Kate Hollister?" cried the girl joyfully. "Tell me quick."

Then Judge Sands blushed like a schoolboy.

"Yes," he said, "she is the only woman who can take your mother's place, Patty. No -- not that -- no one can take her dear place; but she is the only woman upon earth whom I should ask to be my wife."

Then Patty jumped up and kissed her father many times.

"Oh, Papa!" she said, "why didn't you tell me at first and not frighten me to death. Oh! I should love her so, and I should never be jealous of her. Are you engaged?"

"No," laughed the Judge, "I have never asked her. I thought you deserved the compliment of being first consulted on the matter."

"But, Papa, perhaps she'll refuse you."

"That's my end of it," laughed her father, "but when I do ask her I wish to say that you desire it, too, for Kate might not think it agreeable to you."

"Papa, she's got to say 'yes.' I'll go along and make her if you wish. I'd just love her for a mother," and the girl clung to his neck and wept. "I only now realize how lonely you must have been all these years, and you've done it for me. But don't let her refuse. Tell her I desire it above all things."

"All right, dearie," said the Judge. "I'll go tonight."

"And wake me up, Papa. I shall be so anxious."

Judge Sands laughed and promised.

That night no matter how hard Patty tried she couldn't keep awake. Now that she knew who it was that her father desired she was happy, and one can always sleep when one is happy.

The Judge ran up the stairs two steps at a time and woke his daughter with a kiss.

"Will she, Papa?"

"Yes, dear," he answered. "She has been good enough to say 'yes.' We'll make her happy, won't we, Patty?"

"We shall," replied the girl. "And how young you seem to have grown!" she gasped. "I never noticed it before. I'm glad for you and I'm glad for her. She's a dear. I've always loved her and she's such a stunning looking woman, too. I tell you, we'll be proud of her, Papa."

They talked for half an hour over the virtues of Miss Kate, and each went to sleep thinking of how lovely she was.

When Kate and Patty met they said not a word, but from the quiet, sincere embrace each knew that the other would try and make her happy.

Congratulations poured in from all sides. Archie and his wife with Aunt Susan, Grandmother and Tom, motored all the way over to Columbus to offer theirs. Ethel was wild with joy.

"Why," she exclaimed, "everything is getting better! People are doing such sensible things lately, just as they should do. Isn't it wonderful? But, Tom, I always thought that you cared for Cousin Kate."

"So I have all along, but just as I was considering, in walked the Judge and took her off under my very nose. While I was a poor lawyer I felt that she might refuse me and I took no chances, but I never imagined she'd look at a man of his age. She's certainly met the one for her. What a splendid couple they'll make."

"You always were slow, Tom; that's your fault," laughed Ethel, "and you'll always get left. It serves you right."

"Yes, that's going to be my fate, I fear. Before I can muster up courage to propose, these girls will be snatched up -- every one of them."

Judge Sands and Kate were to be married in November. They were to go to New York, Washington, etc., on a wedding trip, after which they were to meet Patty and sail for Egypt to be gone indefinitely.

"Oh, dear! who can take your place at Camp?" said the girls. "We'll never find another Guardian like you."

"I'll ask Louise Morehouse," said Miss Kate. "She's lovely, and very much interested in this Camp Fire movement. She'll be one of you just as I have been."

"Yes, and then she'll meet someone and go off and marry," said Mollie Long. "There should be a law against it. A Guardian should be obliged to serve for five years unmarried -- it isn't fair," and the girls voted that Mollie was correct.



Chapter XII

Mattie Makes Good


After Camp had broken up, Mattie Hastings, who was now associated with a Woman's Exchange in Columbus, started one afternoon to call for Patty Sands. It was Saturday and the Exchange closed early. Mattie was doing well. She received a good salary and her heart was light. Her sister was beginning to walk. The doctors considered that next year she could discard her brace. The child was not only attending school but she was learning many useful things and Mattie was happy. Her mother had entirely given up the drug habit; her father was with Judge Sands and everything seemed as though it had come straight like a fairy story.

This lovely autumn afternoon they were going to Sallie Davis's to look at a wonderful centerpiece done by her mother. Mattie, whose fingers were extremely clever, had offered to do the work of copying it, while Patty was to pay for the silks, linen, etc. Then, jointly, they were to give it to Miss Kate for an engagement present. In case the servant should be out Sallie had given Patty her latch key.

"This is Sophronia's day out, and mother is going to a bridge party. I have an engagement, so here's the key. When you leave the flat, put it on the hall stand. Sophronia and mother will be back before I am, and they will let me in. I'll leave the centerpiece on the piano."

The apartment was on the seventh story and commanded a wonderful view of the city. After looking at the centerpiece and studying the different stitches the girls went to a window and looked out.

"Have you put the key on the hall stand?" asked Mattie.

"Yes," replied Patty. "I put it there when I first came in."

Suddenly Mattie exclaimed:

"I smell smoke."

They looked around. The odor was plainly perceptible.

"Let's go into the kitchen," said Patty.

Together they ran through the pantry and opened the kitchen door. The smoke was very thick.

"Why, Mattie, the house is afire!" said Patty Sands. "Let's get out quickly."

They opened the hall door, closing it tightly after them. They had far better have stayed in the apartment and have descended by the fire escape, but they thought of it too late. The hall door had locked behind them. The outer halls were black with smoke. People were rushing wildly up and down. The entrance leading to the roof was locked. The elevator boy called "last trip," and opened the iron doors. Frightened women and little children crowded in with servants and elderly people.

"Room for one more," yelled the boy, "quick, for God's sake!"

"You go, Mattie," said Patty.

"You go." Then Mattie Hastings lifted Patty Sands up bodily and fairly threw her into the crowded elevator.

"If the cable holds I'll come back, Miss," cried the boy half choked with smoke.

Through the smoke Mattie peered at the cable. Through the shaft she saw the angry flames shooting upward. The sparks were flying. The elevator had made its last trip and she realized it. She turned to the hall window and looked down upon the crowd. A ladder was raised. Someone had seen her.

"Thank God!" she said, "I may yet be saved."

The smoke was now black and the flames came nearer and nearer to the brave girl, who so unselfishly had given her place to her friend. She leaned out of the window. She watched the fireman ascending. Then she knew no more but fell back into the flames unconscious.

"I've got her," said the fireman, "but I guess she's gone. No one could live in the smoke up there. She's badly burned, too, poor girl -- her back and arms. Lift her carefully, boys."

Patty rushed forward. "She has given her life for me," she shrieked. "Mattie, Mattie dear! don't you hear me? Speak -- oh! speak to Patty."

The dying girl opened her eyes and half smiled. Patty knelt beside her and put her ear close to Mattie's mouth.

"Patty," she whispered, "tell Ethel that I made good."

Then she closed them wearily and the brave soul of Mattie Hastings passed on.

It took Patty Sands many years to recover from the shock of her friend's death. She was too ill to even know when the funeral took place. She had told her father and Kate of Mattie's last words. Ethel Hollister sent a telegram requesting that Mattie's funeral might be postponed until she arrived. The Camp Fire girls were the pallbearers.

Fortunately the cruel flames had left Mattie's face untouched and she looked lovely. The church was crowded to overflowing, as well as the street. The text of the sermon was:

"Greater love hath no man than he who lays down his life for a friend."

Mattie had "given service" as well as laying down her life for a friend, and the whole town marvelled at her bravery.



Chapter XIII

Judge Sands And Kate Marry


In November Kate was married. The wedding was quiet, as Patty was still an invalid. They took her with them and left her at Mrs. Hollister's while they went on their trip. Nora had arrived for the winter two weeks before. Mrs. Hollister had entered her in Madam La Rue's school. Ethel had insisted upon giving Nora her room and had moved up stairs.

The three girls were sad. They talked of Mattie and Patty cried constantly. So after a while they avoided speaking of her in her presence.

Nora looked like one to the manner born. Mrs. Hollister, having carte blanche to buy for her anything she saw fit, purchased the loveliest second mourning costumes imaginable, and Nora wore them remarkably well. She had grown more quiet since Mattie's death. A great change seemed to have come over her. She was one of Madam's brightest pupils and very popular. Mrs. Hollister was genuinely fond of her and they went everywhere together.

When Mr. Casey came to New York he was surprised at the change. He'd say to Mrs. Hollister:

"Faith, ma'am, it's a perfect lady you're afther makin' of my girl. Her mother would bless you were she here," and Mrs. Hollister would reply:

"She is naturally a perfect lady, Mr. Casey, so it's not hard work. I consider Nora a very superior girl and I'm very fond of her," at which the father's eyes would grow half tearful, and he'd seem proud to hear it.

Nannie Bigelow and Nora became very intimate and she was made much of by Dorothy Kip and Sara Judson. Nora took an active interest in the Day Nursery and donated generously for its maintenance. Twice a week she'd go and read to the elder children and get on the floor and play with the younger ones, for she adored babies. She was especially sweet and generous to Grandmother, spending hours with her lest she should become lonely. It was like a mother and daughter, instead of a girl and chaperon, to see Mrs. Hollister and Nora go about together.

"I wish I had a son, Nora," said that lady one day. "Then I should never have to see you leave me."

Nora blushed rosy red, saying:

"I wish you had, Mrs. Hollister. I dislike to think of our separation."

Mr. Casey sent the most wonderful barrels of apples and potatoes from his own place to the Hollisters, and when he came to New York he'd order fruit from the most expensive fruiterers to be sent three times a week, say nothing of boxes of flowers which came regularly throughout the entire winter.



Chapter XIV

A Birthday Present


On one of Mr. Casey's flying trips to the city it happened to be Mrs. Hollister's birthday. Nora told him of the fact and after school together they whisked away in a taxi to shop. Upon their return he presented Mrs. Hollister with a large box, and in the most delicate manner begged her to accept it as a slight token of his gratitude for her interest in and kindness to Nora.

"Ye've been a mother to my girl and she loves ye well. Her own mother -- God rest her soul -- as I've often told ye, would be proud of her, and she'd know better what to give a lady, but if ye'll accept these, ma'am, Nora and I will be pleased."

Mrs. Hollister was visibly affected. She actually wiped her eyes.

"I will accept them with pleasure, Mr. Casey," she said, "but don't forget Nora is a great comfort to all of us. We have grown to love her as our own," and she opened the box thinking it might contain a pretty waist or something of that sort when to her surprise there she beheld a most magnificent set of sables. She couldn't speak. The poor woman had never dared to dream of owning such a thing. Her heart stood still and she turned and took Nora in her arms, kissing her fondly. Then she shook Mr. Casey's hand as though she would never stop.

"Mr. Casey, you are too generous. I have always loved sables, but I never expected to own a set. I don't know how to thank you for your kindness."

"Say nothing about it," replied the man. "Nora and I consider it a privilege if ye'll wear our gifts, don't we, Nora?"

"Indeed we do," replied the girl. "There are so many things that you do for me, Mrs. Hollister, that money can not compensate."

Ethel was now eighteen. One evening Harvey Bigelow invited her to the theatre. On their way home he asked her if she ever could care for him enough to become his wife.

"Oh, Harvey!" gasped Ethel, "I am so sorry. Why did you spoil our lovely friendship? I'll have to answer 'no,' and I dislike to hurt your feelings."

"That's all right, little girl," said Harvey, swallowing hard. "I was an ass to even imagine that you could care for me, but you see I'm coming on so well that I shall soon put out my sign, and I felt that you might be such a help to me; that is, if you could care for me a little bit."

"And there are so many nice girls," she said, "waiting for just such a good man as yourself."

"But, Ethel, I don't want any girl. I want one. If I can't have her I guess I'll stay single. Anyway, I suppose a man needs to practice a lot before he marries. There's a couple of years in the Hospital. But I'm glad I know the truth, Ethel. By Jove! it's off my chest. I've tried to speak of it before but I couldn't."

"I wish I could say 'yes,' Harvey; but can't we still remain the good pals that we are?"

"Why, sure," replied the man, and he took her hand. "A man needs a woman friend, don't you think?"

"Yes," replied Ethel, "and I hope to prove my friendship for you."

Ethel never spoke of her proposal, nor did Harvey; but there was a firmer bond between them than formerly.

Patty wrote often. "You never saw two people so in love as Papa and Kate. It is wonderful and remarkably right. I only feel sorry to think that through all of these years they might have been so happy, and I'm sure papa kept single for me. How selfish daughters are, Ethel; and at the same time how little they realize that they are selfish."

Ethel folded the letter and said:

"What she writes is true. You and Papa might have had all of the years of my youth to be happy in, but you sacrificed them for me, and they'll never, never come back."

"That's all right," said her mother, kissing her. "My happiness since you entered college has compensated for it, believe me, my dear little girl," and she kissed her tenderly.



Chapter XV

Mrs. Hollister Entertains


That winter Mrs. Hollister again had her teas and bridge parties, but there was no more worry about where the money was coming from; in fact, thanks to Mr. Casey's generosity she was able to pay all of her bills and put some away for a rainy day. Her little functions were delightful as usual, and the young people came in throngs to the house.

Ethel was happy in seeing her mother so contented, and in knowing that her father had no more worries. Grandmother had grown younger, and better than all, after Christmas Tom was coming to bring Aunt Susan. He had business East and he was to leave her for three weeks, after which he was to return for her.

Nora seemed less sad. She had developed into a very stylish up-to-date young woman and everyone admired and liked her.

Mrs. Hollister was in her glory. Things for her were now so comfortable and easy that she couldn't believe but what it was a dream from which she might awaken and find everything the same old way.

Mrs. Bigelow made much of Nora, taking her around and introducing her to her friends. Harvey called regularly and invited her twice a week to the theatre. He was now a young surgeon in Roosevelt Hospital on the ambulance, with a fine career open before him, and what's more he worked very hard -- often until late at night. People prophesied a great future for Harvey and his parents were delighted, but none more so than Ethel, whose encouragement was genuine and like the encouragement of a sister.

Teddy Kip kept up a great correspondence with Patty, who sent him postals from every place.

"By George!" he said to the Hollisters, "do you know I correspond with three girls who are abroad and they never write letters -- only postals -- and if you believe it, I've got nearly a hamper filled with them -- 'pon my word I have. If only Miss Patty would write a fellow a real letter once in a while I'd be grateful."

Nora received a letter from Edna Whitely.

"I have some news for all of your girls. Mollie Long and Sallie Davis are going to marry clergymen. They are brothers. Sallie's husband is going to be a missionary to China."

"Isn't that awful?" said Mrs. Hollister. "Sallie will be massacred as sure as fate -- that's the end of missionaries. I had a second cousin who went and both she and her husband were victims. I wouldn't allow a child of mine to marry one. Let him stay in his own country, but to drag a young girl out into those heathen places -- it's an outrage."

"Well, our Ohio Camp Fire will resolve itself into only half, I fear," said Nora. "There's poor Mattie, Miss Kate, Sallie and Mollie from right there. I wonder who's going to take their places."

"Perhaps," said Ethel, "little Mollie Hastings if she's pronounced cured. It may be of great benefit to her. Let's see what can be done."

"Dorothy Kip might become an Ohio girl and spend her summers up there with us too," suggested Nora. "And if Dr. Bigelow goes with the Scouts Nannie can join."

"We'll see," replied Ethel. "It's quite a few months before next summer. 'Sufficient unto the day, etc.'"

Ethel was getting along famously at Barnard.

"What profession shall you follow -- the law or ministry?" Harvey would ask jokingly.

"Something that shall enable me to become self supporting," Ethel would reply seriously.

"There's where you make a mistake," said Harvey. "A woman was made to be supported by a man -- not to support herself."

"Why not?" asked Ethel. "How many wives today support their husbands? Have you any idea of the number?"

"Oh, well, then it's because the men are lazy or sick. No decent, self-respecting man would allow it."

"Supposing a woman can not marry. She can't propose to a man. What can she do in that case -- starve? No, Dr. Bigelow, you can't even argue. Every woman should have in her hand, say, a weapon or trade with which to take care of herself. Then when the time comes she's ready to start in the battle of life, and not sit around helpless while others do for her, or become dependent upon charity, or worse. The day of Elsie Dinsmores has gone. In her place we have strong, capable, broad-minded women. Seldom do we hear of a woman fainting today, yet look back sixty years and recall the Lydia Languish females with long ringlets and wasp waists, who invariably carried smelling salts. I'm proud to belong to the women of today -- healthy, strong, athletic, and brave -- women who do and are not ashamed of it. Look at Aunt Susan. There's a woman who is an example. I hope I may amount to as much as she before I die."

"Ethel, I fear you are strong-minded," laughed Harvey.

"Don't fear, but know it. I try to be strong in mind and body. I believe in a woman getting all that's coming to her and working for that end."

Harvey laughed.

"Well, I shan't argue with you."

"Because you agree with me, and you know it," said Ethel quietly. "You have made yourself amount to something. Look where you were three years ago. What were your views of life then? A rich marriage. Behold the change! Now you are a man."

"Thanks," said Harvey, rising and making a low bow.



Chapter XVI

Christmas Eve


Christmas was near. The Hollisters wrote and invited Mr. Casey to spend the Christmas holidays with them. They also wrote Tom Harper to see if it were possible to bring Aunt Susan to be with them during the holidays. Tom replied he would make it possible. So they were to have a house full.

Nora and Ethel vied in dressing up the rooms tastefully with holly and mistletoe. Every chandelier and door had a piece of mistletoe fastened above it.

"What a grand kissing time there'll be," said Archibald. "When do we begin -- on Christmas morning?"

"Now, Papa, don't you get gay," laughed Ethel. "You've led an exemplary life for fifty years. Please keep on and don't let this mistletoe make of you a different man."

Well -- first came Mr. Casey. Every day he and Nora boarded a taxi and went shopping, returning with huge boxes and parcels which gradually filled Nora's closets as well as under her bed.

Then came Tom and Aunt Susan, even looking younger than before.

"Really it's ridiculous, Aunt Susan," said Ethel, "for you to keep growing so much younger and more stylish. You've got to stop."

And the bell rang so often that Mrs. Hollister was obliged to hire an extra maid for Christmas week. Everyone was so perfectly happy that it was a joy to enter the house. Harvey was there as often as his hospital practice would admit of, and he was the first to kiss Aunt Susan under the mistletoe; and Aunt Susan, if you please, now appeared in the daintiest of gowns -- up-to-date and rather youthful. Ethel and Grandmother laughed over it.

"Why, Grandmother, how old is Aunt Susan?"

"She's about sixty-one," said her sister -- "why?"

"Nothing, but I've been thinking wouldn't it be funny if she should marry again? She's mighty attractive in her up-to-date gowns."

"I don't see whom she could marry," said Grandmother with some asperity, "unless Mr. Casey or Dr. Bigelow." Ethel laughed.

Christmas eve arrived. They had a large tree and distributed the gifts. Everyone received exactly what he or she desired. Mr. Casey's generosity was boundless. He gave Mrs. Hollister a small limousine with the understanding that all bills should be sent to him.

"Madam," he said, "you and Nora have a great deal of shopping and social duties to perform. Nora tells me that you go by the cars and rarely in a taxi, and that you seldom allow her to pay her fare. Now this will set everything right, and Grandmother -- God bless her -- must have her ride daily. It is money well invested, for you and Nora can take comfort. I have engaged a good chauffeur and have made arrangements with a garage near by. All bills are to be sent to me. Nora will attend to the sending of them."

Mrs. Hollister couldn't speak. They stood under the mistletoe. She just raised herself up and gave Mr. Casey two hearty smacks, at which there arose a shout.

"I shan't try to thank you," she said, "for I can not."

Then another surprise came in shape of a wonderful diamond la valliere or pendant, and poor Mrs. Hollister was most embarrassed.

"Mr. Casey," she said, "you are going to get me in wrong. People may criticise me."

Then Tom's present came -- a lovely grey silk evening wrap trimmed with chinchilla, and verily Mrs. Hollister was nearly off her head.

Grandmother received a long silk coat lined with fur and trimmed with a large lynx collar and cuffs -- from Mr. Casey also.

"Don't think that I bought out a furrier," he said, "but I know people always need them."

Ethel received a lovely pendant from Mr. Casey and one from Tom, while Nora presented her with a beautiful diamond ring.

Everyone was happy this Christmas eve and strange to say Mr. Casey took Aunt Susan right under the mistletoe and kissed her, which made Grandmother laugh immoderately.

During one of the moments when people were rather quiet, Harvey Bigelow took Nora by the hand and walked up to Mr. Casey who was standing under the mistletoe; in fact, he had stood nowhere else during the evening.

"Mr. Casey," he said, "I ask of you the most valuable gift that a father can give. I ask the hand of this dear girl," and he kissed Nora gently.

Mr. Casey, who had imbibed somewhat plentifully of punch, and who was quite warm, looked at the two for a moment.

"An' is it this that ye two have been up to?" he said. "Nora, me child, do ye wish it to be?"

"Yes, Papa," faltered the girl, "I love Harvey."

"An' suppose I withhold my consent -- what then?"

"Then I shall still love him, but I shall never marry without it."

"Hear that now. Nora, my good girl," and taking her hand he placed it in Harvey's, "I give her to ye. All I ask is that ye shall make her happy. Let her niver regret this day -- that's all," and he wiped his eyes.

Nora flung her arms around him while Harvey wrung his hand.

"You'll never have cause to regret, nor shall she," he said. "I'll love and cherish her until death parts us, and I'll work for her so that she'll be proud of me."

Ethel kissed them both; in fact, so did everyone. Aunt Susan and Tom were delighted.

"I always liked him," she said. "Anyone who looks me square in the eye, Mr. Casey, I'll bank on every time."

It was long after midnight when the Xmas party broke up. The young man who had always played at Mrs. Hollister's teas for the sum of three dollars played the Virginia Reel, and everyone danced, -- even Grandmother. Mr. Casey took so many funny fancy steps that it was hard to get him through with the figures, after which Nora and Ethel showed the elderly people how to dance the turkey trot, which of course was shocking. When the young musician left he was richer by fifty dollars -- gifts of Mr. Casey, Tom Harper, and Mrs. Hollister, for she told of how lovely his mother was and how she had been her bridesmaid.

"And here's a gift for her," said Mr. Casey. "Take it and buy her a fur-lined coat," at which everyone shouted, for poor Mr. Casey's gifts had all been so comfortable and warm.

"Niver mind," he laughed, "I bet she'll like one. And give her me compliments and a Merry Christmas. And let me have your address, sir."



Chapter XVII

Christmas Day


It was a typical Christmas day. There was even snow on the ground. The pretty limousine stood before the Hollisters' door and a well-groomed good-looking chauffeur was taken in and presented to Mrs. Hollister, his future mistress. Grandmother, in her handsome new cloak, and Aunt Susan with Mr. Casey, took the first ride. Mr. Casey was in high spirits over Nora's choice.

"Shure they till me that he has a great future."

"Of course he has," said Grandmother. "Why, he's advanced to the operating room and he is in line to be second assisting surgeon. Think, Mr. Casey, of the lives he may save. I think Nora has made a wise choice, and he cared for her for herself -- not for her money -- for he's always said that his wife's money should be settled on herself -- that only the husband should pay the bills. And Nora, dear child, has improved so. She's grown so handsome and has a face full of character."

"That's so, ma'am. I would that her poor mother -- God rest her soul -- could but see her."

"She does," said Aunt Susan. "I firmly believe that our loved ones see us and are near us constantly. Wait a bit; I have to stop," and Mr. Casey got out at a market.

"Now what is he up to?" said Grandmother. "Susan, he's the kindest-hearted and most generous man that I ever knew."

They could catch a glimpse of him now and then. Presently he emerged with an immense basket containing a large turkey, a pair of ducks, and paper bags of vegetables, and in one corner a smaller basket of delicious fruit and a couple of wreaths. From a card he read an address to the chauffeur, who placed the Christmas basket beside him.

"Now where is he going, I wonder?" said Aunt Susan. "Perhaps some of his poor relations."

The chauffeur drove up before a cheap flat, alighted, and left the basket. Returning he nodded "yes" to Mr. Casey.

Mr. Casey said in a hesitating manner:

"The young piano player, -- I thought I'd surprise him and his mother. Mrs. Hollister speaks highly of the mother and I need just such a young man with me in Columbus. I think I can find an opening for him in my office; if not, in the office of some of my friends. There are too many young men in New York; there are not enough places for them all. Now wid me they have a chance to advance, and when I'm gone they'll take my place. I've no son."

"Yes," said Grandmother, "this young musician supports his mother. My daughter-in-law says that the mother comes from a good old family. She and Mrs. Hollister were at school together in Elmira, New York state. Then when my son married Bella this lady was her bridesmaid. Bella said she was a raving beauty, but she married a man who drank himself to death, leaving her with her child alone in the world and without a penny. The boy was musical and someone taught him how to play. He used to go to school through the day and practice at night. Then he graduated and obtained a position as clerk, receiving a very moderate salary. Bella met them one night in the cars and had them come up to the house. She did all that she could for them, and employed him every time she had a tea or needed music. He played well and was glad to get his little three dollars. I know that Bella always sent home a box of refreshments to the mother."

"Well, I shall persuade them to go back wid me, and they'll have enough then, I'm thinkin'."

"Mr. Casey, you are a good man," said Aunt Susan. "The world would be better if we had more like you."

"But, Mrs. Carpenter, I think this way. The Lord has been good to me. He has caused me to prosper. Why should I consider it all me own? No, I think whenever I can help a fellow man He expects me to do so -- that's all -- and I try to make good."

The elderly women made no reply. He was a rough self-made man -- a Roman Catholic, although not a churchman, who could give them points on charity and who did his good deeds quietly and without boasting. Mr. Casey was a Scout, although not a young one, for that was the way they were taught to do their good deeds.

Upon their arrival home he directed the chauffeur to get his dinner or luncheon and return, and after the Hollister luncheon, Nora, Harvey, Ethel and Tom went to Van Courtlandt Park, where there was skating, returning in time for six o'clock dinner.

"I think, ma'am," said Mr. Casey, "we have monopolized your car pretty well, and you never have been inside of it."

"But I'm too busy, Mr. Casey. Today is Christmas and I love to view it from the window. Just to think that it belongs to me! I can't realize it. Mr. Casey, you are my fairy Godfather and nothing else. How can I ever repay you?"

"By always being a mother to my girl, ma'am, as ye have been since she met ye. Why, ye deserve a whole garage of automobiles for the kindness ye've shown her, and see the good man she now has through ye. Don't thank me, ma'am. It's ourselves who can't thank ye enough."



Chapter XVIII

Another Surprise


After a delicious Christmas dinner the Bigelows came over. They welcomed and embraced Nora. Mrs. Bigelow really seemed sincere on this occasion. Mr. Casey liked them at once, especially Mr. Bigelow and Nannie.

"They'll make her happy all right. My girl has chosen wisely," he thought.

Tom and Ethel went out together during Christmas week. They skated and visited all the art galleries, enjoying every moment. They had many serious talks, and Ethel took Tom to call on several of her friends. The girls voted him delightful and Ethel was proud of him. They spoke of Mattie Hastings.

"Tom, Patty will never get over it," she said, "of that I'm sure."

"Ethel, don't you see, Patty witnessed it, and the shock is indelibly stamped on her memory. Time will help remove it -- nothing else."

"But what a brave act, wasn't it?" continued Ethel. "Patty sends orders for flowers once a week for her grave, and they say it looks very lovely. And I even disliked her once. I said her eyes were too close together and I misjudged her. Then I fairly hated Nora -- think! -- she who saved my life. Each one has done something. What have I done? Whom have I benefited? Who is better for having had me for a friend?"

They were sitting on a bench in the picture gallery of the Metropolitan Museum Ethel looked very lovely. She wore a bunch of Tom's orchids and a grey velvet suit. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were burning red. She was visibly excited. Tom saw that she felt her life had been a failure.

"Ethel," he said, taking her hand, "think of the joy you have brought to Aunt Susan. Can't you see how much happier she is today than when you first knew her? Look at Nora. Through you she has changed from an awkward girl into a cultivated and charming woman, engaged to a fine young physician belonging to one of New York's oldest families. Indirectly you are responsible for it all. Look at little Mary Hastings. Through you she has been, or will be completely cured of her spine trouble. And lastly, look at me, Ethel, you have brought sunshine and happiness into my life. It is not always the big things that go to make happiness. It is the small things as well; and in your sweet, quiet way you have scattered light and joy in many paths. I had not intended, my dear, to speak to you of my love. I wished to wait until I had more of a name for you, and until you had come out and had a chance to choose from many men more worthy perhaps than I, but I can not keep my secret. I love you, dear, and I would have you for my wife. Can I hope? Do you care for me a little?"

Ethel's eyes shone like stars. She looked up into his face and said:

"I care for you a great deal, -- until you spoke I never knew how much. If you wish I will be your wife."

Then Tom lifted her hand to his lips.

"I will make you as happy as I know how," he said. "I had a feeling that I couldn't keep my secret back after today. Come, dear, let us go and tell them all; and never under-rate yourself again."

People stared at the handsome couple and at their beaming faces. Joy was stamped on their countenances and happiness shone from their eyes.

When they arrived home, Tom walked up to Mrs. Hollister, and kissing her he said:

"I have asked Ethel to be my wife. Will you and Mr. Hollister give her to me?"

Mrs. Hollister gasped.

"Why Tom! Ethel! Is it true?"

Ethel put her arm around her mother.

"Yes, Mamma, Tom has asked me to marry him and I said 'yes,' for I know that you and Papa like him. Now you say 'yes' -- do dear."

"Yes, I will say it gladly. Tom, I have always liked you and I'm sure you and Ethel will be happy. I give my consent with all my heart," and Tom took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

"Thank you," he said, "you have given me a precious gift. You shall never regret it."

Then they sought Mr. Hollister and were closeted with him for a long time, after which Grandmother and Aunt Susan had to be told, and lastly Nora.

So that Christmas brought two engagements in the Hollister circle.

Ethel decided to finish college before marrying, and Nora her school. The men had to be content.

"We'll have one more year at Camp anyway," said Nora. "I shall be glad to spend my last single summer there."

"And Tom and Harvey will practically be with us," said Ethel. "Nora, are you not a happy girl?"

"I am," said Nora.

"So am I," rejoined Ethel.



Chapter XIX

Mr. Casey Buys A House


Aunt Susan at once began to make plans. In the meanwhile Mr. Casey asked Mr. Hollister and his mother to give him a few moments conversation on business.

"I understand that ye own this house, ma'am," he began. "What would ye sell it for?"

Mrs. Hollister looked at her son.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I'm about to buy a house for Nora and the Doctor, and I want to buy one in this neighborhood. I also have a proposition to make to ye, Mr. Hollister. Frankly, what might be yere salary?"

Mr. Hollister reddened.

"I mean no disrespect or pryin', sir. It is a business proposition I have to make to ye, before I do to anyone else."

"My salary is three thousand a year, Mr. Casey," said Archibald Hollister. "I'm with an old and respected firm and have been with them for thirty years."

"Thin they don't value your services as they should, -- pardon my sayin'. This minnit they ought to give ye more. Now I need a man like yourself to be me representative in New York. I give you the first option. Will ye come and accept the position for six thousand a year?"

Mr. Hollister acted dazed. Grandmother spoke up:

"Answer, Archibald,"

But still Archibald kept quiet.

"Is it because ye think it not honorable to leave them? Thin tell thim that I have offered ye more and see if they will do the same. I'll give you a week to see."

"And now, ma'am, I have heard that ye wished to sell. Yere Granddaughter will marry and this house will be too big for the three of yees. A pretty apartment on the Park will be far better for ye. What is yere price for the house?"

"We refused thirty thousand for it in 1900," replied Mrs. Hollister, "and real estate has increased in value since that."

"Very well," said Mr. Casey, "I know what ye say is true, and I will pay a fair price. I will give ye fifty thousand for this house, ma'am, and I will have it remodeled for my girl."

"I will accept," said Mrs. Hollister, in a prompt businesslike way. "There is no mortgage on the house," she added.

"Yere more of a business woman than yere son. Faith, he's worryin' over hurtin' feelings of his employers I do be thinkin'," and Mr. Casey laid back and laughed.

But Archibald felt as though the earth was slowly slipping from under his feet. His luck was changing too rapidly. It was coming upon him too late in life, and Mr. Casey! Well, he was indeed the fairy Godfather. He and his wife had so longed for an apartment overlooking the Park, but Grandmother would never hear of selling.

"When I die will be time enough," she would say, and now she had actually seemed glad. And to think she would have fifty thousand dollars to live on for the rest of her life. Then this new offer from Mr. Casey, double the salary he was now receiving -- it was like a dream. And his girl engaged to one of the finest men in the West. God was too good to him -- he didn't deserve it.

His wife was overjoyed.

"Oh, Archie," she said "how wonderful it all is. It seems to have happened since Ethel joined the Camp Fire girls. I'm sure they have brought her luck. They have brought Nora to us and her dear father, who has been so generous, and but for the Camp Fire she never would have met Nora. Isn't it strange?"

Archibald Hollister laid the case before the Company by which he had been employed for thirty years, not telling how much his new salary was to be.

"Mr. Hollister," they said, "we can not afford to increase your salary. To be sure you have served us faithfully, but you are no longer young, and you know we need young blood in business. There are plenty waiting for your place."

That was a terrible blow to Archibald. He had not expected to get three thousand extra, but he had looked for an increase of a thousand rather than they should let him go, and to hear them calmly sit and tell him that they needed young blood was too much. He left the office, and the next morning in place of Archibald Hollister there arrived his resignation. So thirty years of faithfulness to their interests and strict attention to business didn't count with them, and there he had been so loyal to the concern!

"Ah!" said Mr. Casey, "what did I tell ye? Do ye think these corporations care for the man? No. It's for what they can get out of him -- for the amount of work he can do, and for how small a salary. Let them hire their young blood and you come along with me, and we'll see how much better off they'll be!"



Chapter XX

Archibald's Change For The Better


So Archibald Hollister found himself the New York manager of a large Ohio Realty Company, with four clerks under him and a couple of handsome offices; and Mr. Casey was proud of his personal appearance, for Archibald was a handsome man. One of the clerks was the young fellow who on Christmas eve had played Money Musk for them to dance the Virginia Reel, and whose mother received on the following morning the Christmas basket from Mr. Casey.

"Now yere where ye belong," said the kind-hearted man. "I tell ye, Mr. Hollister, an honest employee should have been appreciated, and ye were not."

The family moved from the house and took a pretty apartment overlooking the Park. They were delighted with the change and every day Ethel took long walks around the reservoir.

Mr. Casey began to renovate the interior of the house and modernize the outside.

The family lived in the limousine, and everyone seemed happy. Aunt Susan did not go home with Tom but stayed on until the family were settled in their new house. Then Tom who only wished for an excuse came on East for her. It was nearly Easter. They persuaded him to stay over, which he did.

And so here we shall leave them. After one more year there will be a double wedding, and Ethel and Nora will marry. We see Harvey making rapid strides in his profession, and Tom building a pretty home for his Ethel, while Aunt Susan will be busy embroidering towels, napkins, etc., for their linen chest; and not only for them, but for Nora as well, for was it not through Nora and Mr. Casey that much of their happiness came?

<eob>

Grace Harlowe's Problem

By

Jessie Graham Flower, A.M.



Chapter I

Their Greatest, Dearest Day


"And at this time next week we'll all be back at work," sighed Arline Thayer. "Not that I love work less, but the Sempers more," she paraphrased half apologetically. "It's been so perfectly splendid to gather home, and Elfreda was a darling to plan and carry out such a --  -- "

"Noble enterprise," drawled Emma Dean. "Behold in me a living witness to the truth of it. Before this time, when, oh, when, has this particular scion of the house of Dean had a chance to play in the nice clean sand and bathe in the nice green ocean? It is green, isn't it, Grace? Elfreda says it's blue, and those terrible, tiresome, troublesome twins say it's gray, but I say --  -- "

A shower of small pebbles, cast with commendable accuracy, rained down on Emma. Raising herself on her elbows from her recumbent position in the sand, she looked reproachful surprise at the Emerson twins who, crouched in the sand and holding a fresh supply of pebbles in readiness, awaited her next remark.

"There," she declared calmly, "that simply proves the truth of my remark about terrible, tiresome, troublesome twins."

Two slim blue figures dropped their pebbles, descended upon the protesting Emma, and dragged her across the sand toward the water.

"Are we tiresome?" demanded Sara sternly, as she and Sue, still clutching Emma, paused for breath.

"Are we troublesome?" from Julia.

"Not a bit of it," Emma blandly assured them. "I said it only for the sake of alliteration. You are the most interesting persons I've ever met. I am so sorry I said you weren't, and I'm so nice and comfortable now. I hadn't thought of doing any further water stunts to-day." She struggled to a sitting posture and beamed with owlish significance upon her captors.

"All right, we'll excuse you this time, but, hereafter, keep away from alliteration," warned Sara.

"Until next time," chuckled Emma, scrambling to her feet. Graciously offering an arm to each twin, the trio strolled calmly back to the gay little party of girls on the sands.

It was a clear, sunshiny morning in early September and nine young women had taken advantage of the ocean's placid, dimpled mood for an early morning dip.

For two weeks the Semper Fidelis Club, or, rather, nine of that most delightful organization of Grace Harlowe's early college days, had been holding a reunion at the Briggs' cottage, which was situated on the New Jersey coast, not far from Wildwood, a well-known summer resort. It had all begun with Elfreda's undeniable yearning to see her friends. Being a young person of energy, she immediately wrote, and sent forth on their mission, funny invitations that were a virtual command to the Sempers to gather at the Briggs' cottage for a two weeks' reunion, and only three of the club had been unable to accept.

To those who have known Grace Harlowe from the beginning of her high-school life she has now, without doubt, become a personal friend. "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School," "Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School" recorded her sayings and doings as well as those of her three friends, Nora O'Malley, Jessica Bright and Anne Pierson during their student days at Oakdale High School.

When the girl chums parted in the autumn following their high-school graduation, Nora and Jessica went together to an eastern conservatory of music, while Grace and Anne decided for Overton College and added to their number no less person than Miriam Nesbit, a schoolmate and friend. On their first day at Overton circumstance, or perhaps fate, had brought J. Elfreda Briggs, a somewhat officious freshman, to the trio, and from a hardly agreeable stranger J. Elfreda became their devoted friend. During "Grace Harlowe's First Year At Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College," "Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College," and "Grace Harlowe's Fourth Year at Overton College," the four girls passed through many new experiences, not always entirely pleasant, but which served only as a spur to their ambition to gain true college spirit, and were graduated from Overton at the end of their four years' course, more than ever the loyal children of Overton, their Alma Mater.

The building of a specially endowed home for self-supporting girls who were trying to gain a college education, presented to Overton College, by Mrs. Gray, in honor of Grace Harlowe, Anne Pierson and Miriam Nesbit, and named Harlowe House, decided Grace as to what her future work would be. In "Grace Harlowe's Return To Overton Campus" appears the story of her first year at Harlowe House.

And now the dear, too brief holiday was drawing to a close. To-morrow would see the house party scattered to the four winds. This was the last frolic they would have in the water.

"Oh, dear," lamented Arline, her blue eyes mournful with regret, "why is it that perfectly lovely times go by like a flash, while horrid, disagreeable ones last forever?"

"'Tis the way of life, my child. 'It is not always May,'" quoted Emma sentimentally. "I might as well add, right here and now, that I'm glad of it. May is a dubious and disappointing month, dears. It always pours barrels on the first. It's a shame, too, when one stops to consider all the poems that have been composed about that weepy, fickle first day of May.

"Oh, radiant May day, This is our play day. Youth is in its hey day; Hail we this gay day; Park clouds away day.

"And then down comes the rain and spoils it all," finished the versifier, lapsing into prose.

Emma's improvisation was greeted with laughter.

"It sounds just about as sensible as a whole lot of those old English verses," declared Elfreda, who was not fond of poetry.

"It was a deadly insult to English verse," defended Anne Pierson with twinkling eyes. "You can't expect me to let it pass unnoticed."

"Having been fed as a babe on Shakespeare," agreed Emma, "I will admit that it gives you some room for criticism, but as a dutiful teacher of English I feel it entirely within my province to break forth occasionally into such English ditties as happen to come to my mind, regardless of Shakespeare."

"Oh, do say another," begged the Emerson twins. They especially delighted in Emma's poetical outbursts.

"Nothing comes to my mind," averred Emma solemnly. "Wait until the spirit moves me."

"I wish something would come to your minds about how we are to spend the rest of the day," put in Elfreda, with her usual briskness. "It isn't ten o'clock yet, and we've had our breakfast and our swim. Let's get together and decide now. Remember this is our greatest, dearest day. We specially reserved it. So we ought to make the most of it."

"I'm so glad we packed most of our things last night," commented Arline, with satisfaction.

"Girls," Grace was the first to make a suggestion, "it's such a delightful day, wouldn't you like to go picnicking at the edge of those woods we passed the other day when we were driving? Don't you remember how pretty the country was? There was a brook and long green hills sloping down to it."

"Grace Harlowe!" exclaimed Elfreda, her eyes very round. "You must be a mind reader, for that's precisely what I've been thinking about all morning. I'm so glad you proposed it. What do you say, girls? How about a picnic?"

There was a ringing assent on the part of the others.

"I hardly thought you would care much about going down to Wildwood for a dance," continued Elfreda. "Somehow when we go to hops we are sure to separate and not see much of each other until we're going home. What's the use in having a reunion if the reunionists don't reunite. I guess I'm selfish, but I can't help it."

"No, you're not, J. Elfreda," laughed Miriam, laying her hand on her friend's shoulder. "That's the way I feel, too. We can go to plenty of hops after we have each gone our separate way, but we can't have one another. Besides, what is anything in the way of amusement compared to a Semper reunion?"

"Now you're talking," commended Emma, with an encouraging flourish of her hand. She had been busily scooping up the white sand as she listened to her friends' conversation. Now she took a fresh handful and let it fall gently into the open space between the back of Sara Emerson's neck and her bathing suit. Sara, leaning interestedly forward, was an opportunity not to be disregarded.

"O-o-o-o," wailed the wriggling twin.

"Why, Sara, whatever is the matter?" inquired Emma with such exaggerated solicitude that the victim laughed in spite of herself. "Some ill-natured persons threw pebbles at me a while ago, but I remained calm. That is, until I was dragged across the sand in a brutal manner, and had to beg for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Even then I was a credit to Overton and the Sempers. I neither writhed nor howled."

"Well, we're even now," declared Sara. "I'll foreswear pebbles if you'll abolish the sand habit."

"I have always liked to look at Emma from a distance," said Julia Emerson, hastily sliding to the extreme edge of the group.

"Listen, ye babblers," called Elfreda, "to the voice of the oracle. Let's leave old Father Ocean to himself and get into our everyday clothes. If we are going on a picnic, we'd better start. We can be on our way in an hour from now, if we hurry. To-night after dinner we'll all take a last melancholy stroll down here to find out what the wild waves are saying."

"Wild waves," jeered Emma Dean. "Did you ever see the ocean smile more sweetly, the deceitful old thing. When one stops to think of the ships and people it gobbles up every year one feels like cutting its acquaintance."

"It is the greatest of all mysteries," said Arline Thayer, her eyes fixed dreamily on the limitless expanse of water.

"And I, in my Sphinx costume, am next," reminded Emma modestly.

Emma's placid manner of classing together the ocean and a fancy costume she had worn at a Semper Fidelis bazaar was received with the delight that always attended her astonishing sallies.

"Come on, children," Grace rose from the sand, looking slim, almost immature, in her dark blue bathing suit. With her fair skin, which neither tanned nor sunburned, and her radiant gray eyes, she fully carried out that look of extreme youth which her friends were wont frequently to comment on. In obedience to her call the girls scrambled to their feet and strolled toward the Briggs' cottage, which was within a very short distance of the beach.

On their way they came face to face with a trio of girls who had approached from the opposite direction. One of them, a particularly pretty girl, with auburn curls and a sweet, laughing face, cried out in surprise, "Why, J. Elfreda Briggs, where did you come from?"

"Madge Morton!" exclaimed Elfreda, holding out her hand delightedly. "I didn't know you were in this part of the country. Mr. Curtis told me you had found your father and gone on a trip around the world, but that was ages ago. And if here isn't Phyllis Alden and Lillian Selden. Will wonders never cease? But where is Eleanor?"

"She and Mrs. Curtis went out sailing with Tom," answered Phyllis Alden, an attractive girl with honest, dark eyes.

"Oh, excuse me, girls." Elfreda turned to her party and a general introducing followed.

"Where are you staying, Madge?" asked Elfreda when the two groups of girls had finished exchanging bows and smiles.

"Mrs. Curtis has taken a cottage at Wildwood for the rest of the summer. She only arrived there last week, and Phyllis, Lillian, Eleanor and I met in New York and came on here yesterday."

"You don't say so. Ma will be delighted to see her. You know they've been friends for ages. We hadn't heard from her for some time, though. Sorry you didn't get here sooner. You could have become better acquainted with my friends," deplored Elfreda. "They are all going away to-morrow."

"I'm sorry, too," smiled the pretty girl. "I'm sure we'd love to know them better." She made a gracious little gesture toward the Sempers, whose eyes were fixed upon her in open admiration.

"Never mind, you are sure to meet some of us in New York this winter, if you are going to be there," promised Elfreda.

"Yes, Father is going to take a house in New York. He is anxious to look up his brother officers in the Navy who are stationed there. We are through traveling for a time."

"The Briggs' family are going to stay in the neighborhood of the sad sea waves until the first of October, so I'll see you often. Ma will run over to see Mrs. Curtis the minute she knows about her being here. Tell me where the cottage is and I'll try to remember the address. I wish I had a pencil, but they don't usually hang around with bathing suits and salt water."

After a few minutes' pleasant conversation the three girls said good-bye and walked on.

"What charming girls," remarked Arline Thayer.

"Did you ever see a sweeter face than Madge Morton's?" asked Elfreda.

"She is beautiful," agreed Grace; "not only that, but she has such a vivid personality. One loves her on sight."

"She is from the South, isn't she?" inquired Miriam. "She has a decided southern accent."

"Yes, she was born and brought up in Virginia. Her father was a naval officer and was court-martialed when she was a baby for something he didn't do," related Elfreda. "He left home in disgrace and her mother died soon afterward. He never came back to claim her, so her aunt and uncle brought her up. Every one believed her father was dead, and so did she until she grew up; then a perfectly hateful girl, whose father was a naval officer, told her the story of her father's disgrace while she was visiting Mrs. Curtis at Old Point Comfort. You see, Madge and her friends had a little houseboat that they fixed over from an old canal boat. They used to spend their vacations on it, and one of the teachers from the boarding school which Madge attended used to chaperon them. They called their boat the Merry Maid, and Madge, the 'Little Captain.' They had all sorts of adventures, and Madge always said that she knew her father wasn't dead and that some day she'd find him. The reason I know so much about her is because Ma has known Mrs. Curtis for years. Tom and I used to play together when we were youngsters. Tom is her son."

"Did Miss Morton ever find her father?" asked Ruth Denton eagerly. "I know just how she must have felt about him."

"Yes, she found him and proved his innocence. He lived for years under another name and supported himself by translating foreign books into English. He had a dear friend, an old sea captain, who lived with him in a funny little house at Cape May. This friend had lots of money, so when Madge found her father he bought a yacht and took them for a trip around the world."

"It sounds like 'Grimms' Fairy Tales,' doesn't it," smiled Miriam.

"It's gospel truth," assured Elfreda.

"But standing stock still in the middle of the beach to listen to the adventures of Madge Morton will never help us on our way to the picnic," slyly reminded Emma Dean.

"I should say it wouldn't," agreed Elfreda. "I beg your pardon. Lead on, my dear Emma."

The little procession moved on again. Elfreda and Miriam brought up the rear. The comradeship between them was most sincere.

"How I wish we could all see one another more frequently," sighed Miriam. "Wouldn't you like to live your college life over again, Elfreda?"

"Every hour of it, even the unpleasant ones," returned Elfreda fervently. "I'm just as sure as I'm sure of anything, Miriam, that we'll never again spend so many happy, carefree days together as we spent at Overton. Since I've been studying law I've learned a whole lot about human nature that I never knew before. I've learned that it's a rare thing to be perfectly happy after one begins to look life in the face. Sorrow may not touch one directly, but one is constantly coming upon the trials and sorrows of others. There's only one great antidote for all ills, and that's work."

Miriam made a little gesture of despair. "And I have no work," was her rueful utterance. "So far, I've done nothing but travel about a lot, and study music a little. Long ago I planned to go to Leipsic to study, after I was graduated from Overton, but you see, Elfreda, Mother likes me to be with her. I thought seriously of going in for interior decorating, but when I saw how much Mother seemed to count on having me at home with her I gave it up. While I was studying music in New York, with Professor Lehmann, she was with me. I shall study again with him this fall. We intend to close our home and spend the winter in New York. David is going into business there. We shall take a house, I think."

"You don't mean it! Why didn't you tell me before?" Elfreda's eyes were wide with surprise. "And to think you've been carrying a jolly secret like that around without telling me, your lawfully established roommate."

"Don't be cross, J. Elfreda, dear. I didn't know it myself until this morning. The letter that I was so long reading after breakfast this morning was from Mother."

"Hurry along, you laggers," screamed Arline Thayer from a distance. In the earnestness of their conversation the two girls had dropped far behind the others.

"Coming, Daffydowndilly," called Elfreda promptly. Then to Miriam, "We'll see each other a lot this winter then, won't we?"

"I should rather think so," was Miriam's fervent response.

But Elfreda smiled to herself and wondered what Anne, and incidentally, Everett Southard would say when they heard the news.



Chapter II

The Last Frolic


The Sempers could scarcely have chosen a more perfect day for their last frolic. The sky wore its most vivid blue dress, ornamented by little fluffy white clouds, and a jolly vagrant breeze played lightly about the picnickers, whispering in their ears the lively assurance that wind and sky and sun were all on their good behavior for that day at least. The party were to make the trip to "Picnic Hollow," as Arline had named their destination, in Elfreda's and Arline's automobiles. During the past year the latter had become greatly interested in automobiles, and drove her own high-powered car with the sureness of an expert.

"What is the pleasure of this organisation?" called Emma. It was an hour later, and nine young women stood grouped beside one of the automobiles. The other was stationed a short distance ahead. "Four beauteous damsels can ride with Chauffeur Thayer, the other five will have to trust themselves to the tender, but uncertain, mercy of J. Elfreda."

"If that's your opinion of me you are welcome to ride in Arline's car," declared Elfreda.

"Oh, my, no," retorted Emma blandly. "I couldn't think of it. I feel that my inspiring presence is due to ride on the front seat with you, J. Elfreda. To aid and sustain you, as it were."

"Yes, sustain me by making me laugh and running us all into the ditch. I know just how sustaining you can be. Never mind. I'll forgive your slighting remarks about me, and give you the vacant place on the front seat. Now, good people," she put on the business-like expression of an auctioneer, "who bids for the back seat of the Briggs' vehicle?"

"Every one is welcome to it except the Emerson twins," put in Emma. "I dislike having them sit behind me. I prefer to sit behind them, but as I can't sit on the front seat and the back seat at the same time, it would really be better to put the twins in the Thayer chariot."

"We are going to ride with J. Elfreda," was Sara Emerson's defiant ultimatum.

"I'll sit between you and preserve the peace," volunteered Miriam.

"And me at the same time," added Emma hopefully. "Twins, do your worst. Sit where you choose. Miriam will protect me." Emma tottered toward Miriam, looking abjectly grateful and supremely ludicrous.

"That leaves Grace, Anne and Ruth to me," declared Arline. "Now let's hurry, girls. The sooner we reach Picnic Hollow the longer we'll have to stay."

The ride to Picnic Hollow was not a long one, but the picnickers were highly alive to every moment of it.

"We'll have to turn in here and take the road to the left," called Elfreda over her shoulder. They had reached a point where a narrower road crossed the highway and wound around the hills, sloping gradually at the lowest point, into the very heart of the little valley, which looked particularly cool and inviting.

"All right," caroled Arline. "Lead the way and we'll follow."

Slowly the two cars, propelled by two extremely careful chauffeurs, wound their way down the country road which, according to Elfreda, was just wide enough and no wider.

"Bumpity bump, even to the bottom of the hollow, and no bones broken," announced Emma Dean, with a cheerful wave of her hand, as she hopped out of the car, and proceeded to assist the Emerson twins to alight with a great show of ceremony.

"What a perfectly darling spot!" was Arline's joyous exclamation. "Just see that cunning brook! It's so pretty where it ripples past that old tree. It doesn't look deep, either. I'm going in wading. See if I don't."

"What shall we do first, girls?" Grace, who had been walking ahead with Arline, a luncheon hamper swinging between them, suddenly turned and faced the others, as, laden with rugs and cushions, they strolled along behind her.

"Let's just play around for awhile," proposed Miriam. "There's a field of daisies and golden rod if any one wants to go blossom gathering. Ruth spoke of taking some pictures, too. Then we can play in the brook, and go in wading if we like, only I don't like."

Arline and the Emerson twins elected to go in wading. Miriam and Anne drifted off to explore the brookside, while Ruth posed Grace, Emma and Elfreda for snapshots until they rebelled and begged for mercy. Later half the company stayed near their impromptu camp under the big elm tree that overhung the brook while the other half went on an exploring expedition, and when they returned the first half sallied forth.

"We shan't stay away long," warned Arline Thayer. "It's after one o'clock now, and I'm hungry as a hunter."

"Still we don't intend to let mere hunger conflict with our desire for exploration," was Emma Dean's firm reminder. "Given a chance, we may find something wonderful. We may dig the prehistoric mastodon from some snug corner where he burrowed several thousand years ago. We may --  -- "

"I never knew that mastodons 'burrowed,'" scoffed Sara Emerson. "That's a new truth in natural history brought to light by Professor Dean."

"Which shall be proven when we return triumphantly with a few armfuls of bones," flung back Emma as she hurried to catch up with Grace, Arline, Ruth and Anne, who had already started.

"What would life be without Emma Dean?" eulogized Sue Emerson after Emma's vanishing back. "Sara and I are always quoting her at home. It seems so strange that until the Sempers organized we never knew her very well. It was through Grace we learned to know Emma."

"The longer I know Grace Harlowe the prouder I am to be her friend," said Elfreda slowly.

"That is the way we all think about Grace," was Sue Emerson's quick return. "You and Miriam are especially lucky in having her for a chum."

The four young women talked on until a long, clear trill announced the return of the other half of the exploring party. "Where, oh, where, are the mastodon's bones?" called out Sara Emerson jeeringly, as soon as Emma Dean came within hailing distance and empty-handed.

"Buried out of sight and as hard as stones," came Emma's rhymed rejoinder.

"How do you know how hard they are if they're buried out of sight!" scoffed Sara as Emma came up beside her.

"Mere supposition, my child, mere supposition."

The strollers had now reached the impromptu camp and were smiling over the exchange of words on the part of Emma and Sara.

"It was a delightful walk," declared Grace. "I'd like to spend two or three days in these woods."

"Stay over another week and do it," tempted Elfreda.

"I can't." Grace shook her head regretfully. "I must spend one week at home before I leave for Overton, and I simply must be at Overton, and in Harlowe House, at least a week before it opens. There are so many things to be done. Thank goodness, I'll have Emma to help me this year. Last fall I felt as lonely as a shipwrecked mariner when I landed on the station platform at Overton. Then I heard Emma Dean's voice behind me. I truly believe that was the pleasantest surprise of my life."

"There, twins! Now you hear what others think of me," exclaimed Emma in triumph. "Perhaps, hereafter, you'll be more appreciative of my many lovely qualities."

"We never said you were the worst person in the world," conceded Julia.

"Neither did you ever refer to me as the 'pleasantest surprise' of your life," reminded Emma.

"You're a constant surprise, Emma, and always a funny one," was Sara's magnanimous tribute.

"Twins, you are forgiven. You may sit beside me, if you're good, while we eat luncheon. I can be magnanimous, too."

The big luncheon hampers were brought out by Elfreda and Miriam. A tablecloth was laid on the grass, and the luncheon was spread forth in all its glory. There were several kinds of toothsome sandwiches, salads, olives and pickles, fruit and plenty of sweets for dessert. There was coffee in two large thermos bottles, and there was also imported ginger ale. The hungry girls lost no time in seating themselves about this al fresco luncheon, making the quiet hollow ring with the merry talk and laughter of their last delightful frolic together.



Chapter III

Planning For The Future


After the picnickers had finished luncheon they still sat about the remains of the feast, talking busily of what they hoped to accomplish during the coming year.

Elfreda was full of plans as to what she intended to do when she had finished her course in the law school and passed the bar. "When I'm a full-fledged lawyer --  -- " she began.

"You mean a lawyeress," corrected Emma. "Don't contradict me. Let me explain. True the word's not in the dictionary. I just coined it. I'm going to teach it and its uses in my classes this fall. I shall begin by referring to my friend, Miss J. Elfreda Briggs, the distinguished lawyeress. That will excite the curiosity of my classes. Then instead of satisfying that curiosity as to Lawyeress Briggs' personal and private history I shall gently lead them to a serious contemplation of the word itself. Once in use, I'll have it put in a revised edition of the dictionary. It's high time there were a few new words introduced into the English language. I can make up beautiful ones and not half try. It's so easy."

"And the faculty trusted her to teach English," murmured Miriam.

There was a chorus of giggles at this observation, in which even Emma joined.

"Make up some new words now," challenged Julia Emerson.

"Not when I'm on a picnic," refused Emma firmly. "'Work while you work and play while you play.' I came out to play."

"Our play days end to-night," smiled Grace. "At least mine do."

"Mine, too," echoed Arline. "Really, girls, you haven't any idea of how busy settlement work keeps one. I spend several hours each day at the rooms which Father let me have fitted up for a Girls' Club, and I visit the very poor people, and almost every evening I have a class or a meeting. One evening I go to a little chapel on the East Side to tell stories to children, and I teach classes two other nights. There's always something extra coming up, too. Father isn't exactly pleased over it. He thinks I work too hard. Now that Ruth is going to spend the winter with me I'll make her help. She is the laziest person. She hasn't accomplished a single thing since she found her father."

"He wouldn't let me," defended Ruth. "It has been hard labor to persuade him to allow me to stay in New York this winter. Besides I believe that my business of life, for the present, at least, is to try to make up for some of the years we spent apart."

"Good for you, Ruth," applauded Miriam. "You and I are of the same mind. Only I'm enlisted in the cause of a mother instead of a father. But all this leads up to what I intended to tell you girls before we separated. We are going to New York City for the winter. David is going into business there."

"To New York!" came simultaneously from Arline and Grace. There were murmurs of surprise from the other girls. J. Elfreda Briggs alone smiled knowingly.

"What are we to do in Oakdale without you, at Christmas time, Miriam?" asked Grace mournfully. "The Eight Originals Plus Two can't celebrate unless you are with them. Somehow every year we've all managed to gather home at Christmas. Now if you go to New York to live next winter perhaps David won't be able to leave his business, and your mother will need you and --  -- "

"And do I live to hear Grace Harlowe borrowing trouble?" broke in Emma Dean. "Our intrepid, dauntless, invincible Grace!"

"I'm afraid you do," admitted Grace. "I couldn't help mourning a little. It was all so sudden. Anne, aren't you astonished?"

"Anne looks as though she'd known it a long while," observed Elfreda shrewdly.

"I knew David was going into business in New York," confessed Anne, her face flushing, "but I didn't know the rest."

"Neither did I, until this morning," smiled Miriam.

"It seems as though we are the only persons in this august body that haven't any plans," declared Julia Emerson wistfully. "Here are Grace, Anne and Emma, regular salaried individuals. Arline is a busy little worker. Miriam and Ruth are at least useful members of society, and Elfreda is an aspiring professional. Sara and I are just the Emerson twins, with no lofty aims in view, or deeds of glory to perform."

"You and Sara are not quite useless," comforted Emma. "Just think what a continual source of inspiration you are to me. Some of my finest observations on life have been prompted by my acquaintance with you."

"I'm glad we are of some account in the world," grinned Sara. "I'd really quite forgotten about you, Emma. Thank you so much for reminding me."

"Oh, not at all," Emma beamed patronizingly upon her. "No matter how much others may malign you, I am still your friend."

"Emma Dean, you ridiculous creature, why won't you take us seriously?" laughed Julia, but her voice still held an undercurrent of wistfulness. "Does the fact that we are twins have this hilarious effect upon you?"

"I wonder if that's the reason," murmured Emma. Then dropping her usual bantering tone, she fixed earnest eyes on the black-eyed twins. "Seriously, Julia and Sara, I know just the way you feel about having no particular life work picked out. When I went home after I was graduated from Overton I hadn't the least idea of where I'd fit in in life. Then I found that Father needed my help, and I've been head over ears in work ever since. One never knows what may happen, or how quickly one's work may find one. It may not be what one would like it to be, but it will undoubtedly be the best thing in life for one, and one is likely to see it coming around the corner at almost any minute."

"That's very, very true." It was Grace who spoke. "Don't you remember how I worried about finding my work, and it walked directly up to me and introduced itself on Commencement day?"

"I never dreamed that the stage would put me through college and be my work afterward," broke in Anne. "When first I went to Oakdale I supposed I had left it behind forever. But it must have been my destiny after all."

"I guess it's just about as well in the long run not to worry about what your work is going to be until it knocks at your door," observed Elfreda. "Children are always planning and talking about what they're going to do and be when they grow up; then they always do something different. What do you suppose I used to say I was going to be when I grew up?"

"Some perfectly absurd thing," anticipated Miriam. Eight pairs of amused eyes fixed themselves expectantly on Elfreda.

"Well," Elfreda chuckled reminiscently, "my aim and ambition was to be a cook. Not because I was so deeply in love with cooking, but because I liked to eat. No wonder I was fat. I used to haunt the kitchen on baking days and shriek with an outraged stomach afterward. The shrieking occurred most frequently in the middle of the night. Then Ma would come to my rescue, and I'd be forbidden to sample the baking again. So to console myself in my banishment I'd resolve that when I grew up I'd be a cook and live in a kitchen all the time. I reasoned that if I was a cook I'd know how to make everything in the world to eat and could have what I pleased. Besides no one would dare tell me I couldn't have this or that. This was all very consoling during the times I had to keep out of the kitchen. Generally in about a week's time Ma would relent, and, as our cook was fond of me, I'd be reinstated in my beloved realm of eats. But it was during these periods of exile that my ambition always rose to fever heat. Then our old cook got married, and I didn't like our new one. She didn't appreciate my companionship on baking days. Our old cook had always encouraged me in my ambition. She used to tell me long tales about the places where she had worked and the cooking feats she had performed. The new cook said I was a nuisance, and complained to Ma. So my ambition died for lack of encouragement, but my appetite didn't. I became an outlaw instead and made raids on the baking. So that particular cook and I were always at war. About that time Ma began giving me a regular allowance, so I haunted the baker and candy shops instead of the kitchen, and the cook idea declined. In fact all I know about cooking now, I learned at Wayne Hall, in the interest of my friends," she finished.

Elfreda's reminiscence awoke a train of sleeping memories in the minds of the others, and for the next hour the quiet woodland echoed with their mirth over the curious, quaint and ridiculous aims and fancies of their childhood. The talk gradually drifted back to serious things and went on so earnestly that it was well after four o'clock before the party began to make reluctant preparations to return to the cottage.

"It has been a perfect day and a perfect picnic," declared Grace as she smiled lovingly at her friends. "We'll never forget Elfreda's house party."

"I'm going to have you with me at this time every year if it is possible," planned Elfreda. "So when September comes next year just mark off the last two weeks on the calendar as set aside for the Briggs' reunion and arrange your affairs accordingly. Is it a go?"

"Hurrah for the Briggs' reunion," cheered Arline.

The cheers were given and the picnickers started up the hill to where their automobiles were stationed. Grace and Elfreda brought up the rear with the luncheon hamper.

"That's dear in you to ask us here every year, Elfreda," said Grace. "It's a splendid way for us always to keep in touch with one another. You are forever doing nice things for others."

"Others," retorted Elfreda, gruffly. "I'm the most selfish person that ever lived. I'm not planning half so much to make you girls happy as I am to be happy myself. Every time I think that I might have gone to some other college and never have known you and Miriam and Anne, it nearly gives me nervous prostration. By the way, Grace, I have an idea Miriam is going to find her work pretty suddenly. I could see at commencement that Mr. Southard was in love with her. She didn't know it then. She knows it now though, and she likes him."

"You certainly can see what is hidden from the eyes of the rest of us. How do you know she knows it?"

"Oh, she was talking to me the other day about Anne, and she mentioned Mr. Southard's name in a kind of self-conscious way, not in the least like her usual self. I could almost swear she blushed, but I couldn't quite see that," grinned Elfreda.

"I'm surprised," laughed Grace; then she added slowly, "I've known for a long time that Mr. Southard was in love with Miriam. Anne discovered it at commencement, too. I hope Miriam does love him. Somehow they seem so perfectly suited to each other. I never could quite fancy she and Arnold Evans as being in love."

"It looks as though you'd soon be the only unengaged member of the Originals," remarked Elfreda innocently.

Grace's face clouded. Elfreda had touched upon a sore subject. Just before leaving Oakdale on her visit to Elfreda she had seen Tom. He had not renewed his old plea, but Grace knew that he was still waiting and hoping for the words that would make him happy.

"Elfreda," her voice trembled a little, "you know, I think, that Tom wishes me to marry him. I'm sorry, but I can't. I just can't. I suppose I'll be the odd member of the feminine half of the Originals, but I can't help it. My work still means more to me than life with Tom, and I'm never going to give it up. So there."

Elfreda nodded. Her nod expressed more than words, but secretly she had a curious presentiment that Grace would one day wake up to the fact that she had make a mistake. Still there was no use in telling her so. It might make her still more stubborn in her resolve. Elfreda greatly admired Tom, and, with her usually quick perception, had estimated him at his true worth. "He's worthy of her, and she's worthy of him," was her mental summing up, "and it strikes me that 'never' is a pretty long time. Whether she can shut love out of her life forever, just for the sake of her work, is a problem that nobody but Grace Harlowe can solve."



Chapter IV

Milestones


"Sh-h-h! No giggles. If you don't creep along as still as mice she'll hear you," warned a sibilant whisper.

Five young women, headed by Emma Dean, smoothed the laughter from their faces and stole, cat-like, up the green lawn to the wide veranda at the rear of Harlowe House. One by one they noiselessly mounted the steps. Emma, finger on her lips, cast a comical glance at the maid, who tittered faintly; then the stealthy procession crept down the hall in the direction of Grace Harlowe's little office. There was an instant's silent rallying of forces of which the young woman at the desk, who sat writing busily, was totally unconscious, then, of a sudden, she heard a ringing call of "Three cheers for Loyalheart!" and sprang to her feet only to be completely hemmed in by friendly arms.

"You wicked girls! I mean, you dear things," she laughed. "How nice of you to descend upon me in a body. I must kiss every one of you. Patience and Kathleen, when did you set foot in Overton? I've been watching and waiting for you. Mary Reynolds, this is a surprise. I didn't expect you until next week, and Evelyn, too, looking lovelier than ever. As for Emma, she's a continual surprise and pleasure." Grace embraced one after another of the five girls.

"I'm so glad I thought of this nice surprise," beamed Emma, craning her neck, and pluming herself vaingloriously. "I have another beautiful thought, too, seething in my fertile brain. Let's go down to Vinton's and celebrate."

"I knew some one was sure to propose that," laughed Patience. "I intended to be that some one, but Emma forestalled me."

"I'm as busy as can be, but I can't resist the call to my old haunts," laughed Grace. "Besides, it's such a perfect day. Leave your bags in the living room, girls. I feel highly honored to know that you and Kathleen came straight to me, Patience."

"The old case of the needle and the magnet," explained Patience with a careless wave of her hand.

"Oh, Miss Harlowe I'm so glad to see you," was Mary Reynolds' fervent tribute.

"So am I," declared Evelyn Ward, with an emphatic nod of her golden head. "I've had a perfectly wonderful summer, Miss Harlowe. I loved my part. It hasn't been very hot in New York City, either, and I spent my Sundays and some of my week days with the Southards at their Long Island summer home. I have thought of you many times. I hope you'll forgive me for not writing you oftener. Kathleen and I came down on the same train." She poured forth all this information almost in a breath.

"Of course I'll forgive you," returned Grace. "I'm a very lax correspondent, too. I'm so glad you've been well, and that you liked your part."

"You should have seen her in it, Grace," put in Kathleen. "She made an adorable Constance Devon, and her gowns were beautiful. The girl who understudied her, and who will play the part on the road, isn't half so stunning. Patience saw her, too."

"She was a credit to herself and Overton," verified Patience.

"I thank you, most grave and reverend seniors." Evelyn, her eyes shining with the pleasure of well-earned praise, made a low bow to Patience and Kathleen.

"'Most grave and reverend seniors,'" repeated Grace, slipping in between her two friends, her hand on an arm of each.

Kathleen's sharp black eyes grew tender with the love she bore Grace. "Yes," came her soft answer, "Patience and I are seniors at last. We've reached Senior Lane, and I hope to leave some milestones as we pass through it. Dear as the others have been, I'd like to rise to greater heights this year. I don't know just what I'd like to do," she flushed and laughed at her own enthusiasm, "but I'd like to do something worth while."

"So would I," murmured Evelyn Ward.

"I want to be friends with every one, and not be conditioned," was Mary Reynolds' modest petition.

"I don't know just what sort of milestones I'd like to leave. Only decorative ones, of course. I wish to keep my lane free from weeds and ugly, jagged rocks." This from Patience.

"You might begin at once and leave a milestone at Vinton's, for being a willing, little reveler," suggested Emma with meaning.

"Come on, girls," rallied Kathleen. "We must show Emma just how willing we are. Allow me, my dear Miss Dean," she offered her arm to Emma, and they paraded down the hall, out the door and down the steps with great ceremony. Mary, Grace, Patience and Evelyn followed. Patience walked with Evelyn, while Grace and Mary brought up the rear.

"Oh, Miss Harlowe," began Mary, with intense earnestness, "you haven't any idea of how much Kathleen -- she likes me to call her Kathleen -- has done for me this summer. I knew last spring that I must earn my living through the summer, in some way, but I never dreamed that it would be in such a nice way."

"I am anxious to hear all about it," returned Grace. "When you wrote me that Kathleen had secured work for you on her paper I was so pleased."

"Yes, I was the assistant on the woman's page," related Mary. "Of course my work wasn't so very important. It was mostly clipping things from other papers, but I used to write the paragraph under the fashion drawings, and sometimes I went out to the big department stores to look for interesting new fads and fashions for women. Three times I wrote short articles, so you see I actually appeared in print. Kathleen made me take half of her room, and so my board wasn't very expensive. My salary was fifteen dollars a week. I have enough new clothes to last me all winter, and I've saved eighty-five dollars. That will help pay my tuition this year, and Kathleen is sure she can sell some children's stories I've written. Wouldn't it be glorious, Miss Harlowe, if some day I'd become a writer?" Mary's eyes shone with the distant prospect of future honors.

"It looks to me as though you were on the right road," encouraged Grace. "The only thing to do is to keep on writing. The more you write the easier it will become -- that is, if you are really gifted. Kathleen has great faith in you. You must show her that it is well founded."

"How inspiring you are, Miss Harlowe." Mary looked her gratitude at Grace's hopeful words; then she added in a slightly lower tone: "I'm so glad everything went so beautifully for Evelyn. I saw her twice in 'The Reckoning.' She looked beautiful, and her acting was so clever. She -- she told me of her own accord about" -- Mary hesitated -- "things. It would have hurt me dreadfully if Evelyn had not come back to Overton. I love her dearly."

Grace nodded sympathetically. She understood the remarkable effect of Evelyn's beauty upon Mary. Still, she reflected, it had not been potent enough to lure Mary from standing by her colors at the crucial moment. Grace realized that this poor orphan girl, whose only home was Harlowe House, possessed a steadfast, upright nature that must in time win her not only scores of loyal friends, but the respect of all who knew her, as well.

A sudden trill from Kathleen caused them to quicken their steps. The others were standing in front of Vinton's, waiting for them. Once inside the pretty tea room that had been the scene of so many of their revels, with one accord they made for the alcove table.

"Shades of Arline Thayer," laughed Emma. "I am haunted by her. I can see her sitting in that chair, her little hands folded on the table, saying, 'What are we going to eat, girls?' She loved this alcove and every stick and stone of Vinton's. She never cared so much for Martell's."

By this time they had seated themselves at the round table and begun to order their luncheon. Vinton's was productive of reminiscences, and they were soon deep in the discussion of past events, grave and gay, that had dotted their college life. Evelyn and Mary were for the most part listeners, but Grace, Patience, Emma and Kathleen fairly bubbled over with by-gone college history.

"I love to hear about the things that happened to Miss Harlowe and Miss Dean when they were students," confided Mary to Evelyn under cover of a general laugh over one of Emma Dean's ridiculous reminiscences.

"So do I," nodded Mary, then she added in a still lower tone, "Have you noticed the girl at the table near the door, Evelyn. She came in about ten minutes ago, and she's watched this table every second since she came."

"Yes, I noticed her. She's pretty, isn't she? That's a stunning suit she is wearing. Her hat is miles above reproach, too." Evelyn could not repress her admiration for beautiful clothes.

At that moment Kathleen spoke to her and she turned to answer the latter's question. When next her eyes turned toward the pretty girl it was just as they were leaving the tea shop. Evelyn was the last member of the sextette to pass the table. She glanced at the girl only to note that she was searching a small leather bag frantically, a look of indescribable alarm in her eyes. "It's gone," she said, half aloud.

Something prompted Evelyn to halt. "Good afternoon," she said. "I heard -- that is -- can I help you?"

A shade of annoyance darkened the stranger's face. It was replaced by an expression of fright. "I've lost my money," she said in a dazed voice. "It was all I had. I can't pay for my luncheon. I don't know what to do." Her voice rose to an anxious note.

"Give me your check," said Evelyn quietly. "I'll pay the cashier. You can pay me later."

"Oh, thank you," breathed the girl. "You don't know how I hated the idea of going to the cashier and telling her I had no money. I'm so worried about my purse. I had over a hundred dollars in it. I haven't seen it since I left the train. Just before we reached Overton I went into the lavatory to fix my hair. I laid my bag down. There was another woman there at the mirror. She must have slipped her fingers into my bag and taken my purse, for when I picked up the bag it was open. I snapped it shut and paid no attention to it then. I didn't think of it until I reached for my purse to count out the money for my luncheon."

"What a shame!" exclaimed Evelyn, sympathetically. "I know just how worried you must feel. Just wait a second." She picked up the check, which was for a small amount, went over to the desk, and paid the bill. Then she hurried back to her companion. "Everything is all right now," she declared, "but if you have no money you had better come with me. I will introduce you to Miss Harlowe. My name is Evelyn Ward."

"Miss Harlowe, of Harlowe House?" interrupted the girl.

"Yes, do you know her?"

"I don't know her yet, but I'm going to live at Harlowe House. So I expect to know her. My name is Jean Brent. Perhaps you've heard of me. A friend of mine helped me to get the chance to live at Harlowe House."

"Have I heard of you?" laughed Evelyn. "I should say I had. Isn't it funny how things happen? Why, you are to be my roommate."



Chapter V

The Locked Door


When Evelyn and Jean Brent reached the street it was to find the other young women grouped together in conversation, and not at all alarmed at Evelyn's non-appearance.

"We weren't worried," Emma Dean assured her. "We've all been known to lag and loiter."

"I lagged and loitered to some purpose," defended Evelyn. "Miss Harlowe, this is Miss Brent, my roommate." She introduced the stranger to the others.

Grace's hand was extended in surprised welcome. "We have been looking for you since Monday," she said. "You are the girl who sat at the end table at Vinton's. If I had known you were Miss Brent I would have asked you to join us. I am so glad Miss Ward broke the ice. How did it happen?"

"I had lost my purse," returned the girl, rather shyly, in spite of her air of self-possession. Then reassured by Grace's charming manner, she told her story.

"You must come with us to Harlowe House at once. It is such a pity that you met with misfortune." Grace's gray eyes were full of sympathy. "Have you much luggage?"

"Four trunks," was the rueful answer. "You see I have so many clothes that -- " She stopped abruptly, a deep flush dying her fair skin, "I had no place -- I did not like to leave them, so I had to bring them with me," she finished, rather lamely.

Grace did not ask further questions. She noted that the girl was ill at ease. "I received Miss Lipton's letter regarding you a week ago," she hastened to say. "I wrote her, as you know, that we could place you. She answered saying we might expect you at almost any time. After you have had a chance to rest and make yourself comfortable I will tell you of Harlowe House and the girls who live there."

One after the other the girls spoke friendly, encouraging words to the unfortunate freshman. Kathleen and Patience possessed themselves of her heavy bag, carrying it between them. Grace walked with the newcomer, pointing out the various interesting features of the little college town, in an attempt to put the stranger entirely at her ease after her disquieting experience. So far she had had slight opportunity to observe this latest freshman arrival. She had a vague idea that Jean Brent was an unusually attractive girl, but the side view she obtained of her, as they walked along, was far from satisfactory. The newcomer said little, and only once during the short walk to Harlowe House did she turn a pair of very blue eyes directly upon Grace.

It fell to Evelyn Ward to show her to her room, as she was to be Evelyn's roommate. The girl had exclaimed a little, after the manner of girls, at the attractiveness of Harlowe House, but in spite of her brief flare of enthusiasm over the house and grounds, the tasteful living room and the daintiness of the room she and Evelyn occupied, she encased herself in a curious, impenetrable shell of mystery that Evelyn's natural curiosity could find no excuse to penetrate. She listened gravely and attentively to all that Evelyn told her of Harlowe House and its lucky household, but she volunteered no information concerning herself except a reluctant, "I came from the West," in answer to her roommate's question as to where she lived.

The more Evelyn observed her the more attractive she appeared. She was of medium height, and, although plump, could not be called stout. Her face was rather round, with no suggestion of fatness, while her features were small and regular. Her eyes were not large, but their intense blueness made them a significant feature of her face. Her hair was light brown and had a burnished look in the sun. It grew thickly upon her well-shaped head, and she wore it in a graceful knot at the back of her head. When she smiled, which had been but once since Evelyn first encountered her, she displayed unusually white, even teeth. It dawned upon Evelyn as she watched her unpacking her bag that Jean Brent had not only her share of good looks but a curious power of attraction as well that would carry her far toward college popularity if she chose to exert it. She wondered if she and Jean would get along well together. Although the new Evelyn had made great progress in ruling her own spirit she was well aware of her failings. She was quite sure, in her own mind, that never again would the love of beautiful clothes tempt her to dishonesty, but of herself, in other respects, she was not so positive. Still she had resolved to live up to the traditions of Overton College, to emulate the splendid example Grace Harlowe had already set.

She glanced speculatively at her roommate, but the latter's calm, impassive expression told her nothing. Suddenly, as though impelled by Evelyn's gaze, the other girl glanced up and met Evelyn's eyes squarely. "Well, what do you think of me?" she inquired. "I think you are the prettiest girl I ever saw."

Evelyn flushed at both the question and the compliment. Jean Brent was nothing if not frank. "I know I'm going to like you. I was just wondering if we would fit into each other's lives."

"I have a frightful temper," admitted Jean Brent somberly. "Sometimes I'm glad of it. If I hadn't -- " She paused.

Evelyn waited for her to continue, but she gave a quick sigh, and, springing to her feet, walked to the window. From there she could look out at the campus, still green and velvety. For at least five minutes she stood staring out. Then, with the air of one who casts aside a disagreeable memory, she turned from the window, saying: "I'm going to forget everything except the fact that I'm actually an Overton girl."

"Were you anxious to come to Overton?" asked Evelyn.

"No. I came here because of the advantages Harlowe House offers. I heard of it through a friend. I wanted to go to Smith, but -- oh, well, here I am at Overton. Let's talk about you. I know you are interesting. You look just like the picture of a girl I saw in a magazine I was reading on the train. She is an actress. I didn't stop to read her name, but I loved her picture. I think I brought the magazine along. Oh, yes, there it is." She reached for the magazine, which lay on the table, and turned the leaves energetically. "Here is the picture," she declared. Evelyn found herself gazing at her own likeness. She began to laugh.

"What's the matter?" demanded Jean. Her color rose in instant resentment of Evelyn's laughter.

Evelyn pointed to the printed name under the picture. "I am Evelyn Ward, you know."

"But not the actress?" Jean's blue eyes were wide with amazement.

Evelyn nodded laughingly. "That's my way of earning my tuition money and my clothes," she explained. "I was never on the stage until last summer." She went on to tell the astonished Jean of her meeting with the Southards and her final stage début.

"How interesting!" exclaimed Jean. "I suppose all the Harlowe House girls earn their college fees. I wonder how I can earn mine. I had quite a sum toward them when I left -- " again came the abrupt stop. "Oh, dear," she sighed the next moment, "I wish I'd been more careful of my money. I had no business to lay my bag down. What's the use of regretting? I'll have to think of some way to raise that money. If I can't find it any other way I can sell my clothes. I have perfectly beautiful things. Four trunks full. Lots more than I can wear. It is lucky for me that -- " She checked herself guiltily.

"That what?" asked Evelyn. She was beginning to feel a vague impatience at the strange way in which Jean Brent chopped off her sentences. And how recklessly she talked about selling her clothes.

"That I have you for a roommate," smiled the mysterious freshman. "I wonder how much the expressman will charge to bring my trunks from the station. Then, too, I wonder where I can put them. I wouldn't think of spoiling the looks of our room with them."

"You can put one of them over in that corner," planned Evelyn, "and we could get one into the closet. It's large and quite light. The other two Miss Harlowe will allow you to leave in the trunk room."

"I suppose it will cost a small fortune to have them delivered," demurred Jean. "I can't have the sale, either, until I know some of the girls who would be interested in my wares. I'll have to telegraph my friend to send me some money. Will you go with me to the telegraph office. I don't know the way. I'll ask Miss Harlowe to pay the expressman. Then I'll pay her when my money comes. Frenzied finance, isn't it? But if you knew -- " Again that maddening break.

"I'll pay the expressman," volunteered Evelyn. "If I were you I'd talk things over with Miss Harlowe. She knows that you lost your purse. Very likely she has already thought of something you can do. I don't think she would like to have you sell your clothes."

"I don't see why she should object," declared Jean, with quick impatience. "However, I'll do my hair over again, and wash my face and hands, then I'll go down stairs and have a talk with her. She said she'd be in her office."

"Run down and talk with her now, then we'll go to the telegraph office," said Evelyn.

Twenty minutes later Jean entered the little office where Grace sat engaged in the work she had been doing when interrupted by her friends earlier in the afternoon. Like Evelyn, she was keenly alive to her latest charge's good looks. "How attractive she is," was her thought as she invited Jean to take the chair opposite hers.

"I suppose you would like to know something of our household, Miss Brent," began Grace. "We are not only a household, but we are members of a social club as well. You are the thirty-fourth girl. Last year Miss Thirty-four never materialized, so Miss Ward roomed alone. There isn't so so much to tell you regarding the rules and regulations of Harlowe House. The club takes care of most of them with its constitution and by-laws." Opening a drawer of her desk, Grace took out a paper-covered booklet and handed it to the freshman. "This will give you nearly all the necessary information," she said. "If I were in your place I would go to the registrar's office reasonably early to-morrow morning. You can then learn whether you will be obliged to take the entrance examinations. Having been graduated from a preparatory school you may be exempt. When did Miss Lipton's school close?"

"Last June," returned Jean briefly.

"But you have seen her since then, have you not? Her letter gave me the impression that you had been with her recently. Do you live in Grafton, or were you visiting Miss Lipton?"

The fair face opposite her own was suddenly flooded with red. "I -- I -- was -- on -- a visit recently to Miss Lipton," she answered, with reluctance. She did not volunteer the name of her home town.

For the first time Grace became aware of the curious reticence that had vaguely annoyed Evelyn. "Where do you live, Miss Brent!" she asked with the sudden directness so characteristic of her.

For a moment the girl did not reply, then her color receded, leaving her face very white. "My home is in Chicago," she said slowly. "My father and mother are dead. I have always lived with" -- she hesitated -- "friends. Miss Lipton was a friend of my mother's. Surely her word will not be questioned by the faculty." She glanced at Grace with a half challenging air.

Something in her tone brought the color to Grace's cheeks. Why could not this girl be perfectly frank in her replies? Now that Evelyn Ward had turned out so beautifully, Grace had been looking forward to a year of open comradeship with her girls, yet here she was face to face with what promised to be one of those baffling natures that required especially tactful handling to bring out the best that lay within it.

"I have no doubt that Miss Sheldon will place the utmost dependence in Miss Lipton's word," returned Grace gravely.

"If she doesn't, I -- oh, well, to-morrow will tell the tale. I wish you would tell me more of Harlowe House. It is a wonderful place. I wanted to go to Smith, but I believe this will be nicer after all. Only I -- shall -- have to earn my college fees. Miss Ward said perhaps you would help me think of a way to earn money. I have nothing in the world except clothes, clothes, clothes. After I've been here for awhile I'd like to have a sale of them. I have loads of lovely things. If I could only sell enough of them to pay my fees."

"But you will need your clothing for your own use, will you not?" Jean Brent was momently growing more inexplicable.

Jean shook her head energetically. "I don't care for clothes," she said eagerly. "I could live in a coat suit and plenty of blouses all year. I do care for college, though. If I hadn't cared, I would never -- " She suddenly checked herself. "Do you think the girls would buy my things?" she asked in the next instant. "They are nearly all new and fresh."

"I am sure they would be interested," was Grace's honest reply, "but I cannot allow you to hold a sale of your wardrobe. I think such a proceeding would be unwise. Why --  -- "

"Please don't ask me why, Miss Harlowe, for I can't tell you." Jean had risen to her feet, two pleading eyes fixed on Grace. "I can only say that if I had not lost my money everything would be different. There are strong reasons why I can't explain to you about my being without money, yet having so many clothes, but I assure you that I have done nothing wrong or dishonorable. If you are not satisfied with my explanation and wish to send me away, of course I can only go, but if you are willing to trust me and let me stay I'll try to do my best for you and Harlowe House. I'm sorry you disapprove of my having a sale of my things."

Grace looked long at the earnest young face. Mystifying as were her statements, Jean Brent had the appearance of honesty. Taking one of the girl's hands in both her own, she said, "I don't in the least understand you, Miss Brent, but I will respect your secret."

"Thank you so much for your kindness to me, Miss Harlowe." With an almost distant nod the prospective freshman rose and left the office with almost rude abruptness.

"What a strange girl," mused Grace.

Her musing was interrupted by the breezy entrance of Emma Dean. "Hello, Gracious," she hailed. "Why so pensive?"

"I'm not pensive. I'm puzzled, and a little worried," returned Grace. "Our latest arrival is a most complex study."

"I suspected it," was Emma's cheerful rejoinder. "One of the 'There was the Door to which I found no Key' variety, so to speak."

"I'm going to tell you all about it," decided Grace, "for I need your advice." She related her interview with Jean Brent.

"Miss Lipton, the head of the Lipton Preparatory School, at Grafton, writes beautifully of Miss Brent," went on Grace. "I know the faculty would consider her word sufficient to enroll this girl, but I feel that I ought to be doubly careful to keep my household irreproachable. I don't like mysteries when it comes to admitting a new girl to the fold. Still, Miss Brent impresses me as being honest and sincere. Besides, I've promised to help her."

"Don't worry, Gracious," advised Emma, "you may be harboring a princess unawares. The Riddle may turn out to be the Shahess of Persia, or the Grand Vizieress of Bagdad or some other royal person. She may be the moving feature of a real Graustark plot."

"Stop being ridiculous, Emma, and tell me what I ought to do." Grace's smooth forehead puckered in a frown which her laughing lips denied.

Emma was instantly serious. "We do not know just how much college may mean to her," was her quick response. "If she chooses to shroud herself in mystery, I believe it is because of something which concerns herself alone."

There was a brief silence, then Grace said: "You are right. To be an Overton girl may mean more to Jean Brent than we can possibly know. I'm going to take her on faith. Perhaps she'll find college the key that will unlock the door to perfect understanding."



Chapter VI

A Club Meeting And A Mystery


"There!" exclaimed Louise Sampson as she succeeded in firmly establishing at the top of the bulletin board a large white card, bearing the significant legend, "Regular Meeting of the Harlowe House Club. 8.00 P.M. Living Room. Full Attendance, Please."

A small, fair-haired girl came down the stairs and joined Louise at the bulletin-board. She read the notice aloud. "Oh, dear, I've an engagement with a girl at Wayne Hall to-night. I don't care to miss the meeting, and I don't like to break my engagement," she mourned.

"I wish you would break it just this once, Hilda," said Louise seriously. "I am anxious that every member of the club shall attend the meeting to-night. I have something of importance to say to the girls."

Hilda Moore opened her blue eyes very wide. "What are you going to say, Louise? Tell me, please. You see I made this engagement over a week ago. If you'd just tell me now what it's all about, I wouldn't really need to come to the club meeting. I could --  -- "

"Keep your engagement," finished Louise, her eyes twinkling. "Really, Hilda Moore, if you knew a tidal wave, or a cyclone or any other calamity was due to demolish Overton I believe you'd go on making engagements in the face of it."

Hilda giggled good-naturedly. She was a pretty, sunshiny girl of a pure blonde type, and had been extremely popular during her freshman year at Overton, not only with her fellow companions at Harlowe House, but as a member of the freshman class as well. In spite of her round baby face, and a carefree, little-girl manner that went with it, she was a capable business woman and earned her college fees as stenographer to the dean. The daughter of parents who were not able to send her to college, she had not only prepared for college during her high-school days, but had taken the business course included in the curriculum of the high school which she attended, and had thus fitted herself to earn her way in the Land of College.

Hilda's unfailing good nature was appreciated to the extent of making her a welcome guest at the informal gatherings which were forever being held in the various students' rooms after recitations were over for the day. The consequence was that, as her studies and clerical duties left her limited time for amusements, her precious recreation moments were invariably promised to her friends many days in advance. In fact Hilda Moore's "engagements" had grown to be a standing joke among them.

"Promise me on your bright new sophomore honor that you'll offer your polite regrets to the other half of that important engagement of yours and attend my meeting," appealed Louise.

"Well," Hilda looked concerned, "I could see the girl this afternoon and change the date." She smiled engagingly at Louise.

"Of course you will," Louise agreed, answering the smile. "You see I know you, Hilda Moore."

"But I wouldn't do it for any one else except Miss Harlowe or Miss Dean," was Hilda's positive assertion. "Mercy, look at the time! I'll have to run for it if I expect to reach the office before Miss Wilder. Good-bye."

Hilda was gone like a flash, leaving Louise to stare contemplatively at the notice. As the president for the year of the Harlowe House Club she felt deeply her responsibility. She had been unanimously elected at the club's first meeting, greatly to her surprise.

Louise Sampson was perhaps better fitted to be president of the Harlowe House Club than any other member of that interesting household. Emma and Grace had agreed upon the point when, before the election, the former's name had been mentioned as a probable candidate. This thought sprang again to Grace's mind as she came from her office and saw Louise still standing before the bulletin board, apparently deep in thought. She turned at the sound of Grace's step.

"Oh, Miss Harlowe!" she exclaimed. "I do hope our meeting to-night will be a success. Surely some one will have a real live idea for the club to act upon."

"Thirty-four heads are better than one," smiled Grace. "There is inspiration in numbers."

"We did wonderfully well with the caramels last year, and this year I believe they will be more popular than ever. We made twice as many as usual last Saturday, and sold them all. We were obliged to disappoint quite a number of girls, too. Our little bank account is growing slowly but surely. Still there are certainly other things we can do to earn money, collectively and individually. Really I mustn't get started on the subject. It is time I went to my chemistry recitation. You'll be at the meeting to-night, won't you, Miss Harlowe? We couldn't get along without you."

A faint flush rose to Grace's cheeks at Louise's parting remark. How wonderful it was to feel that one was really useful. Yes; the thirty-four girls under her care really needed her. They needed her far more than did Tom Gray. Grace frowned a trifle impatiently. She had not intended to allow herself to think of Tom, yet there was something in the expression of Louise Sampson's gray eyes that reminded her of him. Resolving to put him completely out of her mind, Grace went into the kitchen to consult with the cook concerning the day's marketing. The postman's ring, however, caused her to hurry back to her office where the maid was just depositing her morning mail on the slide of her desk.

Her letters were from Anne, Elfreda and her mother, and they filled her with unalloyed pleasure. Her mother's unselfish words, "I hope my little girl is finding all the happiness life has to offer in her work," thrilled her. How different was her mother's attitude from that of Tom Gray. Surely no one could miss her as her mother missed her, yet she had given her up without a murmur, while Tom had protested bitterly against her beloved work and prophesied that some day she would realize that work didn't mean everything in life.

All that day the inspiring effect of her mother's letter remained with Grace. Her already deep interest in her house and her charges received new impetus, and when evening came, she felt, as she entered the big living room where the thirty-four girls were assembled, that she would willingly do anything that lay within her power to forward the prosperity and success of Harlowe House.

After the usual preliminaries, Louise Sampson addressed the meeting in her bright direct fashion. "Ever since we came back to Harlowe House this year I've felt that we ought to do something to increase our treasury money. If the club had enough money of its own, then the Harlowe House girls wouldn't need to borrow of Semper Fidelis. That would leave the Semper Fidelis fund free for other girls who don't live here and who need financial help. Of course we couldn't do very much at first, but if we could get up some kind of play or entertainment that the whole college would be anxious to come to see, as they once did a bazaar that the Semper Fidelis Club gave, the money we would realize from it would be a fine start for us. Now I'm going to leave the subject open to informal discussion. Won't some one of you please express an opinion?"

"Don't you believe that some of the students might say we were selfish to try to make money for our own house instead of for the college? Semper Fidelis was organized for the benefit of the whole college, but this is different," remarked Cecil Ferris.

A blank silence followed Cecil's objection. What she had just said was, in a measure, true.

Louise Sampson looked appealingly at Grace. She had been so sure that her plan of conducting some special entertainment on a large scale would meet with approval. Cecil's view of the matter had never occurred to her.

"I am afraid that Miss Ferris is right," Grace said slowly. "Much as I should like to see the Harlowe House Club in a position to take care of its members' wants I am afraid we might be criticized as selfish if we undertook to give a bazaar."

"Why couldn't we give one entertainment a month?" asked Mary Reynolds eagerly. "I am sure President Morton would let us have Greek Hall. We could give different kinds of entertainments. One month we could give a Shakespearean play and the next a Greek tragedy; then we could act a scenario, or have a musical revue or whatever we liked. We could make posters to advertise each one and state frankly on them that the proceeds were to go to the Harlowe House Club Reserve Fund. We wouldn't ask any one for anything. We wouldn't even ask them to come. We'd just have the tickets on sale as they do at a theatre. If the girls liked the first show, they'd come to the next one. We'd ask some of the popular girls of the college who do stunts to take part, and feature them. I think we'd have a standing-room-only audience every time."

Mary paused for breath after this long speech. The club, to a member, had eyed her with growing interest as she talked.

"I think that's a splendid plan," agreed Evelyn Ward. "I'm willing to do all I can toward it. I've had only a little stage experience, but I'd love to help coach the actors for their parts."

For the next half hour the plan for increasing the club's treasury was eagerly discussed. A play committee, consisting of Mary Reynolds, Evelyn Ward, Nettie Weyburn and Ethel Hilton, a tall, dark-haired girl, noted for making brilliant recitations, was chosen.

"Has any one else a suggestion?" asked Louise Sampson, when the first excitement regarding the new project had in a measure subsided.

"Why couldn't we have a Service Bureau?" asked Nettie Weyburn. "I mean we could post notices that any one who wishes a certain kind of work done, such as mending, sewing or tutoring, could apply to our bureau. Every one knows that the students of Harlowe House are self-supporting. We wouldn't be here if we weren't. Some of us have a very hard time earning our college fees. Some of us have been obliged to borrow money, and comparatively few of us ever have pocket money. If the girls who don't have to do things for themselves found that we could always be depended upon for services I imagine we would have all the work we could do."

"Hurrah for Nettie!" exclaimed Cecil Ferris. "I think that's a fine idea."

"So do I," echoed several voices.

"But we'd have to put some one in charge of the bureau, and no one of us could afford to spend much time looking after it," reminded Louise.

"Oh, we could take turns," was Nettie's prompt reply. "Then, too, we could have certain hours for business, say from four o'clock until six on every week day, except Saturday and from two o'clock until five on Saturday afternoons."

"But where would we receive the girls who came to see about having work done?" asked Alice Andrews, a business-like little person who roomed with Louise Sampson.

"I will see that the Service Bureau has a desk installed in one corner of the living room," offered Grace, who had, up to this point, listened to the various girls' remarks, a proud light in her eyes. She loved the sturdy self-reliance of the members of her household. "And there will also be times when I can do duty on the Bureau, too," she added.

"No, Miss Harlowe, you mustn't think of it," said Louise Sampson. "You do altogether too much for us now."

"I am here to take care of my household," smiled Grace. "Besides, it will be a pleasure to help a club of girls who are so willing to help themselves."

"Miss Harlowe is really and truly interested in the girls here, isn't she?" Jean Brent commented to Evelyn Ward in an undertone. Having passed her examinations Jean was now a full-fledged freshman.

"Yes, indeed," returned Evelyn, with emphasis. "She has done a great deal for me. More than I can ever hope to repay."

"What -- " began Jean. Then she suddenly stopped and bent forward in a listening attitude. The electric bell on the front door had just shrilled forth the announcement of a visitor. A moment and the maid had entered the room with, "A lady to see you, Miss Harlowe. I didn't catch her name. It sounded like Brant."

Jean Brent grew very white. Turning to Evelyn she said unsteadily, "I don't feel well. I think I will go up stairs." Without waiting for Evelyn to reply, she rose and almost ran out of the living room ahead of Grace. As she stepped into the hall she darted one lightning glance toward the visitor, then she stumbled up the stairs, shaking with relief. She had never before seen Grace's caller.

"How do you feel?" was Evelyn's first question as she entered their room fully two hours later. "You missed a spread. We had sandwiches and cake and hot chocolate."

"I can't help it," muttered Jean uncivilly. Then she said apologetically, "I'm much better, thank you. Please forgive me for being so rude."

While in the next room Grace was saying to Emma, who, owing to an engagement, had not attended the meeting, "Really, Emma, the name 'Riddle' certainly applies to Miss Brent. She came to the meeting with the others, and when it was only half over she bolted from the living room and upstairs as though she were pursued by savages. I wouldn't have noticed her, perhaps, but I had been called to the door. Mrs. Brant came to see me about my sewing. Miss Brent hurried out of the living room ahead of me. I saw her give Mrs. Brant the strangest look, then up the stairs she ran as fast as she could go."

"Grace," Emma looked at her friend in a startled way. "You don't suppose Miss Brent has run away from home do you? The names Brant and Brent sound alike. She may have thought that some member of her family had followed her here."

It was Grace's turn to look startled. "I don't know," she said doubtfully. "I hope not. I should not like to harbor a runaway unless I knew the circumstances warranted it, as was the case with Mary Reynolds. I didn't think of Miss Brent's secret as being of that nature. Surely Miss Lipton would not countenance a runaway. Still I don't wish to try to force this girl's confidence. I prefer to let matters stand as they are, for the present, at least. I've promised to respect her secret, whatever it may be, and I am going to do so."

Emma shook her head disapprovingly.

"I don't like mysteries, Grace. When we talked Jean Brent over a few days ago I told you that I didn't think it mattered if she choose to wrap herself in mystery. But I've changed my mind. I believe you owe it to yourself to insist on a complete explanation from her. Suppose later on you discovered that you had been deceived in her, that she was unworthy. Then, again, she might put you in a disagreeable position with President Morton or Miss Wilder. You remember the humiliation you endured at Evelyn's hands. I, who know you so well, understand that your motive in trusting Miss Brent unquestioningly is above reproach. But others might not understand. If she proved untrustworthy, you would be censured far more than she." Emma's tones vibrated with earnestness.

Grace sat silent. She realized the truth of her friend's words. Emma rarely spoke seriously. When she did so, it counted. Still, she had given her promise to this strange young girl, and she would keep her word. After all Jean Brent's secret might be of no more importance than that of the average school girl.



Chapter VII

Her Own Way


The Service Bureau lost no time in preparing and posting notices on the college bulletin board, and on those of the various campus houses, to the effect that they were prepared to take care of any requests for general services that might be made, and the immediate response with which their venture met was gratifying in the extreme. Certain of the club members found their spare time fully occupied in tutoring freshmen, while those who were skilled needlewomen were kept busy mending, making silk blouses, kimonos and even simple styles of gowns. Grace had thoughtfully placed a second sewing machine in the sewing room, and it never stood idle. There were requests for all sorts of services such as hair dressing, manicuring and countless small labors which affluent students were glad to turn over to their needy classmates.

Grace and Louise Sampson spent many hours of time and thought upon the new venture. It required tact and judgment to select the various girls for the various labors. First there was the customer to please. Second the fact that each member of the club was anxious to be given the opportunity to earn a little extra money. It was wonderful, too, the amount of hitherto undiscovered ability which came to light at the call for service, and it was not long before Nettie Weyburn had acquired considerable reputation as a manicurist, while Ethel Hilton gained lasting laurels as a hair dresser and Mary Reynolds proved herself a competent tutor. Hilda Moore became a fad among certain girls who loathed letter writing and willingly paid her for taking their dictation and typing their home letters, while Cecil Ferris stood alone as an expert mender of silk stockings. Louise Sampson made silk blouses. Several members specialized on kimonos. Two girls were kept constantly busy on hand-painted post cards, posters and cunning little luncheon favors. There were also occasional requests for a maid or companion for some special affair. In fact the high standard of excellence which the Service Bureau aimed for, and obtained, caused its popularity to increase rapidly.

There was but one member of this earnest and busy household to whom the Bureau meant nothing. That member was Jean Brent. So far she had discovered absolutely nothing she could do to earn money. She had not the patience to tutor, she loathed the bare idea of performing personal services for others, and she could not sew a stitch. Nevertheless the fact that she needed money perpetually stared her in the face. True she had written to Miss Lipton for a loan, and the money had been promptly sent her. She had repaid Grace and Evelyn the small sums they had advanced her, but the remainder of the money had dwindled away so rapidly she could hardly have given an account of the way in which it had been spent.

Now her thoughts turned to her trunks of unused finery. What possible objection could Miss Harlowe have to her selling what was rightfully hers? If she wished to dispose of certain of her own possessions it was surely no one's affair save her own. Althea Parker, who was Evelyn's friend, and the leader of a clique of the richest girls at Overton, had been given an opportunity to see the contents of one of the trunks and had gone into ecstacies over the dainty hats and frocks Jean had displayed for her benefit. "For goodness' sake where did you get such lovely things?" had been Althea's curious question. "They must have cost a lot of money."

"Do you think the girls in your set would be interested in them?" Jean had asked, ignoring the other girl's question. "I -- I should like to sell them to any one who wants them. I must have some money. I need it at once."

"Sell them?" Althea's eye-brows had been elevated in surprise. "How funny." Then her natural selfishness coming strongly to the surface, she had said hastily. "I'd love to have that green chiffon evening gown. It's never been worn, has it?" She decided it was not her business if Miss Brent chose to sell her clothes. Jean had gravely assured her that everything in the trunk was perfectly new and fresh, and Althea had, then and there, bargained for almost a hundred dollars' worth of finery, and promised to interest the girls of her set in Jean's possessions.

It was not until after Althea had gone that Jean remembered Grace's objection to her proposed sale. She decided that she could not have the sale after all. She would sell Althea the things she wished and tell her the circumstances. But when she laid the matter before Althea the latter had said lightly, "Oh, don't let a little thing like that worry you. It's none of Miss Harlowe's business. Besides, I've told my friends, and they are dying to see your things. Evelyn told me to-day that Miss Harlowe was going to New York City on Friday night. You can have the girls come up here on Saturday afternoon. I'll invite Evelyn to luncheon and keep her away until after six o'clock. She wouldn't like it if she knew. She's a regular goody-goody this year. What you must do is to get the things out of the other trunks. Then the girls can see them. I'll come to-morrow for these things I've selected; so have them wrapped up for me. If we manage it quietly no one need be the wiser, for the girls won't breathe a word of it to a soul."

Actuated by her need of money, Jean swallowed her scruples and obeyed Althea's commands implicitly. Under the pretext of rearranging her wardrobe, she spent her spare time in the trunk room going over her effects and picking out those articles most likely to appeal to her customers, and by Saturday everything was in readiness for the sale. Evelyn, unsuspecting and jubilant over her luncheon engagement with Althea, who had so far this term held herself rather aloof from her, hurried off to keep her appointment, leaving Jean a clear field.

Locking the door, this strange girl began laying out her wares. There were exquisite evening gowns, with satin slippers and silk stockings to match, and there were afternoon and morning frocks, walking suits, separate coats, hats, gloves, fans, scarfs, everything in fact to delight the heart of a girl. Jean handled them all mechanically, and without interest. It was only when she heard the murmur of girls' voices outside her door that a deep flush mounted even to her smooth forehead. She drew a deep breath and braced herself as for an ordeal, then answered the peremptory knock on the door.

There were little delighted cries from the ten girls who came to the sale as they examined Jean's beautiful wardrobe. Being of medium height, her gowns fitted most of her customers, who exulted over the fact of their absolute freshness. They were indeed bargains, and, as each girl had come prepared to buy to the limit of her ample allowance, the money fairly poured into Jean's hands.

For the rest of the afternoon a great trying-on of gowns ensued, and in their eager appreciation of the pretty things before them they chattered like a flock of magpies, arousing not a little curiosity among a number of the Harlowe House girls who in passing through the hall heard the murmur of voices and subdued laughter. It was after six o'clock when the last girl, bearing a huge bundle and a suit case, had departed. Jean sat down amidst the wreck of her possessions and sighed wearily. She sprang up the next moment, however, and began feverishly to bundle the various garments lying about on the bed and chairs into the open trunk. She had sold many of her possessions. Those that were left would all go into the one trunk. She must hurry them in before Evelyn returned. She was likely to come in at almost any moment. Jean had saved a beautiful frock of yellow crêpe for Evelyn. She intended to give it to her for a Christmas present. There were shoes, stockings and scarf to match, along with a wonderful white evening coat, trimmed with wide bands of white fur and lined with palest pink brocade. In the short time she had known Evelyn she had become greatly attached to her, and although unlike in disposition, they had, so far, managed to get along together as roommates.

Jean knew, however, that Evelyn, who was devoted heart and soul to Grace Harlowe, could not fail to disapprove of her high-handed disregard of Grace's authority. She, therefore, determined to remove all traces of the sale and trust to luck and the honor of the girls who had taken part in it. If, later, Evelyn should recognize any of the various articles as Jean's, it would do no particular harm. She would, no doubt, be shocked, but still past lapses of good conduct never disturbed one as did those of the present. Feeling that, in her case, at least, the end justified the means, Jean bundled the last tell-tale effect into the trunk and banged down the lid, resolving to meet Evelyn as though nothing had happened, and let the future take care of itself.



Chapter VIII

All In The Day's Work


With the approach of the Thanksgiving holidays a great pleasure and a great sorrow came to Grace. The "pleasure" was the joyful news that Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe had accepted an invitation to spend Thanksgiving in New York City with the Nesbits. This news meant that, for the first time since her entrance into college as a freshman, Grace would have the supreme satisfaction of being with her adored parents on Thanksgiving Day. Anne, Miriam and Elfreda would be with her, too, which made the anticipation of her four days' vacation doubly dear.

Then almost identical with this great joy had come the great sorrow. Miss Wilder was going away. For the past year she had not been well, and now she had been ordered West for her health. During Grace's first year at Harlowe House the regard which Miss Wilder had always felt for her as a student had gradually deepened until the two were on terms of intimacy. Grace felt the same freedom in going to the dean with her difficulties as she had with Miss Thompson, her loved principal of high-school days.

It seemed to her as though this staunch friend, with her kindly tolerance, and her amazing knowledge of girl nature, could never be replaced. No matter how worthy of respect and admiration her successor might be, she could never quite equal Miss Wilder. The possibility of Overton without her had never occurred to Grace. True she had noted on several occasions that Miss Wilder looked very pale and tired. She was considerably thinner, too, than when Grace had entered college as a freshman, yet she had always given out the impression of tireless energy. Grace had never heard her complain of ill health, yet here she was, threatened with a nervous breakdown. The only remedy, a complete rest. As soon as her successor had been appointed she would start for an extended western trip in search of health, which only time, the open air and rest could restore. At the older woman's request Grace spent as much time as possible in her company. They had long talks over the subject that lay closest to the young house mother's heart, the welfare of her flock, and Grace derived untold benefit from the dean's counsel.

It now lacked only a little time until Overton College would lose one of its staunchest friends. Divided between the anticipation of meeting and the pain of parting, Grace hardly knew her own state of mind. It was with a very sober face that she hung the telephone on its receiver one gray November morning, and slipping into her wraps, set out for Overton Hall in obedience to Miss Wilder's telephoned request. The new dean, Miss Wharton, had arrived, and Miss Wilder was anxious that Grace should meet her. Miss Wharton had expressed herself as interested in Miss Wilder's account of Harlowe House and its unique system of management. She had also expressed her desire to meet Grace, and Miss Wilder, hopeful that this interest might prove helpful to Grace, had readily acceded to her wish.

Grace set forth for Overton Hall in good spirits, but whether it was the effect of the raw November morning or that the shadow of parting hung heavily over her, she suddenly felt her exhilaration vanish. A strange sense of gloomy foreboding bore down upon her. She found herself strangely reluctant to meet Miss Wharton. She had a strong desire to about-face and return to Harlowe House. "What is the matter with you, Grace Harlowe?" she said half aloud. With an impatient squaring of her shoulders she marched along determined to be cheerful and make the best of what she could not change.

As she entered Miss Wilder's office her quick glance took in the short, rather stout figure seated beside Miss Wilder. This, then, was Miss Wharton. What Grace saw in that quick glance was a round, red, satisfied face lit by two cold pale blue eyes, and surmounted by lifeless brown hair, plentifully streaked with gray. There was neither grace nor majesty in her short, dumpy figure, and Grace's first impression of her was decidedly unpleasant. An impression which she never had reason to change.

Miss Wilder rose to meet Grace with outstretched hand. "My dear, I am glad to see you this morning."

"And I to see you," responded Grace, her gray eyes full of affectionate regard. "How are you feeling to-day, Miss Wilder?"

"Very well, indeed, for me," smiled the dean. "Almost well enough to give up my western rest, but not quite. My heart is in my work here. It is hard to leave it even for a little while. But I am leaving it in good hands. I wish you to meet Miss Wharton, Grace."

She presented Grace to the other woman, who did not offer to take the hand Grace extended, but bowed rather distantly. The color stung Grace's cheeks at the slight. Still she forced herself to try to say honestly, "I am glad to know you, Miss Wharton."

"Thank you," was the cold response, "You are much younger than I was led to believe. It is rather difficult to imagine you as the head of a campus house. You give one the impression of being a student."

Grace's eyes were fixed on the new dean with grave regard. Was this salutary speech purely impersonal or did a spice of malicious meaning lurk within it? Not since those far-off days when Miss Leece, a disagreeable teacher of mathematics at Oakdale High School, had made her algebra path a thorny one had she encountered any instructor that reminded her in the least of the one teacher she had thoroughly despised. Yet, as she strove to fight back her growing dislike and reply impersonally, she was seized with the conviction that even as she and Miss Leece had been wholly opposed to each other, so surely would she and Miss Wharton find nothing in common. After what seemed an hour, but was in reality a minute, Grace forced herself to smile and say with quiet courtesy, "This is my second year as house mother at Harlowe House. I am frequently taken for a student. I really feel no older than my girls, and I hope I shall always feel so."

"It isn't years that count with Miss Harlowe," smiled Miss Wilder, coming to Grace's defense. "It is the ability to keep things moving successfully, and Miss Harlowe has shown that ability in a marked degree," she added.

"Has she, indeed?" returned Miss Wharton, with what Grace felt to be forced politeness. "I shall be interested in visiting Harlowe House and learning Miss Harlowe's successful methods of management." Then she turned to Miss Wilder and began a conversation from which it appeared as though she deliberately sought to exclude Grace.

"I must go, Miss Wilder," said Grace, rising almost immediately. She decided that she could not and would not endure Miss Wharton's rudeness.

Miss Wilder looked distressed. She could not understand Miss Wharton's attitude, therefore there was nothing to do save ignore it.

"Very well, my dear. Run in and see me to-morrow. I shall be here from two o'clock until four in the afternoon." She took one of Grace's soft hands in both of hers. The brown eyes met the gray questioning ones with a look of love and trust. Grace's resentment died out. She said a formal good-bye to Miss Wharton and hurried from the room. She would go to see Miss Wilder the next day as she had requested. Perhaps Miss Wharton's rude reception of her was due merely to a brusque trait of character. Perhaps she belonged to the old school who believed that youth and responsibility could not go hand in hand. At any rate she would try hard not to judge. Although she usually found her first impressions to be correct, still there were always exceptions. Miss Wharton might prove to be the exception.

On her way home she stopped at Wayne Hall. To her it was a house of tender memories, and she never entered its hospitable doors without half expecting to see the dear, familiar faces of the girls long gone from there to the busy paths of the outside world.

"Why, how do you do, Miss Harlowe?" was Mrs. Elwood's delighted greeting. "It certainly is good to see you. I think you might run over oftener when you're so near, but I s'pose you have your hands full with all those thirty-four girls. Did you come to see Miss West and Miss Eliot? If you did, they're both at home, for a wonder. Miss West doesn't have a recitation at this hour, and Miss Eliot's sick."

"Sick!" Grace sprang to her feet. "Oh, I must run up and see her at once. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Elwood, I came to see you. I hadn't the least idea that either of the girls were in, but if you'll forgive me this time I'll run upstairs to see Patience and make you a special visit some other day."

"Oh, I'll forgive you, all right," laughed Mrs. Elwood. "I'm glad to see your bright face, if it's only for five minutes, Miss Harlowe."

"You're a dear." Grace dropped a soft kiss on Mrs. Elwood's cheek, then hurried up the stairs, two at a time. Pausing at the old familiar door at the end of the hall, she knocked. There was a quick, light step. The door opened and Kathleen West fairly pounced upon her.

"Look who's here! Look who's here!" she chanted triumphantly. The tall, fair girl in the lavender silk kimono, who reclined in the Morris chair, turned her head languidly, then gave a cry of delight.

"You poor girl!" Grace embraced Patience affectionately. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, just a cold," croaked Patience. "In the words of J. Elfreda, 'I'm a little horse.'" Her blue eyes twinkled. "It's worth being sick to have you here, Grace."

"I've been intending to come over every night this week, but I'm so busy," sighed Grace. "The Service Bureau keeps me hustling."

"What a progressive lot of people you Harlowites are," praised Kathleen. "Did you know that Mary is doing a story about you and your family for our paper. Of course there are no names mentioned. I saw to that." Kathleen flushed. She recalled a time when she had used Grace's name without permission.

"Yes, I know about it," smiled Grace, "and I know that no names are mentioned."

Kathleen's color heightened. Then she remarked: "By the way, that Miss Brent must have realized a nice sum of money from her sale. When did she have it, Grace? We didn't hear a word of it. It must have been a very select affair. I'm sorry I didn't know of it, for I wanted to buy an evening dress. Rita Harris bought a beauty. Tell us about this latest acquisition to Harlowe House. How does she happen to have such wonderful clothes, and why didn't she go to work for the Service Bureau instead of selling them? I'm fairly buzzing with curiosity."

Grace viewed Kathleen in amazement. "I don't understand you, Kathleen," she said, in a perplexed tone. "I have heard nothing of a sale."

"But Miss Brent held it at Harlowe House a week ago last Saturday," persisted Kathleen. "It is evident she didn't wish you to know it or you would have been there, too."

Grace's amazed expression changed to one of vexed concern. She now understood. "One week ago last Saturday I was in New York City," she said soberly. "Until this moment I knew nothing of any such sale. In fact I had objected to the plan when Miss Brent proposed it to me. If she had wished to dispose of certain of her personal belongings to any one girl I should have said unhesitatingly that it was her own affair, but a general sale is a different matter. The eyes of the college are, to a great extent, directed toward Harlowe House. It's position among the other campus houses is unique. That the girls who live there are given a home free of charge makes them doubly liable to criticism. They must be worthy of their privileges."

Kathleen nodded in emphatic agreement. "Of course they must. I understand fully your position in regard to them, Grace."

"You mean the girl we met that day at Vinton's, don't you?" inquired Patience. "She had been robbed of her money in the train."

"Yes; she is the very girl."

"How do you reconcile her lack of means to pay her college expenses with this wonderful wardrobe that Kathleen has just told us of?"

"I don't reconcile them. I can't. That is just the trouble." Grace looked worried. "Speaking in strict confidence, I have really taken Miss Brent on trust. I have asked her to explain certain things to me, and she has refused to do so. On the other hand she is warmly championed by the principal of one of the most select preparatory schools in the country. Then, too, she assures me that at some future day she will explain everything. Emma calls her the Riddle. It's an appropriate name, too." Grace made a little despairing gesture.

"You are the greatest advocate of the motto, 'Live and let live' that I have ever run across, Grace," smiled Patience, "but," her face grew serious, "I believe you ought to insist on Miss Brent's full explanation of her mysterious ways. If the news of this sale happens to reach faculty ears you are likely to be criticized for allowing it."

"But I didn't allow it," protested Grace. "I refused my consent to it."

"Yet you are the last one to defend yourself at another's expense," reminded Kathleen. "You'd rather be misjudged than to see this girl, who hasn't even trusted you, placed in an unpleasant position."

Grace's color deepened. "I promised to trust her," she said at last. "At first I felt just as you do about this. Then I talked with her. She seemed honest and sincere. I decided that perhaps it would be better not to force her confidence. Young girls are often likely to make mountains of mole-hills. Still, Emma thinks just as you do," she added. "She didn't at first, but she does now. I'm sure she knows nothing of the sale. She would have told me."

"I just happened to remember," began Kathleen, her straight brows drawn together in a scowl, "that Evelyn Ward rooms with Miss Brent. Evelyn must have known of the sale. Do you mind, if I ask her about it?"

"Ask her if you like." Grace spoke wearily. Everything was surely going wrong to-day. She had intended to tell Patience and Kathleen about her trip to New York. She had visited Anne and the Southards and spent two delightful days. After what she had heard she felt that there was nothing to say. "I must go," she announced abruptly. "I'll come again to-morrow to see you, Patience. A speedy recovery to you. Come and see me, both of you, whenever you can. By the way, I met Miss Wharton, the new dean, this morning."

"What is she like?" asked Kathleen.

"I can hardly tell you. She is different from Miss Wilder. I saw her only for a moment. She seems distant. Still one can't judge by first appearances. I must go. Good-bye, girls."

Grace left her friends rather hurriedly. She was ready to cry. The revelations of the morning had been almost too much for her. It was hard indeed to be snubbed, but it was harder still to be deceived. "It's all in the day's work," she whispered, over and over again, as she crossed the campus. "I must be brave and accept what comes. It's all in the day's work."



Chapter IX

What Evelyn Heard On The Campus


"Ha! Whom have we here?" declaimed Emma Dean, pointing dramatically, as Grace opened the door and stepped into their room. One look at Grace's sensitive face was sufficient. Emma had lived close to her friend too long not to know the signs of dejection in the features that usually shone with hope and cheerfulness. "Advance and show your countersign," she commanded.

"I haven't any," returned Grace soberly.

"Spoken like a brigadier general who doesn't need one," retorted Emma. "You are just in time to hear my terrible tale.

"Oh, a terrible tale I have to tell Of the terrible fate that once befell A teacher of English who once resided In the same recitation room that I did,"

she rendered tunefully.

The shadow disappeared like magic from Grace's face. "Now what have you done, you funny girl?" she asked, her sad face breaking into smiles. Emma was irresistible.

"It is not what I have done, but what I might have done. What was it Whittier said in 'Maud Muller'?"

"There's really no one under the sun Can blame you for what you might have done,"

paraphrased Emma briskly.

Grace giggled outright. "Poor Whittier," she sympathized.

"Don't pity him," objected Emma. "Pity me for what nearly happened to me. The illustrious name of Dean came within a little of traveling about Overton attached to a funny story, which I will now relate for your sole edification. You remember that pile of themes I brought home on Tuesday?"

Grace nodded.

"Well, I finished them last night and wrapped them up ready to take back to the classroom to-day. They made a good-sized bundle, because I had collected them from all my classes. This morning I was in a hurry, so I picked up my bundle and ran. I always like to be in my classroom in good season. But fate was against me, for I met Miss Dutton, that new assistant in Greek, and she stopped me to ask me numerous questions, as she is fain to do unless one sees her first, and from afar off enough to suddenly change one's course and miss her. Consequently I marched into my room to find my class assembled. I assumed a dignity which I didn't feel, for I hate being late, and laid my bundle of themes on my desk. Every eye was fixed reprovingly upon me. I had said so much against straggling into class late, yet here I had committed that very crime. I untied my bundle and was just going to open it when that black-eyed Miss Atherton asked me a question. I answered the question, my eyes on her, my fingers folding back the paper. I reached for my themes and my hand closed over cloth instead of paper. A positive chill went up and down my spine. I gave one horrified glance at the supposed theme and poked it out of sight in a hurry. Another second and I would have offered some one my white linen skirt in full view of my class. Instead of themes I had brought my clean laundry to English IV."

"Oh, Emma!" gasped Grace mirthfully.

"You're not a bit sympathetic," declared Emma with pretended severity.

How Elfreda would love that tale. She would revel in the vision of Emma Dean solemnly proffering her linen skirt to an unsuspecting class. "I declare, Emma, you have driven away the blues."

"Have I?" inquired Emma with guileful innocence. It was precisely what she had intended to do. "What is troubling you, Gracious?"

"I can't endure the thought of losing Miss Wilder. I went to see her this morning and met Miss Wharton. I --  -- "

"Don't like her," finished Emma calmly.

"No, I don't," returned Grace, with sudden vigor, "but how did you know it?"

"Because I don't like her, either. I was introduced to her yesterday afternoon in Miss Wilder's office. I didn't tell you, because I wished you to form your own impression of her, first hand."

"She was positively rude to me, Emma. She made me feel like a little girl. She said I looked more like a student than a person in charge of a campus house."

"I agree with her," was Emma's bland reply. "You might easily be taken for a freshman."

"But she didn't mean it in the nice way that you do," said Grace. "I hope she never comes to inspect Harlowe House. She will be sure to find fault."

"She'll have to make a sharp search," predicted Emma. "We won't worry about it until she comes, will we? Now, what else is on your mind?"

"The Riddle," admitted Grace. She related what she had heard from Kathleen regarding the sale.

"H-m-m!" was Emma's dry response. "They took good care that I shouldn't hear of it."

"I'm so sorry Evelyn lent herself to something she knew would displease me," mourned Grace.

"Perhaps she didn't. I know for a certainty that she wasn't in the house Saturday afternoon, for I met her on the campus and she told me that she was going to take luncheon and spend the afternoon with Althea Parker."

"She must have known about it."

"I am afraid the news of this sale will travel rapidly," prophesied Emma. "Not only will Miss Brent be talked over, but you also will be criticized. You know I advised you, not long ago, to insist that Miss Brent make a full explanation of things. Take my advice and see her at once."

"I will," decided Grace. "I'll have a talk with her after dinner to-night."

Grace was not the only one, however, to whom the news of the sale came as a shock. Strangely enough Evelyn learned of it during the afternoon of the same day in which it had come to Grace's ears. Her attention had been attracted to a smart black and white check coat which Edna Correll, a very plain freshman who tried to make up in extreme dressing what she lacked in beauty, was wearing. In crossing the campus on her way to Harlowe House she had encountered Edna in company with another freshman. For an instant she had wondered why the sight of the black and white coat which Edna wore seemed so strangely familiar. Then it had dawned upon her that it was identical with a coat belonging to Jean.

"How do you like my new coat?" had been Edna's salutation, and Evelyn had replied. "It's wonderfully smart. Miss Brent has one very much like it."

"She had one, you mean," Edna had corrected. "Why, weren't you at the sale last Saturday! I suppose you selected what you wanted beforehand. That is where you had the advantage."

"What sale?" Evelyn had asked, completely mystified. Then explanations had followed. White with suppressed anger, Evelyn had bade Edna a hasty good-bye and sped across the campus toward Harlowe House. Without a word she brushed by the maid who answered the bell, and rushed upstairs as fast as she could run. The temper which she had tried so hard to control was now at a high pitch. How dared Jean deliberately place her in such an unpleasant position when she was trying so hard to be worthy of Miss Harlowe's confidence? She flung open the door of her room. Then her eyes sought and found Jean standing before the wardrobe, her back to the door, a pair of black satin slippers in her hand.

"How could you do it?" burst forth Evelyn. "You know Miss Harlowe forbade it. Now she will think that I knew all about it. Just when I am trying to merit her confidence."

Jean Brent whirled about. Her blue eyes flashed. One of the slippers she held in her hand swished through the air and landed with a thud against the opposite wall. The wave of anger with which she faced Evelyn was like the sudden sweep of a gale of wind out of a clear sky. The other slipper followed the first one. Then the doors of the wardrobe were slammed shut with a force that caused it to shake. To Evelyn it was as though a strong current of air had blown upon her. Here, indeed was a temper that outranked her own.

"What right have you to speak to me in such a tone?" raged Jean. "You have nothing to say as to what I shall or shall not do. I won't pretend I don't know what you mean. I do know. I don't in the least care what you think about it, either. My clothes are mine to do with just whatever I please. If Miss Harlowe imagines I am going to be a servant to half the girls at Overton for the sake of earning my fees she is mistaken. Why should she or any one else object to my selling my things, if I like? I don't see how you found it out. The girls promised to keep the whole affair to themselves. I don't understand why you should be so concerned, or what it has to do with Miss Harlowe's opinion of you. From what you say I might almost assume that there had been a time when you were not to be trusted."

Evelyn's beautiful face was crimson with anger and humiliation. She longed to answer Jean's arraignment with a flood of words as bitter as her own, but her determined effort of months to rule her spirit now bore fruit.

"I'm sorry I spoke so abruptly," she said coldly. "I just heard about the sale from Miss Correll. You were quite right in what you said. There was a time when I could not be trusted. My trouble was about clothes, too. Miss Harlowe helped me find my self-respect again, and this year I am trying very hard to be an Overton girl in the truest sense of the word. I am telling you this in confidence because I wish you to understand why Miss Harlowe's good opinion is so dear to me."

"You can go and tell her that you knew nothing about the sale," muttered Jean sullenly. Something in Evelyn's frank confession had made her feel a trifle ashamed of herself.

Evelyn's violet eyes grew scornful. "How can you suggest such a thing?" she asked.

It was Jean's turn to blush. "Forgive me," she said penitently. "I know you aren't a tell-tale. If she asks me about the sale, be sure I'll exonerate you."

Evelyn shook her head. "I wish you'd go to her, Jean, and tell her what you have done. Sooner or later she is sure to find it out."

But Jean Brent was in no mood for this advice. It caused her anger to blaze afresh. "There you go again," she blustered, "with your goody-goody advice to me about running to Miss Harlowe with every little thing I do. I hope I'm not such a baby. If Miss Harlowe sends for me, don't think for a minute that I'll be afraid to face her, but until she does send for me I am not going to concern myself about it, and I would advise you not to trouble yourself, either."

With this succinct advice Jean made a fresh onslaught on the unoffending wardrobe. Opening it she seized her hat and coat. With a last reverberating slam of its long-suffering doors she turned her back on it and Evelyn, and switched defiantly out of the room and on out of the house.



Chapter X

Laying The Cornerstone Of A House Of Trouble


Jean did not return to Harlowe House for dinner that night. Instead she turned her steps toward Holland House, where Althea Parker lived, assured that in Althea she would find sympathy. In spite of the fact that Jean lived at Harlowe House, a plain acknowledgment of her lack of means, Althea shrewdly suspected that the mysterious freshman had come from a home of wealth, and was posing as a poor girl for some reason best known to herself. Jean's remarkable wardrobe had impressed her deeply, while Jean herself carried out the impression of having been brought up in luxury. She was self-willed, extravagant, careless of the future, and her flippant opinion, delivered to Althea, of the Service Bureau and work in general, was all that was needed to convince the shrewd junior of Jean's true position in life. Then, too, Jean was extremely likable, although Althea stood a little in awe of her remarkable poise and a certain imperiousness that occasionally crept into the girl's manner.

Jean rang the bell at Holland House with mingled feelings of resentment and defiance. Resentment against Evelyn for daring to take her to task; defiance of Grace and her commands.

"Is Miss Parker in?" she inquired of the maid who opened the door.

"She just came in, miss."

"Very well. I'll go on upstairs. She won't mind me."

Jean knocked on Althea's door. Althea called an indifferent "Come in," and she entered to find her engaged in reading a letter that had come by the afternoon mail.

"Oh, hello, Jean," she drawled at sight of the other girl. "You must have come in right behind me. What are you glowering about?"

"Evelyn is angry with me because I had the sale," began Jean. "That's what I came to tell you. I'm sorry I told her that Miss Harlowe had forbidden me to have it. Now she thinks I ought to go to Miss Harlowe and tell her that I disobeyed her before she hears of it from some other source."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Althea. "Don't be so silly. Ten chances to one she'll never hear of it. If ever she does, it will probably be as ancient history. I'll caution the girls again to keep still. Who told Evelyn?"

"That Miss Correll. Evelyn saw her wearing my black and white check coat and recognized it," returned Jean gloomily. "She came rushing into my room like a young tornado with the plea that Miss Harlowe would blame her for my misdeeds." Jean was tempted to add that which Evelyn had told her in confidence. Then her better nature stirred, and she was silent.

"Evelyn isn't nearly as good company this year as she was last," complained Althea. "Ever since the latter part of her freshman year, she's been so different. I've always had an idea," Althea lowered her voice, "that last spring she broke some rule of the college and ran away. One night, just before college closed -- it was long after ten o'clock, too -- Miss Harlowe telephoned me and asked if Evelyn were with me. I found out afterward that she had gone to New York all by herself. She'd never been there but once before when she spent a week-end with me, and she didn't know a soul. I never could find out anything else, though. Evelyn went to her classes on Monday, and not one word did she ever say about it. I didn't find out about the New York part of it until this fall, though. A Willston man whom we both know saw her in New York with that clever Miss West, who wrote 'Loyalheart.'"

Jean listened with attentive gravity. She guessed that Althea had perhaps hit upon the truth. Evelyn had confessed to her that there had been that in her freshman year of which she was ashamed. She had said it was about clothes, yet what had clothes to do with breaking the rules of Overton and running away to New York? Whatever it was, it should remain Evelyn's secret. She would tell Althea nothing.

"Let's go to Vinton's for dinner," she proposed, with an abrupt change of subject. "I've plenty of money now -- while it lasts."

"All right," agreed Althea, "only I mustn't stay out late. I've a frightful lesson in physics to study for to-morrow."

Jean did not particularly enjoy her dinner. In spite of her defiant manner she had begun to feel slightly conscience-stricken. She almost wished she had not gone on with the sale. Still she could have obtained the necessary money in no other way. Now that the mischief was done she could hope only that Miss Harlowe would hear nothing of it -- not for a long time, at any rate.

As she crossed the campus and ran lightly up the steps of Harlowe House she resolved to shake off her recent fear of the discovery, on Grace's part, of her disobedience and act as though nothing had happened.

Her resolution was destined to receive an unexpected jolt. "Miss Harlowe wants to see you, Miss Brent," were the words with which the maid greeted her as she stepped into the hall.

Jean's heart sank. So it had come already. She stopped for a moment in the hall to gather her forces. Her feeling of penitence vanished. She threw up her head with a defiant jerk and walked boldly into the little office where Grace sat making up her expense account for November.

"You wished to see me, Miss Harlowe?" Her tone was coldly interrogative, her eyes hostile, as she stared steadily at Grace.

Grace looked up from her work and calmly studied the pretty, belligerent girl standing before her. In that glance she realized what a difficult task lay before her.

"Yes, Miss Brent, I wished to talk with you," she answered. "Sit down, please."

Jean slid reluctantly into the chair opposite Grace, surveying her with an expression which said plainly, "Well, why don't you begin?"

"Did you have a sale of your clothes in your room one week ago last Saturday?"

The directness of Grace's question astonished Jean. She found herself answering, "Yes," with equal promptness.

"Why did you disobey me?" asked Grace.

"Because I needed the money," declared Jean boldly, "and I couldn't earn it, Miss Harlowe; I just couldn't."

Grace gazed reflectively at the flushed face opposite her own. "Miss Brent," she began, "when first you came to Harlowe House I believed that it was not necessary for me to know certain things which you did not wish to divulge. I might still be of that opinion if you had not disobeyed me. It is most peculiar for a girl to come to Overton utterly without funds, yet possessing quantities of the most expensive clothes. I have always felt assured of your right to be an Overton and a Harlowe House girl, yet others might not regard you so leniently. That is why I refused to allow you to have the sale. I feared you would bring down undue criticism upon you, and upon me as well. Once you became a subject for criticism you might be obliged to explain to the dean or the president of the Overton College what you have refused to explain to me. It was to protect you that I refused your request. Since you have seen fit to disregard my authority I can do but one thing. I must insist that you will tell me fully what you have, so far, kept a secret. In order to protect you I must know everything. I can no longer go on in the dark."

Jean stood staring at Grace. A look of stubborn resolve crept into her face. Grace, watching her intently, knew what the answer would be. The strange girl opened her lips to speak. Then, obeying her natural impulse to give the other person the greatest possible chance, Grace raised a protesting hand.

"Don't say you won't do as I ask, Miss Brent. Take a little time to think over the matter. I am going to give you until after Thanksgiving to decide whether or not you will trust me. Remember my sole desire is to help you."

For the first time Grace's sweet earnestness seemed to awaken a responsive chord in the heart of the obstinate freshman. The ready color dyed her cheeks crimson. The hard, defiant light left her eyes.

"If only she would tell me now and have it over with," thought Grace, noting the signs of softening on Jean's part. The girl appeared to be considering Grace's proposal in the spirit in which it had been made. Then, all in an instant, she changed. It was as though she had suddenly recalled something disagreeable.

"There is really no use in waiting until after Thanksgiving for my answer. I can't tell you. I suppose you will send me away because I won't tell you, but if I did tell you, you would send me away just the same. So you see it doesn't really make much difference. It was silly in me to come here. I might have known better," she ended with a mirthless smile.

Grace regarded Jean with growing annoyance. She had been offered a chance to explain herself and she had refused it. True, Grace could also refuse to allow her to remain a member of Harlowe House, but this she did not wish to do. Her pride whispered to her that among the girls who were enrolled as members of the household, made possible by Mrs. Gray's generosity, there had been no failures. Jean Brent should not be the first. She would bear with her a little longer.

"I repeat, Miss Brent," she said, "that I do not wish you to answer me until after Thanksgiving. Then, if you decide, as I hope you will, to be frank with me, I promise you that I will do my utmost to protect you."

Jean's only response was, "Good night, Miss Harlowe." Then she turned and left the office.

Grace sat poking holes in an unoffending sheet of paper with her lead pencil. She wondered what Jean Brent's secret could possibly be, and how she could best reach this stubborn, self-centered freshman. And in her wholehearted effort to be of service to the girl, who apparently needed her help, she did not dream that she was laying the cornerstone of a house of trouble for herself.



Chapter XI

Thanksgiving With The Nesbits


"I am sure I never before had so much to be thankful for!" was Grace Harlowe's fervent declaration as she viewed with loving eyes the little circle of friends of which she was the center.

It was Thanksgiving eve, and the Nesbits had gathered under their hospitable roof a most congenial company to help them commemorate America's first holiday. Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe, in company with Mrs. Gray, had come from Oakdale. J. Elfreda Briggs had won a reluctant consent from her family, who invariably spent their Thanksgivings at Fairview, to make one of Miriam's house party. Anne, who was playing an extended engagement in New York City, was transplanted from the Southards' to Miriam's home for a week's stay. There were, of course, many loved faces missing, but this only made those who had assembled for a brief sojourn together more keenly alive to the joy of reunion.

"This is the first Thanksgiving since my senior year in high school that I've been given the chance to sit between Father and Mother and count my blessings," Grace continued, looking fondly from one to the other of her parents. She was occupying a low stool between them, her favorite seat at home when the day was done, and the devoted little family gathered in the living room to talk over its events.

"We are counting our blessings, too," smiled Mr. Harlowe. "One of them is very lively, and runs away almost as soon as it arrives." He pinched Grace's soft cheek.

"But it always runs back again," reminded Grace, "and it's always yours for the asking. I'd leave my work, everything, and come home on wings if you needed me."

"I used to hate Thanksgiving when I was a youngster," broke in J. Elfreda. "We always had a lot of company and I always behaved like a savage and spent Thanksgiving evening in solitary confinement. I'd wail like a disappointed coyote and make night generally hideous for the company. I've improved a lot since those days," she grinned boyishly at her friends. "I can see now that it was a pretty good thing the Pilgrim Fathers set aside a day for counting their blessings. If they thought they were lucky, I wonder what we are."

Elfreda had unconsciously gone from the comic to the serious.

"We are favored beyond understanding," Mrs. Harlowe said solemnly. "When one thinks of the poor and unfortunate, to whom Thanksgiving can bring nothing but sorrow and bitterness, it seems little short of marvelous that we should be so happy."

"I don't wish to be selfish and forget life's unfortunates, but I'd rather not think about them now," was Miriam's candid comment. "We mustn't be sad to-night. Grace must sparkle, and Elfreda be funny, and Anne must recite for us, and I'll play and David must sing. I've discovered that he has a really good tenor voice. We've been practising songs together this fall."

"Really?" asked Grace, with interest. "And all these years we never knew it. David, you can surely keep a secret."

"Oh, I can't sing," protested David, coloring. "Miriam only thinks I can. Our real singers are among the missing to-night."

"You mean Hippy and Nora?"

"Yes," nodded David. "Isn't it strange we didn't hear from them. I wrote Tom, Hippy and Reddy to come on here for Thanksgiving if they could. Reddy and Jessica couldn't make it. They are coming home for Christmas, though. Tom Gray is away up in the Michigan woods. Still he sent a telegram that he couldn't come. But Hippy didn't answer. This morning I sent him a telegram, and so far there's no answer to that, either."

"I hope neither of them is ill." Mrs. Gray's face took on a look of concern. "It is not like Hippy to neglect his friends."

"Nora is usually the soul of promptness, too," reminded Anne.

"If I don't hear anything to-night, I'll telegraph Hippy again to-morrow," announced David.

There was a pleasant silence in the room. Every one's thoughts were on the piquant-faced Irish girl, whose sprightly manner and charming personality made her a favorite, and her plump, loquacious husband, whose ready flow of funny sayings never seemed to diminish.

"There aren't any wishing rings nowadays," sighed Grace, "so there's no use in saying, 'I wish Nora and Hippy were here.' Come on, David, and sing for us. Miriam says you can, and you know it wouldn't be nice in you to contradict your sister."

"You can sing, 'Ah, Moon of My Delight,'" suggested Miriam to her brother. "It is Omar Khayyam set to music, you know" -- she turned to Grace -- "from the song cycle, 'In a Persian Garden.'"

"I love it," commented Anne, her eyes dreamy. "Do sing it, David."

As Miriam went to the piano the whirr of the electric bell came to their ears.

Grace glanced interrogatively at David. "Perhaps it's a telegram," she commented.

David, who had just risen from his chair to go to the piano, stopped short and listened. "False alarm. Must be the doctor. One of the maids is sick." He crossed to the piano where Miriam already stood, turning over a pile of music. Having found the song for which she was searching, she took her place before the piano and began the quatrain's throbbing accompaniment.

David's voice rang out tunefully. He sang with considerable feeling and expression. He had reached the exquisite line, "Through this same Garden -- and for One in Vain!" when a clear high voice from the doorway took up the song with him.

With a startled cry of "Nora!" Grace ran to the door.

The song came to an abrupt end. Miriam whirled on the piano stool. One glance and she had joined the group that now surrounded a slender figure with a rosy, laughing face and a saucy turned-up nose.

"Nora O'Malley! You dear thing! No wonder David didn't hear from Hippy. But where is he? Not far away, I hope."

"Ah!" called a voice from behind the thin silk curtain of a small alcove at one end of the hall, and Hippy emerged, the picture of offended dignity. "Missed at last," was his sweeping rebuke. "I had begun to think I was doomed to languish behind that green silk curtain for life. It's all Nora's fault. If I had been immured there forever and always, it would be her fault just the same. She proposed that I should hide. 'Make them think I came alone. They will be so disappointed,' was her deceitful counsel. And I believed her and wrapped myself in the curtain to wait for you to be disappointed. I see it all now. It was merely a scheme to attract attention to herself. She is jealous of my popularity."

"Oh, hush, you wicked thing," giggled Nora. "You didn't give any one time even to ask for you."

"That sounds well," was Hippy's lofty retort, "but remember, all that prattles is not truth."

"Squabbling as usual," groaned David, shaking Hippy's hand with an energy that belied the groan.

"Just as usual," smirked Hippy. "Neither of us will ever outgrow it. You see we once lived in a town called Oakdale and associated daily with a number of very quarrelsome people. I wouldn't like to mention their names, but if some day you should happen to go to Oakdale just ask any one if David Nesbit and Reddy Brooks ever reformed. They'll understand what you mean."

"Your Oakdale friends will have cause to inquire what awful fate has overtaken you if you don't reform speedily," warned David. "I'm obliged to stand your insults because you are company. Just wait until the newness of seeing you again wears off, and then see what happens."

"You don't have to show me," flung back Hippy hastily. "I'll take your word for it. I believe in words, not deeds. You know I used to be so fond of quoting that immortal stanza about doing noble deeds instead of dreaming them all day long. Well, I've altered that to fit any little occasion that might arise. I find it much more comforting to say it this way:

"Be wise, dear Hippy, from all violence sever, Say noble words, then do folks all day long. Avoid rash deeds, by sweet words e'er endeavor To prove your friends are wrong."

A ripple of laughter followed Hippy's sadly altered quotation of the famous lines.

"That's a most ignoble sentiment, Hippy," criticized Miriam. "I can't believe that you would practice it."

"I didn't say I would practice it," responded Hippy, with a wide grin. "I merely stated that it was comforting to have around. Must I repeat that I believe in words, and lots of them."

"We all knew that years ago," jeered David. "I believe in words, too. Sensible words from Nora explaining how you and she happened to drift in here at the eleventh hour. You haven't a sensible word in your vocabulary."

"I have," protested Hippy. "Nora, as your husband, I command you, don't give David Nesbit any information."

Nora dimpled. "I won't tell David," she capitulated. "I'll tell Miriam and Anne and Grace." The five Originals were still grouped together in the hall. "When David's letter came we were just wondering how we would spend Thanksgiving with not one of the old crowd at home. Hippy handed me the letter. It came while we were at luncheon. 'Let's go,' we both said at once. So we locked little fingers, wished and said 'Thumbs.' I said 'salt, pepper, vinegar,' but Hippy went on indefinitely with such pleasant reminders as 'death, famine, pestilence, murder.' He believes in words, you know." She shot a roguish glance at her broadly-smiling spouse. "Finally I reduced him to reason and we planned to surprise you. This morning found two lonely Originals hurrying to catch up with their pals." Nora surveyed her friends with a loving loyalty that brought her extra embracing from Grace, Anne and Miriam.

"We mustn't be selfish," reminded Grace. "The folks in the living room are anxious to welcome you."

Hippy and Nora were escorted into the living room by a fond bodyguard, and were soon exchanging affectionate greetings with the older members of the house party. J. Elfreda Briggs had not gone into the hall on the arrival of Hippy and Nora. She could never be induced to intrude upon the more intimate moments of the Originals.

Hippy, with understanding tact, at once proceeded to draw her into the charmed circle. "Well, well!" he exclaimed. "Whom do I see? J. Elfreda, and in the clutches of the law, so I am told."

J. Elfreda's fear of intruding vanished at this sally. Her own sense of humor caused her to claim kinship with Hippy and his pranks and she answered him in kind.

"What I don't see is how you ever escaped those same clutches," put in David. "Don't you have a hard time, usually, to convince the jury that you are not the defendant?"

"Not in the least," responded Hippy, with dignity. "The jury knows me for what I am. Just let me tell you that if I were to have you arrested for slander there wouldn't be the slightest chance of my being mistaken for the defendant."

Even David was obliged to join in the laugh against himself.

"All right, old man. We'll cry quits. I'll bring my law cases to you if ever I have any."

"And now that you are a broker I'll bring anything I want broken to you," promised Hippy glibly. "So far I've left all those little business details to the maid. She has successfully broken a number of our wedding presents, and we look for still greater results. She knows more about 'brokerage' or, rather 'breakerage,' than would fill a book."

"What a blessed thing it is to find you the same ridiculous Hippy we've always known," smiled Mrs. Gray, as Hippy seated himself beside her for a few minutes' sensible conversation. "You and Nora will never be staid and serious. I'm so glad of it."

She sighed. She was thinking of Tom Gray, her nephew, and of how grave, almost moody, he had become during the last year. Long ago she had deplored the fact that no engagement existed between Tom and Grace. Tom had grown strangely unlike his old cheery self, and in his changed bearing she read refusal of his love on Grace's part. It saddened her. Her heart ached for Tom. She had always looked forward to the day when Grace would give her life into Tom's keeping.

She had never approached Grace on the subject of Tom and his love, but to-night, as she watched Hippy and Nora, serene in their mutual love and comradeship, and marked, too, the quiet devotion of Anne and David, who were to be married in Oakdale on New Year's night, her heart went out to her gray-eyed boy, far away in the great North woods, and she determined to say a word for him to Grace.

It was late in the evening before she found her opportunity. With the arrival of Hippy and Nora the interest soon centered about the piano. Grace, while not a performer, was an ardent lover of music, and her delight in Nora's singing was so patent that Mrs. Gray would not disturb her.

It was during the serving of a dainty little repast that Mrs. Gray called to Grace, "Come here, Grace, and sit by me."

Grace obeyed with alacrity, drawing her chair close to that of her old friend.

"I thought I would ask you, my dear -- what do you hear from Tom?" began the dainty old lady with apparent innocence.

Grace felt the color mount even to her forehead.

"I haven't heard from him lately," she confessed. "I -- that is -- I owe him a letter."

"I wish you would write to him. Poor boy. He is very lonely, away up there in the woods."

Grace did not answer for a moment. Then she said in a constrained voice, "I will write to him, Mrs. Gray. I know he is lonely."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation; then came the abrupt question, "Grace, do you love my boy?"

"No, Fairy Godmother," replied Grace in a low tone. "I'm sorry, but I don't. That is, not in the way he wishes me to love him."

"I am sorry, too, Grace. I feel almost as though I were responsible for his sorrow. For to him it is a deep sorrow. If I had not given Harlowe House to Overton College, you might have found that your work lay in being Tom's wife. He has never reproached me, but I wonder if he ever thinks that."

"I am sure he doesn't," Grace's clear eyes met sorrowfully the kind blue ones. "Please don't think that Harlowe House has anything to do with my not marrying Tom. It is only because I do not love him that I am firm in refusing him. My heart is bound up in my work. Really, dear Fairy Godmother, I am almost sure I shall never marry. For your sake and his, I'd rather marry Tom than any other man in the world, if I felt that marriage was best for me. But I don't. I glory in my work and freedom and I couldn't give them up. I've wanted to say this to you for a long time, but I didn't know just how to begin. Now that I have said it, I hope it hasn't wounded you."

"My dear Grace," Mrs. Gray's voice was not quite steady, "I would give much to welcome you as my niece, but not unless you love Tom with the tenderness of a truly great love. If that love ever comes to you, I shall indeed be happy. But my dear boy is worthy of the highest affection. If you cannot give him that affection, then it is far better that you two should spend your lives apart."



Chapter XII

Missing -- A Friend


Four days, spent in the society of those one loves best, pass almost with the rapidity of lightning. Unlike most of her visits to New York City, Grace gave little of her time to attending the theatres and seeing the metropolis. By common consent the members of the house party spent the greater share of their holiday together in the large, luxurious living room. Only one evening found them away from this temporary home. That was on Thanksgiving night, when Miriam gave a theatre party in honor of her guests to see Everett Southard and Anne in "King Lear," and after the play Mr. and Miss Southard entertained their friends at supper in one of New York's most exclusive restaurants. Thanksgiving morning they spent in the church of which Eric Burroughs the actor-minister was pastor, and in the afternoon they motored through Central Park and far out Riverside Drive. Aside from this, the rest of their stay found the thoroughly congenial household gathered about their borrowed fireside, treasuring the precious moments that flitted by all too fast.

There was but one drawback to Grace's pleasure. The thought that she had brought even a breath of sadness to her old friend, Mrs. Gray. There were moments, too, when she experienced a faint resentment against Tom. Must her reunions with her friends be forever haunted by the knowledge that she had made one of the Eight Originals unhappy? The approaching marriage of Anne to David meant, that of the four girls she, only, had chosen to walk alone. She knew that Anne, Nora and Jessica would hail joyfully the news of her engagement to Tom. Living in the tender atmosphere of requited love, their sympathies went out to the lover.

It was not until Sunday morning, after she had accompanied her father, mother and Mrs. Gray to the railway station and was driving back to the Nesbits' in David's car, that Anne ventured to broach the subject of Tom to Grace. Elfreda, Hippy, Miriam and Nora were in the automobile just ahead. Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe and Mrs. Gray had driven to the station in David's car, so, on the return, Grace and Anne had the tonneau of the automobile quite to themselves.

Both girls were unusually quiet, and David, fully occupied in driving his car through the crowded streets, said little.

"Anne," it was Grace who broke the silence, "if David insisted upon your giving up the stage entirely, would you marry him?"

"Yes," came Anne's unhesitating answer. "I love him so much that I could do even that. Only he hasn't asked me to make the sacrifice. He understands what my art means to me, and is willing to compromise. I am not going on any more road tours. I may play an occasional engagement in the large cities, but I have promised, so far as is possible, to remain in New York."

"But when you were at Overton he was opposed to your stage career," reminded Grace. "What made him change his mind?"

"Living in New York and being influenced by Mr. Southard, I think. You see the Southards knew all about me and my affairs. Long ago Mr. Southard began educating David to his point of view in regard to the stage. David is neither narrow-minded nor obstinate, so it has all come right for me," she ended happily. Then she added, as her hand found Grace's. "I wish you loved Tom, Grace."

"And you, too, Anne!" Grace's tones quivered with vexation. "Am I never to be free from that shadow?"

"Why, Grace!" Anne looked hurt. "I didn't dream you felt so strongly about poor Tom. I'm sorry I said anything to you of him."

"Forgive me, dear, for being so cross." Grace was instantly penitent. "But it seems as though the whole world, my world, I mean, was determined to marry me to Tom. You are all on his side -- every one of you. It's the old case of all the world loving a lover. I know you think I'm hard-hearted. None of you stop to consider my side of it. Oh, yes; there is one person who does. Mother understands. She doesn't think I ought to marry Tom, just to please him. She realizes that my work means more to me than marriage." Grace's tone had again become unconsciously petulant.

Anne regarded her in silence. Hitherto she had not realized how remote were Tom's chances of winning Grace's love. It was quite evident, too, that she had made a mistake in broaching the subject to Grace. It appeared as though too much had already been said on that score. Anne resolved to trespass no further. "Please forget what I said, Grace. I'm sure I understand. I'll never mention the subject to you again."

Grace eyed Anne quizzically. "I ought to be grateful to my friends for having my welfare at heart," she admitted, "and I do appreciate their solicitude. Don't think I've turned against Tom because they have tried to plead his cause. So far, it hasn't made any difference. I can't help the way I feel toward him. Still, I'd rather not talk about him. It doesn't help matters, and I am beginning to get cross over it."

"You couldn't be cross if you tried," laughed Anne.

"Oh, yes I could," contradicted Grace. "I could be quite formidable."

At this juncture their talk ended. Their automobile had drawn up before the Nesbits' home and David stood at the open door of the car to help them out. During the few short hours that remained to Grace before time for her train to Overton she and Anne had no further opportunity for confidences.

*    *    *    *    *

It was twenty minutes past eleven o'clock that night when the train reached Overton, and Grace was not sorry to end her long ride. It had been an unusually lonely journey. For the first time in her experience she had made it alone, and without speaking to a person on the train. Then, too, the regret of parting with those she loved still weighed heavily upon her. "I do hope Emma is awake" was her first thought as she crossed the station yard and hailed the solitary taxicab that always met the late New York train, lamenting inwardly that the lateness of the hour and the weight of her luggage prevented her from walking home through the crisp, frosty night, under the stars.

The vestibule light of Harlowe House shone out like a beacon across the still white campus. Grace thrilled with an excess of love and pride at sight of her beloved college home. How much it meant to her, and how sweet it was to feel that her business of life consisted in being of help to others. If she married Tom that meant selfish happiness for they two alone, but as house mother she was of use to seventeen times two persons. "The greatest good to the greatest number," she whispered, as she slid her latchkey into the lock.

The living room was dark. The girls had long since gone to their rooms. Grace's feet made no sound on the soft velvet carpet as she hurried up the stairs. A gleam of yellow light from under her door showed that Emma was indeed keeping vigil for her.

"Hooray, Gracious!" greeted Emma as the door closed behind her roommate. She flung her long arms affectionately about Grace and kissed her. "Is it four days or four weeks since I saw you off to New York and returned to my humble cot to wrestle with the job of managing that worthy aggregation known as the Harlowites?"

"I should say it was four hours," corrected Grace. "Not that I didn't miss you, dear old comrade. We all missed you. Every last person wished you had come with me, and sent you their best wishes. It was splendid to spend Thanksgiving with Father and Mother, and to see Mrs. Gray and the others. Did you receive my postcard? I wrote you that Hippy and Nora were with us. They gave us a complete surprise." Grace related further details of her visit, walking about the room and putting away her personal effects as she talked.

As usual Emma had made chocolate and arranged on the center table a tempting little midnight luncheon for the traveler. It was not long until Grace had donned a pretty pale blue negligee and the two friends were seated opposite each other enjoying the spread.

"Now I've told you all my news, what about yours?" asked Grace at last.

"I've only one tale to tell," responded Emma dryly, "and that is not a pleasant one. The news of Miss Brent's sale has traveled about the campus like wildfire. We've had a perfect stream of girls coming here. They have conceived the fond idea that Harlowe House is a headquarters for second-hand clothing. I have labored with them to convince them that such is not the case, but still they yearn for the Brent finery. Judging from what I hear, it must have been 'some' wardrobe. Pardon my lapse into slang, O, Overton. A number of the teachers have commented on the affair. I've been asked several pointed questions."

"How dreadful!" broke in Grace, her face clouding. "Still I was almost sure something would come of it. That was the reason I forbade Miss Brent to hold a sale when first she proposed it to me. Do you think that Miss Wilder and -- Miss Wharton know it?" Grace hesitated before pronouncing the latter's name.

"Miss Wilder doesn't know, because she left for California last Saturday."

A cry of surprise and disappointment broke from Grace. "Miss Wilder gone, and I didn't say good-bye to her! Why did she leave so suddenly, Emma? She expected to be at Overton for another week, at least."

"Some friends of hers were going to the Pacific Coast in their private car, and knowing that she was ordered west for her health, they wrote and invited her to join them. They had arranged to leave New York City this morning, so she left Overton for New York yesterday morning. I am sure she wrote you. One of the letters that came for you while you were gone is addressed in her handwriting."

Emma reached down, opened the drawer of the table at which they were sitting, and drew out a pile of letters. "Here's your mail, Gracious. Go ahead and read it while I clear up the ghastly remains of the spread."

"All right, I will." Grace went rapidly over the pile of envelopes which bore various postmarks. The majority of the letters were from friends scattered far and wide over the country. The thick white envelope, Miss Wilder's own particular stationery, lay almost at the bottom of the pile. Grace tore it open with eager fingers and read:

"My Dear Grace:

"Just a line to let you know how much I regret leaving Overton without seeing you again. There were several matters of which I was anxious to speak with you at greater length. I had not contemplated leaving here for at least another week, but I cannot resist the invitation which a dear friend of mine has extended to me, to travel west in her private car, so I shall join her in New York City on Saturday evening, as she wishes to start on her tour at once.

"As soon as I reach my destination I will forward you my permanent address. I wish you to write me, Grace. I shall be anxious to know what is happening at Harlowe House and throughout the college. Remember distance can make no difference in my interest and affection for you. You have been, and always will be, a girl after my own heart. With my best wishes for your continued welfare and success.

"Your sincere friend, "KATHERINE WILDER."

Grace laid the letter down with a sigh and sat staring moodily at it, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.

Emma, who had finished clearing the table, regarded her with affectionate solicitude. Stepping over to her, she slid her arm over Grace's shoulders. Grace raised her head. Her eyes met Emma's. Then she pushed the letter into Emma's hand. "Read it," she commanded.

"Do you think she understood?" was Emma's question as she handed back the letter.

"About Miss Wharton not liking me?" counter-questioned Grace.

Emma nodded.

"I am afraid she didn't." Grace's gray eyes were full of sad concern. "And the most unfortunate thing about it is that I must never trouble her with Miss Wharton's shortcomings. It would worry her, and that would retard her recovery. If the year brings me battles to fight, I must fight them alone."



Chapter XIII

A Disturbing Confidence


Grace awoke the next morning with the weight of a disagreeable duty hanging over her. She had given Jean Brent until after Thanksgiving to decide upon her course of action. Jean's disregard for her wishes had already placed the freshman in an unenviable prominence in college. Conscientious to a fault, Grace believed herself to be partly to blame for what had occurred during her week-end absence from Harlowe House. She should have insisted, in the beginning, on absolute frankness on the part of Jean. She had respected the girl's secret and invested her with an honor which she did not possess. It now looked as though she, as well as Jean, might already be in a position to reap the folly of such a course.

With Miss Wilder as dean, Grace knew that Jean's indiscretion would be treated with leniency, but she was by no means sure of what Miss Wharton's attitude might be should the story reach her ears. Grace hoped devoutly that it would not. But whatever happened Jean Brent must impart to her what she had hitherto kept a secret. Grace was resolved upon that much, at least. She could not decide as to the wisest course to pursue until she had heard Jean's story. She decided to wait until the girls were at luncheon, then ask Jean to come to her office that afternoon before dinner. At luncheon, however, greatly to her surprise, Jean walked directly up to her table and said in a low tone, "I have decided to tell you my secret, Miss Harlowe. When may I talk with you?"

"I shall be in my office when you come from your classes this afternoon, or I can wait for you in my room, if you prefer." A great wave of relief swept over Grace as she answered the girl. She had feared that Jean would prove stubborn in her determination to keep her secret.

"Thank you. I will come to your office." Jean turned away abruptly.

Emma Dean had noted Jean's unusually meek manner. She had endeavored not to hear what was not intended for her ears, but low as were Jean's tones, the words reached her. She made no comment, after Jean had taken her place at one of the other tables, until Grace remarked, "Emma, you could hardly help hearing what Miss Brent said to me."

"Yes, I heard what she said," responded Emma unemotionally.

"I am so glad she has decided to trust me."

"It might be better for all concerned if she had trusted you in the beginning," was Emma's dry retort. "I can't help feeling a trifle out of patience with that girl, Grace. She had no business to commit an act, no matter how trivial, that would lay you open to criticism."

"Have you heard any one in particular criticizing me?" asked Grace with quick anxiety.

Emma did not answer for a moment. Grace watched her, her gray eyes troubled.

"I'll tell you precisely what I heard this morning. Before I left Overton Hall to come here for luncheon I stopped for a moment to see Miss Duncan. Miss Arthur, that new teacher of oratory, was with her. I walked into the room just in time to hear Miss Duncan say 'I can scarcely credit it. I am surprised that Miss Harlowe -- ' then she saw me, turned red and stopped short. Miss Arthur looked rather sheepishly at me. I pretended that I had heard nothing, asked the question I intended to ask, and went on my way, much perturbed in spirit. I can't bear to hear you criticized in the smallest degree, Grace," was Emma's vehement cry. "I am sure it was about this sale they were talking. It's all very well for Miss Brent to take the stand that she has the privilege of doing as she pleases with her own clothing, but there is something about the very idea of a sale of wearing apparel that quite upsets Overton traditions and causes Harlowe House to lose dignity. One can't imagine an enterprising clothes merchant living at Holland or Morton House or even at Wayne Hall. The students should have had the good taste to discourage it, but, from what I hear, Miss Palmer had expatiated on the glories of Miss Brent's wardrobe to the clique of girls she chums with, and they gathered like flies about a honey pot. You'll usually find the girls with the largest allowances are always eager to obtain much for the smallest possible outlay. I think, too, that Miss Palmer's influence is not wholesome. It led to Evelyn Ward's folly last year. Evelyn hasn't been unduly friendly with her so far this year. I've noticed that."

"I can't believe Evelyn had anything to do with this sale," asserted Grace. "She may have known of it, but she never sanctioned it."

"At least she didn't attend it," commented Emma, "but, come to think of it, neither did Althea Parker. Don't you remember, I mentioned to you that I met Evelyn on the campus that fateful Saturday and she said she was going to spend the afternoon with Miss Parker?"

"Then if Miss Parker was ringleader in the affair, why didn't she have the courage to attend the sale?" was Grace's quick question.

"For further information inquire of Miss Brent," advised Emma, shrugging her shoulders.

"I will," sighed Grace. "I seem fated to puzzle over hard questions, don't I?"

It was half-past four o'clock when Jean Brent entered the office where Grace sat idly turning the leaves of a magazine.

"Sit down, Miss Brent," invited Grace. Then in her usual direct fashion, "I am ready to listen to anything you wish to say."

Jean Brent flushed, then the color receded from her fair skin, leaving her very pale. In a low tone she began a recital that caused Grace Harlowe's eyes to become riveted on her in intense surprise, mingled with consternation. An expression of lively sympathy sprang into her face, however, as the story proceeded, and when Jean had finished with a half sob, Grace stretched out her hands impulsively with, "You poor little girl."

Jean clasped the outstretched hands and murmured, "You don't blame me so much, then, do you, Miss Harlowe?"

"No, I can't," Grace made honest answer, "but I am so sorry that you did not come to me with this in the beginning. I could have helped you arrange your affairs nicely. You could have borrowed money from the Semper Fidelis Fund and later, if you were desirous of selling your wardrobe you could have disposed of it in New York City for fully as much as you have received for it here. A dear friend of mine in New York who is an actress has often told me that the women of the various theatrical companies who play minor parts are only too glad to purchase attractive wearing apparel which society women sell after one wearing."

"I didn't know. I am sorry I didn't tell you long ago." Jean was thoroughly penitent. "Will it make so very much difference now?"

"I hope not. It is hard to say. Unfortunately the news of the sale has reached the ears of several members of the faculty. Not only you, but I, as well, have been criticized. We can do nothing except wait for the gossip about it to die a natural death." Grace's quiet acceptance of the unpleasantness which Jean's rash act had forced upon her stung the freshman far more sharply than reproof.

"I can go to the dean and tell her what I have told you," faltered Jean.

Grace shook her head. "No, I should not advise it. This affair belongs entirely to Harlowe House and should be settled here. I will write to Miss Lipton to-night. If Miss Wilder were here I should not hesitate to place matters before her, but I am not so sure of Miss Wharton, the woman who is filling Miss Wilder's position. For the present, at least, silence will be best. If Miss Wharton hears of it and sends for you, then you had better be frank and conceal nothing."

"Do you mean that you intend to keep my secret, Miss Harlowe; that you will let me stay on at Harlowe House and finish my freshman year?"

"Yes; not only the freshman year, but your sophomore, junior and senior years as well, provided Miss Lipton approves and advises it. I shall write to her exactly what has occurred. She is nearest to you and therefore to her belongs the decision. But, while I am endeavoring to work for your interest I wish you to work for it, too. I would like to see you more self-reliant. You have been brought up in luxury, but you must forget that. As matters now stand you will one day be obliged to earn your own living. You must build your foundation for a useful life during your freshman year."

Grace's voice vibrated with an earnestness that visibly moved her listener.

"I will try. I will try," she declared fervently. "It is wonderful in you to care so much about me, when I have been so troublesome."

"We won't think of that any longer," smiled Grace. "However, there is one question which I must ask you. Did Miss Ward know of the sale?"

"No," admitted Jean, looking ashamed. "I kept it a secret from her. Miss Parker purposely invited her to luncheon that afternoon. She picked out the things she wanted to buy beforehand and took them out afterward. Evelyn was very angry. We quarreled, and have not spoken to each other since. It was my fault."

"Then, to please me, will you try to be friends with Miss Ward again?"

"Yes."

"You must tell no one else what you have told me," stipulated Grace further. "It must be a secret between us."

"I will tell no one," promised Jean.

The ringing of the door bell and the entrance of the maid with a card, brought the confidential talk to an end. Grace rose and held out her hand. "I must go," she said. "I will talk with you again when I hear from Miss Lipton."

"Thank you over and over again, Miss Harlowe." Jean's eyes were lit with a strength of purpose rarely seen in them. As she left the office and thoughtfully climbed the stairs to her room she resolved anew to be worthy of Grace Harlowe's approval and respect.



Chapter XIV

The Return Of The Christmas Children


"Holy night, peaceful and blest," rose Nora Wingate's clear voice, high and sweet on the still winter air. A chorus of fresh young voices took up the second line of the beautiful hymn, filling the calm of the snowy night with exquisite harmony.

A little old lady, with hair as white as the snow itself, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes very tender, appeared in the library window as the song ended. She had concealed herself in the folds of the curtain while the singing went on, fearing it might come to a sudden stop should she reveal herself.

Her appearance, however, inspired the singers to fresh effort, for, immediately they spied her, led by Nora, they burst into the old English carol, "God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen." They sang it with their rosy, eager faces raised to her, a world of fellowship in every note, while she stood motionless and listened, a smile of supreme love and content making her delicate features radiant.

As they ended this second carol she raised the window. "Come in, this minute, every one of you blessed children. You can't possibly know how happy you have made me this Christmas Eve."

"Coming right in the window," declared Hippy, as he made an ineffectual spring and failed to land on the wide sill.

"Just as I expected," jeered Reddy Brooks, dragging him back. "You might know Hippy would spoil everything. We all start out, on our best behavior, to sing carols to our fairy godmother. Then at the most effective moment, when we are feeling almost inspired, he ruins the whole effect by trying to jump in the window."

"He might as well try to jump through a ten-inch hoop," seconded David. "He'd be just as successful."

"They are slandering me, Nora," whimpered Hippy, "and I am the sweetest carol singer of them all. Protect me, Nora. Tell Reddy Brooks it was his singing that nearly ruined that last carol. Tell him his voice is as loud and obnoxious as his hair. And tell David Nesbit that -- " Hippy gave a sudden agile bound out of reach of Reddy's avenging hands, and tore across the lawn and around the corner of the house, shrieking a wild, "Good-bye, Nora. Remember I've always been a good, kind husband to you. Don't forget me, Nora."

"Holy Night, Peaceful and Blest."

"I'll pay him yet for that remark about my obnoxious hair," grinned Reddy, as the carol singers trooped across the lawn and into the house.

Mrs. Gray met her Christmas children with welcoming arms. "I am going to kiss every one of you," she announced.

"We are willing," assured David, and she was passed from one pair of arms to another, emerging from this wholesale embrace, flushed and laughing.

"You didn't kiss me," observed a plaintive voice from behind the portieres that divided the library from the hall. Hippy's round face was thrust engagingly into view. He had slipped in the side door, unobserved.

"There he is, Reddy. How did he get in so quietly?" David took a vengeful step forward. The face disappeared.

"Just wait until I hang up my overcoat," threatened Reddy.

"Don't let him hang it up, Nora. If you value the safety of your husband, make him stand and hold it," pleaded the plaintive voice.

"Here, Reddy, give me your hat and coat," ordered Nora cruelly.

"Ha! I defy you." Hippy suddenly bounced from behind the curtain into the midst of the group in the hall. "I would defy forty David Nesbits and fifty Reddy Brooks for a kiss from my fair lady." He bowed before Mrs. Gray.

"Bless you, Hippy," she said, as she kissed his fat cheek, "that was nicely said."

"I am always saying nice things," assured Hippy airily. "Better still they are always true things. There are some persons, though, who can't stand the white light of truth. May I rely upon you for protection, Mrs. Gray? Alas, I am now alone in the world. The person who is supposed to have my welfare at heart is hob-nobbing with my traducers. Miriam Nesbit used to be a fairly good protector, but she hasn't done much along that line lately."

"Come on, Hippy. I'll take care of you. I'm sorry I've neglected you." Miriam held out her hand. Hippy hung his head and simpered. Then with his Cheshire cat grin he seized Miriam's hand and toddled beside her into the library. The others followed, laughing at the ridiculous spectacle he presented.

"Both our fairy godmother and I are disgusted with you," taunted Nora as she directed a glance of withering scorn at Hippy, now calmly seated beside Miriam on the big leather davenport, the picture of triumph. "You asked her to protect you; then you deserted her and deliberately went over to Miriam for help."

"Wasn't that awful?" deplored Hippy. "Such inconstancy makes me blush."

"You couldn't blush if your life depended upon it," was David Nesbit's scathing comment.

"There are others," retorted Hippy.

David glared ferociously at the grinning Hippy.

"There are others," went on Hippy blandly, "who, I might venture to say, have even greater trouble in producing that much lauded rarity, a blush. But what does blushing mean? It means turning very red. It isn't always confined to one's face, either. I once knew a man, a rare creature, whose very hair blushed. That is, it turned red when he was an infant and blushed more deeply every year. In fact it never quit blushing."

"I once knew a person, a senseless creature, who didn't know when he was well off," began Reddy, in an ominous voice. "From the time he learned to talk he made ill-natured remarks about his friends. But at last he came to a terrible end. He --  -- "

"I never knew him," interrupted Hippy. "I'm not interested in persons I don't know. I'd rather talk to Grace. I've known her for a long time, and we've always been on friendly terms. Come and sit beside me, Grace."

"Jilted," declared Miriam tragically, as Grace accepted the invitation and seated herself on Hippy's other side.

"Not a bit of it. I believe in preparedness. The constant-reinforcements-arriving-every-minute idea appeals to me. You are both bulwarks of defense."

"I'm surprised that anything except eats appeals to you." This from Reddy.

"'Eats' did you say? What are eats? Or, better, where are eats?" demanded Hippy, beaming hopefully at Mrs. Gray.

"They will appear very soon, Hippy," assured Mrs. Gray. "I sent a dispatch to the kitchen the moment you finished singing."

"For goodness' sake, Grace and Miriam, keep Hippy quiet for a while. No one else has had a chance to say a word," complained David. "I'd like to hear a few remarks on 'Life in Chicago' by our estimable pals, Jessica and Reddy."

"Life in Chicago can't compare with life in dear old Oakdale," said Jessica. "In spite of the theatres, concerts and all the pleasures that a big city offers one, Reddy and I are always a little lonely."

"That is because you and Reddy miss me," observed Hippy with positive modesty.

"You're right, old man. We do miss you," agreed Reddy, with unmistakable sincerity. For once Hippy forgot to be funny. "You aren't the only ones who miss the old guard," he answered seriously; then he added in his usual humorous strain, "I hope some day the Eight Originals Plus Two and all their friends will emigrate to a happy island and colonize it. Then there won't be any missed faces or any letter writing to do, for that matter. David and Reddy can run the business of the colony and see that we aren't cheated when we trade glass beads and other little trinkets with the savages. Of course there will be a few moth-eaten old cannibals. Tom can classify the trees of the forest and make the obstreperous beasts and reptiles behave. I will represent the law. I will settle all disputes and administer justice. I'll be a regular old Father William, like the one in 'Through the Looking Glass,' I always did love that poem, especially this verse:

"'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife. And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted me all of my life.'"

Nora pretended to pay no attention to Hippy, who waited for her to protest, an expansive smile wreathing his fat face. "She didn't understand," he said sadly, after beaming at Nora in vain. "There's no use in trying to explain. I suppose I'll have to give her an appointment of some kind on my island. Nora, you may have charge of me. Isn't that a noble mission? Still she doesn't answer. Oh, well, never mind, I'll go right on appointing."

"Mrs. Gray, you will be the queen, and Grace can be prime minister. Anne can have charge of the amusements, and Miriam can help her. Miriam has a decided leaning toward the drama."

The color in Miriam's cheeks suddenly deepened at this apparently innocent remark. "I don't think I like your island idea very well," she said lightly. "I'd much rather have the Originals live right here in Oakdale." She rose and strolled across the room to where Jessica sat.

"It's not the island idea. It's the dramatic idea that Miriam objects to discussing," confided Hippy in a low tone to Grace.

"How did you find it out?" asked Grace.

"First of all by observation, my child. Second, through David. He knows it, too. Southard told him. They have seen a good deal of each other since the Nesbits have lived in New York. David thinks him worthy of Miriam."

"I knew he cared. I wonder if Miriam does? She never mentions Mr. Southard. I hope she loves him. It is so hard when one cares and the other doesn't." Grace's gray eyes grew sad. Conversation languished between Hippy and Grace for a little. Then with a half sigh Grace rose, "I am going to ask Nora to sing," she said.

Before she had time to carry out her intention John appeared pushing a small table on wheels ahead of him. Its shelves were laden with sandwiches, olives, salted nuts and delicious fancy cakes, while a maid followed him with a chocolate service.

Mrs. Gray poured the chocolate, and Anne, always her right-hand man, assisted her in serving it. Grace, with her ever-present youthfulness of spirit, found trundling the table about the room a most pleasing diversion. They were a very merry little company, entering into the joy of being together with all their hearts, and deeply thankful for the opportunity to gather once more in the same spirit of friendly affection that had characterized all their meetings.

It was well toward midnight when the party broke up.

"Mayn't I take you home in my car, Grace," pleaded Tom. Grace stood for the moment, a little detached from the others, arranging the veil over her hat.

"Oh, no, Tom," she made quick answer. "It is late. You mustn't go to that trouble. David is going to take Anne and I in his car. Hippy, Nora, Reddy and Jessica are going home in Hippy's machine."

Tom's face fell. "May I come to see you to-morrow afternoon, then?"

"Yes, do. Miriam and David are coming over for a while," returned wily Grace. Her one idea was to avoid being alone with Tom. His sole idea was to be alone with her. His pride, however, would allow him to go no further. He had been rebuffed twice in rapid succession.

"Thank you. I'll drop in on you then," he said, trying to summon an indifference he did not feel.

After his aunt's guests had departed with much merriment and laughter, Tom turned to go upstairs. He was sure Grace did not intend to be unkind. It was not her fault if she did not love him. He had determined, however, to plead with her once more. Then, if she still remained obdurate, as he feared she might, he would give up all hope of her, forever, and go his lonely way in the world.



Chapter XV

The New Year's Wedding


It was New Year's, and Anne Pierson's wedding night. At half-past seven the ceremony linking her life forever to that of her school-day friend, David Nesbit, was to be performed in the beautiful old stone church on Chapel Hill which, in company with her chums, she had faithfully attended during her years spent in Oakdale.

Anne had, at first, steadily refused to countenance the idea of a church wedding. She was a quiet, demure little soul, who, aside from her work, detested publicity. It was Mrs. Gray's wish, however, to see the girl she had befriended married in the church which bore the memorial window to the other Anne, her daughter, who had died in her girlhood. So Anne had yielded to that wish.

Although Grace was Anne's dearest friend, she had insisted that Miriam should be her maid of honor. Privately she had said, "I'd rather be a bridesmaid with Nora and Jessica. You know there were only four of us in the beginning." It had also been decided that in spite of the fact that Jessica and Nora were really eligible to the position of matrons of honor, that phase of wedding etiquette should, for once, be disregarded, and the three friends who had welcomed Anne as a fourth to their little fold should serve as bridesmaids and be dressed precisely alike. "It was," declared Anne, who heartily despised form, "as though they were still three girls together, with husbands in the dim and distant future."

It was to be a yellow and white wedding, therefore the gowns they had chosen were of white silk net over pale yellow satin, and very youthful in effect. Miriam's gown was a wonderful gold tissue, which made her appear like the princess in some old fairy tale, while Anne, contrary to tradition, had not chosen white satin. Her wedding dress was of soft, exquisite white silk, clouded with white chiffon, and was much better suited to her quiet type of loveliness than satin could possibly have been.

Mrs. Gray, who was to give the bride away, wore a gown of her favorite lavender satin, and bustled cheerfully about the Piersons' living room, in which the feminine half of the bridal party had gathered until time to drive to the church, where Anne was to play the leading part in a new and infinitely wonderful drama. Anne's mother had insisted that it should be Mrs. Gray, rather than herself, who gave Anne into David Nesbit's keeping. Always a shy, retiring woman, she had shrunk from the idea of appearing prominently before a church full of persons, many of whom were strangers to her. Dearly as she loved her talented daughter, she preferred to sit quietly beside Mary, her older daughter, in the place of honor reserved for the members of the families of the bridal party. She and Mrs. Gray had discussed the matter at length, and she had been so insistent that the former, as Anne's friend and benefactor, should give away the bride that Mrs. Gray, secretly delighted, had consented to her request.

"Anne makes a darling bride, doesn't she?" praised Nora, lifting a fold of the veil of exquisite lace, Mrs. Gray's wedding veil, by the way, and peering lovingly into her friend's faintly flushed face.

Anne smiled and reached out a slim little hand to Nora. She was occupying the center of the living room while her four friends, Mrs. Gray, her mother, Miss Southard and Mary Pierson hovered solicitously about her.

"How dear you all are to me." She held out her arms as though to clasp her friends in one loving embrace. "I am so glad now that I am going to have a real church wedding. I thought at first it would be nicer to be quietly married and slip away without fuss and feathers, but now I know that it is my sacred duty to my friends and to David to play my new part, as I've always played my other parts, in public."

"I always knew that Anne and David would be married some day," declared Grace wisely. "I believe David fell in love with Anne the very first time he saw her. Don't you remember Anne, we met him outside the high school, and he asked us to come to his aeroplane exhibition?"

"I remember it as well as though it happened yesterday," Anne's musical voice vibrated with a tenderness called forth by the memory of that girlhood meeting with the man of men.

"Those days seem very far away to me now," remarked Miriam Nesbit. "I feel as though I'd been grown up for ages."

"I don't feel a bit grown up. It seems only yesterday since I ran races and tore about our garden with Captain, our good old collie," laughed Grace. "I'm like Peter Pan. I don't want to, and can't, grow up. And I shall never marry." She glanced about her circle of friends with an almost challenging air. She looked so radiantly young and pretty in her dainty frock that simultaneously the thought occurred to them all, "Poor Tom." Yet in their hearts, even to Mrs. Gray, they could find no fault with Grace's straightforward words. If she were almost cruelly indifferent to Tom as a lover, she had the virtue at least of being absolutely honest. Even Mrs. Gray admired and respected her candor.

"Did you ever see anything more beautiful than Anne's and Miriam's bouquets?" broke in Miss Southard, with the intent of leading away from a not wholly happy subject.

Miriam held her bouquet at arm's length and eyed it with admiration. It was composed of pale yellow orchids and lilies of the valley, while Anne's was a shower of orange blossoms and the same delicate lilies.

"If you are determined never to marry, Grace, you won't try to catch Anne's bouquet," smiled Mrs. Gray.

"Oh, yes, I shall," nodded Grace. "I must do it because it's hers. I always try to catch the bouquets at weddings. It's good sport. So far, however, I've never secured one."

"I shall throw this one directly at you," promised Anne.

"Anne, child, the carriages are here," broke in her mother's gentle voice.

Anne laid her bouquet on the centre table. "Come and kiss Anne Pierson for the last time, girls." She opened her arms. One by one they folded her in the embrace of friendship. Her sister and mother came last. As the arms that had held her in babyhood closed about her, Anne drew nearer to her mother in this, her hour of supreme happiness, than ever before, if that were possible.

It was not a long drive to the church. On the way there they stopped to pick up the two flower girls, Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell, two pretty and interesting children who lived next door to Grace, and of whom she and Anne had always been very fond. The little flower maidens were dressed in white embroidered chiffon frocks with pale yellow satin sashes and hair ribbons. They wore white silk stockings and white kid slippers and carried overflowing baskets of yellow and white roses.

"Oh, Miss Harlowe," cried Anna May, when she and Elizabeth were safely settled in the carriage, one of them on the seat beside Grace, the other on the opposite side with Anne, "this is about the happiest day Elizabeth and I ever had. I do hope I won't be scared. Just think, we have to walk into that great big church, the very first ones, with all those people looking at us."

"I'm not the least bit scared," was Elizabeth's bold declaration. "Nobody is going to hurt us. Why, all the people are Miss Anne's friends! I'm going to think that when I walk up the aisle, and I shan't be a bit scared. I know I shan't."

"Well, I'm not exactly scared," asserted Anna May, greatly impressed with Elizabeth's valiant declaration. "I guess I'll think that, too."

"Oh, Miss Anne, you look too sweet for anything." Elizabeth clasped her small hands in rapture. "When I grow up I shall certainly be married, and have a dress like yours, and just the same kind of a bouquet, and be married in the church where every one can see me."

"You can't get married unless some one asks you," informed Anna May wisely.

"Some one will," predicted Elizabeth. "Won't they, Miss Harlowe?"

"I haven't the least doubt of it," was Grace's laughing assurance. "Still I wouldn't worry about it for a good many years yet, if I were you. It's just as nice to be a little girl and play games and dress dolls."

Anne smiled faintly. Grace was again unconsciously voicing her views on the marriage question.

The two little flower girls kept up a lively conversation during the ride. They were divided between the fear of facing a church full of people and the rapture of being really, truly flower girls at the wedding of such a wonderful person as their Miss Anne.

It was precisely half-past seven o'clock when two tiny flower maidens, their childish faces grave with the importance of their office, walked sedately down the broad church aisle toward the flower-wreathed altar. Following them came a dazzling vision in gold tissue that caused at least one's man's heart to beat faster. To Everett Southard Miriam was indeed the fabled fairy-tale princess. Then came the bride, feeling strangely humble and diffident in this new part she had essayed to play, while behind her, single file, in faithful attendance, walked the three girls who had kept perfect step with her through the eventful years of her school life.

Mrs. Gray, who had preceded the wedding party to the altar, was waiting there with the bridegroom and his best man, Tom Gray. There was a buzz of admiration went the round of the church at the beautiful spectacle the bridal party presented. Then followed an intense hush as the voice of the minister took up the solemn words of God's most holy ordinance.

Perhaps no one person present at that impressive ceremony realized as did Tom Gray what the winning of Anne, for his wife, meant to David. On that June night, almost two years previous, when Hippy and Reddy had, in turn, made announcement of their betrothal to Nora and Jessica in the presence of Mrs. Gray and her Christmas children, David's fate as a lover had been uncertain. Now David had joined the ranks of happy benedicts. Tom alone was left.

As the minister's voice rang out deeply, thrillingly, "I pronounce you man and wife," involuntarily Tom's glance rested on Grace, who was watching Anne with the rapt eyes of friendship. The words held no significance for her beyond the fact that two of her dearest friends had joined their lives. Her changeful face bore no sign of sentiment. As usual, her interest in love and marriage was purely impersonal.

The reception following the wedding was held at Anne's home, and long before it was over Anne and David had slipped away to take the night train for New York City. Anne's honeymoon was to be limited to one week which they had decided to spend at Old Point Comfort. Anne and Mr. Southard were to open a newly built New York theatre in Shakespearian repetoire the following week. Their real honeymoon was to be deferred until the theatrical season closed in the spring, and was to comprise an extended western trip.

True to her promise, Anne had aimed accurately, and Grace had received the bridal bouquet full in the face. It dropped to the floor. She picked it up and commented on her lack of skill in catching it. Tom's face had brightened as he saw the girl he loved holding the fragrant token to her breast. It was a good omen.

"I'm going to take you home in my car, Grace," he said masterfully, as the guests were leaving that night.

"All right," returned Grace calmly. "We can take Anna May and Elizabeth with us. It's awfully late for them. I promised Mrs. Angerell I'd take good care of them. They absolutely refused to go when Father and Mother went."

Tom could not help looking his disappointment. Nevertheless the two little girls were favorites of his, so he forgave them for being the innocent means of frustrating his intention of having Grace to himself.

"I'm going back to Washington to-morrow night, Grace," he said, as he took her hand for a moment in parting. "May I come to see you to-morrow afternoon?"

"Yes, of course, Tom." Grace could not refuse the plea of his gray eyes.

"All right. I'll drop in about four o'clock."

"Very well. Good night, Tom." Grace could not repress a little impatient sigh. "He's going to ask me again," was her reflection, "but there is only one answer that I can ever give him."



Chapter XVI

The Last Word


While Anne Pierson's wedding day had dawned with a light snow on the ground, the weather underwent a considerable change during the night, and the next morning broke, gray and threatening. Heavy, sullen clouds dropped low in the sky, and by four o'clock that afternoon a raw, dispiriting winter rain had set in, accompanied by a moaning wind that made the day seem doubly dreary. Promptly at four o'clock Grace saw Tom swing up the walk without an umbrella. His black raincoat, buttoned up to his chin, was infinitely becoming to his fair Saxon type of good looks, and Grace could not repress a tiny thrill of satisfaction that this strong, handsome man cared for her. The next second she dismissed the thought as unworthy. She welcomed Tom, however, with a gentle friendliness, partly due to his good looks, that caused his eyes to flash with new hope. Perhaps Grace cared a little after all. He had rarely seen her so kind since their carefree days of boy and girl friendship, when there had been no barrier of unrequited love between them.

"Come and sit by the fire, Tom," invited Grace. "I love an open fire on a dark, rainy day like this." She motioned him to a chair opposite her own at the other side of the fireplace. Tom seated himself, and the two began to talk of the wedding, Oakdale, their friends, everything in fact that led away from the thoughts that lay nearest the young man's heart. Grace skilfully kept the conversation on impersonal topics. By doing so she hoped to make Tom understand that she did not wish to discuss what had long been a sore subject between them. So the two young people talked on and on, while outside the rain fell in torrents, and the dark day began to merge into an early twilight.

With the coming of the dusk Grace began to feel the strain. Tom's pale face had taken on a set look in the fitful glow of the fire. Suddenly he leaned far forward in his chair. "It's no use, Grace. I know you've tried to keep me from saying what I came here to-day to say, but I'm going to tell you again. I love you, Grace, and I need you in my life. Why can't you love me as I love you?"

Grace's clean-cut profile was turned directly toward Tom. She reached forward for the poker and began nervously prodding the fire. Tom caught the hand that held the poker. Unclasping her limp fingers from about it, he set it impatiently in place. "Look at me, Grace, not at the fire," he commanded.

Grace raised sorrowful eyes to him. Then she made a little gesture of appeal. "Why must we talk of this again, Tom? Why can't we be friends just as we used to be, back in our high-school days?"

"Because it's not in the nature of things," returned Tom, his eyes full of pain. "I am a man now, with a man's devoted love for you. The whole trouble lies in the sad fact that you are just a dreaming child, without the faintest idea of what life really means."

"You are mistaken, Tom." There was a hint of offended dignity in Grace's tones. "I do understand the meaning of life, only it doesn't mean love to me. It means work. The highest pleasure I have in life is my work."

"You think so now, but you won't always think so. There will come a time in your life when you'll realize how great a power for happiness love is. All our dearest friends have looked forward to seeing you my wife. Your parents wish it. Aunt Rose loves you already as a dear niece. Even Anne, your chum, thinks you are making a mistake in choosing work instead of love. Of course I know that what your friends think can make no difference in what you think. Still I believe if you would once put the idea away of being self-supporting you'd see matters in a different light. You aren't obliged to work for your living. Why not give Harlowe House into the care of some one who is, and marry me?"

"But you don't understand me in the least, Tom." A petulant note crept into Grace's voice. "It's just because I'm not obliged to support myself that I'm happy in doing so. I feel so free and independent. It's my freedom I love. I don't love you. There are times when I'm sorry that I don't, and then again there are times when I'm glad. I shall always be fond of you, but my feeling toward you is just the same as it is for Hippy or David or Reddy. There! I've hurt you. Forgive me. Must we say anything more about it? Please, please don't look so hurt, Tom."

Grace's eyes were fastened on Tom with the sorrowing air of one who has inadvertently hurt a child. Usually so delicate in her respect for the feelings of others, she seemed fated continually to wound this loyal friend, whose only fault lay in the fact that his boyish affection for her had ripened into a man's love. Saddest of all, an unrequited love.

"Look at Me, Grace."

"Of course I forgive you, Grace." Tom rose. He looked long and searchingly into the face of the girl who had just hurt him so cruelly. "I -- I think I'd better go now. I hope you'll find all the happiness in your work that you expect to find. I'm only sorry it had to come first. I don't know when I'll see you again. Not until next summer, I suppose. I can't come to Oakdale for Easter this year. I wish you'd write to me -- that is, if you feel you'd like to. Remember, I am always your old friend Tom."

"I will write to you, Tom." Grace's gray eyes were heavy with unshed tears. She winked desperately to keep them back. She would not cry. Luckily the dim light of the room prevented Tom from seeing how near she was to breaking down. It was all so sad. She had never before realized how much it hurt her to hurt Tom. She followed him into the hall and to the door in silence.

"Good-bye, Grace," he said again, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye, Tom," she faltered. He turned abruptly and hurried down the steps into the winter darkness. He did not look back.

Grace stood in the open door until the echo of his footsteps died out. Then she rushed into the living room and, throwing herself down on the big leather sofa, burst into bitter tears.



Chapter XVII

The Summons


"There are Deans and deans," observed Emma Dean with savage emphasis, "but the Deans, of whom I am which, are, in my humble opinion, infinitely superior to the dean person stalking about the halls of dear old Overton."

"What do you mean, Emma?" asked Grace. The dry bitterness of her friend's outburst regarding deans in general was too significant to be allowed to pass unquestioned.

It was the evening of Grace Harlowe's return from the Christmas holiday she had spent with her dear ones at Oakdale. Grace and Emma were in their room. Despite the one sad memory which time alone could efface, Grace was experiencing a peace and comfort which always hovered about her for many days after her visits home. Next to home, however, Overton was, to her, the place of places, and she had returned to her work with fresh energy and enthusiasm. She believed that she had definitely put behind her forever all that unhappy part of her life regarding Tom Gray. It had been hard indeed, and had brought tears to the eyes so unaccustomed to weeping. Still Grace was glad that she had faced the inevitable and seen clearly. Tom would, in time, forget her and perhaps marry some one else. She wished with all her heart that he might be happy, and her one regret was that she had caused him pain.

In reality Grace had exhibited toward her old friend a hardness of purpose quite at variance with her usually sweet nature. She wondered a little that she could have been so inexorable in her decision, yet she believed herself to be wholly justified in the course she had taken. Already she was beginning to commend herself inwardly for her loyalty to her work, and Emma's blunt arraignment of the dean of Overton College acted like a dash of cold water upon her half-fledged self-content.

"All day I've been tempted to tell you a few things, Gracious," began Emma, "but I hated to disturb you. I know just how you feel when you come back from that blessed little town of yours. So I've been keeping still while you told me all about Anne's wedding and the good times you had. It was one glorious succession of good times, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Grace was silent for a brief space of time. Then she said gravely, "There was only one flaw, Emma. I refused again, and for the last time, to marry Tom Gray. I was sorry, but I couldn't help it. I don't love him."

"I'm sorry, too, that you couldn't find it in your heart to care for him. I liked him best of those four young men."

"Every one likes him. My friends all hoped that we would marry." Grace sighed. "Still one's friends can't decide such matters for one. One must solve that particular problem alone."

"Just so," agreed Emma. "Although no one ever asked my hand in holy matrimony except a callow youth whom I tutored in algebra last summer. He had failed in his June examination and had to pass in September or be forever labeled a dunce by his fond family. Now you see why I can understand the psychology of saying 'no' to a proposal. This stripling, who was at least five years my junior, proposed to me out of sheer gratitude. I actually succeeded in drumming quadratic equations into his stupid head, and he offered me his hand by the way of reward."

Grace's sad expression had by this time vanished. She was regarding Emma with a smiling face. "Really and truly, Emma, did that happen to you?"

"It did, indeed," averred Emma solemnly. "You aren't half so amazed as I was. I felt as though one of my Sunday-school class of little boys had suddenly exhibited signs of the tender passion. I labored long and earnestly to convince him that I was not his fate, and in due season he passed his examination and promptly forgot me. I did not weep and wail at being forgotten, either. Still there was a grain of satisfaction in being sought. If I go down to my grave in single blessedness I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that some one yearned for my life-long society." She beamed owlishly at Grace, and laughter routed the sorrowful face she had turned to Emma only a moment before.

But Emma was only trying to prepare Grace for unpleasant news. Now that she had put her in a lighter frame of mind, she said: "I might as well tell you about Miss Wharton, Grace."

Grace's eyes were immediately fixed on her in mute question.

"The news of the sale traveled to Miss Wharton, as I was afraid it would," began Emma. "Miss Brent wasn't here when first the dean heard of it. She had gone home with Miss Parker for Christmas. Evelyn Ward wasn't here, either. She and Kathleen West and Mary Reynolds went to New York. Mary and Kathleen to work on the paper, and Evelyn to work for two weeks in that stock company of Mr. Forrest's. You knew about that, of course. It was the day after Christmas that Miss Wharton heard about the sale. She sent for Miss Brent and was greatly displeased to find her gone. However, she had had permission from the registrar, a fact that Miss Wharton couldn't overlook. Then Miss Wharton sent for me. She said the sale was a disgrace to Overton, and that she was amazed to think you allowed such a proceeding. I explained to her that you knew nothing of it, that you were away at the time it took place, and she said you had acted most unwisely in placing your responsibilities on the shoulders of others even for a day. Your place was at Harlowe House every day of the college year. You had no business to assume such a responsible position if you did not intend to live up to it.

"That's about the extent of all she said. I was so angry I could scarcely control myself, but I managed to say quietly that President Morton and Miss Wilder had never questioned your absences from Harlowe House, and that I was sure you would lose no time in taking up the matter with her when you returned. Now you know what you may expect. I don't know whether she has sent for Miss Brent since she came from New York. If she hasn't, then mark my words, the summons will come to-morrow."

Emma proved to be a true prophet. The nine o'clock mail next morning brought two letters written on the stationery used by the Overton faculty. One was addressed to Grace, the other to Jean Brent. If the two young women had compared them they would have discovered that each one contained the same curt summons to the dean's office. Both appointments were for half-past four o'clock that afternoon.

Grace stopped at Jean's table at luncheon that day and said softly. "Will you come to my office after you have finished your luncheon, Miss Brent?"

Jean turned very pale. She bowed her acquiescence, and Grace went on to her own place.

"I have been requested to call on Miss Wharton at half-past four o'clock this afternoon, Miss Brent," informed Grace as, later, Jean stood before her. "I noted that you also received a letter written on the business stationery of Overton. Am I right in guessing that you have received the same summons?"

For answer Jean opened the book she held under her arm and took from it an envelope. In silence she drew from it a letter, spread it open and handed it to Grace.

"Just as I thought." Grace returned the letter. "Miss Wharton has learned of your sale, Miss Brent. She is very indignant. Are you prepared to tell her what you confided to me?" Grace eyed the girl squarely.

"Why should I, Miss Harlowe?" burst forth Jean. "No; I will tell Miss Wharton nothing."

"Nor will I," was Grace's quiet rejoinder. "Whatever she learns must come from you. I wrote to Miss Lipton and received a letter from her assuring me that you are not at fault in the matter that made your advent into Overton College a mystery to me. I need no further assurance. Miss Lipton's school is known to the public as being one of the finest preparatory schools in the United States. If it were Miss Wilder instead of Miss Wharton I should advise you to tell her all. I am so sorry you did not tell us in the beginning. You must do whatever your conscience dictates. If necessary I will show Miss Wharton my letter from Miss Lipton, but I shall not betray your confidence unless you sanction my speaking."

"Please don't tell her," begged Jean.

"It shall be as you ask," returned Grace, but she was secretly disappointed at what might be either Jean's selfishness or her pure inability to see the unpleasantness of the position in which she was placing the young woman who had befriended her.

When Grace entered the familiar office and saw Miss Wharton's dumpy figure occupying her dear Miss Wilder's place she felt a distinct sinking of the heart. The dean surveyed her out of cold blue eyes, that seemed to Grace to contain a spark of deliberate malice.

"Good afternoon, Miss Harlowe," she said stiffly. As she spoke the door opened and Jean Brent walked calmly in. She bowed to Miss Wharton in a manner as chilly as her own and took a seat at one side of the room. The dean waved Grace to a chair. "Now, young women," she began in a severe tone, "I wish a full explanation of this disgraceful sale that recently took place at Harlowe House. I will first ask you, Miss Brent if you had Miss Harlowe's permission to conduct it?"

"No. She refused to permit it. I held it in her absence," answered Jean, defiance blazing in her blue eyes.

"I see; a clear case of disobedience. What was your object in holding it?"

"I needed money. I lost the greater part of my money on the train when I came to Overton."

"Why did you need money?" Miss Wharton exhibited a lawyer-like persistency.

"To pay my college fees," Jean made prompt answer.

"But how could a girl with a wardrobe as complete and expensive as yours -- I have been informed that it was remarkable -- be in need of money to pay her expenses, or obliged to live in a charitable institution, as I believe Harlowe House is?"

"You are mistaken. Harlowe House is not a charitable institution!" Grace Harlowe's voice vibrated with indignation. "I beg your pardon," she apologized in the next instant.

Miss Wharton glared angrily at her for fully a minute. Then, ignoring the interruption and the protest, turned again to Jean.

"I cannot answer your question," Jean spoke with quiet composure.

"You mean you will not answer it," retorted the dean.

"I have nothing to say that you would care to hear." Jean's lips set in the stubborn line that signified no yielding.

Miss Wharton turned to Grace. "You have heard what this young woman says. Can you answer the question I asked Miss Brent?"

"The answer to the question must come from Miss Brent," replied Grace with gentle evasion.

"Miss Harlowe, you have not answered me." Miss Wharton was growing angrier. "I insist upon knowing the details of this affair from beginning to end. Miss Brent's conduct has been contrary to all the traditions of Overton."

"That is perfectly true," admitted Grace.

"Then if you know it to be true, why do you evade my question? It will be infinitely better for you to be frank with me. I am greatly displeased with you and the reports I hear of Harlowe House. I assured Miss Wilder, when first I met you, that I doubted President Morton's and her judgment in allowing you to hold a position of such great responsibility. You are too young, too frivolous. I am informed that Harlowe House is almost Bohemian in its character."

"Then you have been misinformed." Cut to the heart, Grace spoke with a dignity that was not to be denied. "Harlowe House is conducted on the strictest principles of law and order. We try to be a well-regulated household, upholding the high standard of Overton. If it had not been for two of my friends and I, Mrs. Gray would never have given it to the college, and thirty-four girls would have missed obtaining a college education. Miss Wilder believed in me. She trusted me. I regret that you do not. Regarding Miss Brent, I have received ample assurance of her honesty of purpose from Miss Lipton, the head of the Lipton Preparatory School for Girls. Miss Lipton and I are in possession of certain facts concerning Miss Brent which enable us to understand her peculiar position here. I regret, beyond all words, that Miss Brent did not confide in me before having the sale of her clothing. I do not condone her fault, but I am sure that in her anxiety to do what was best for herself she did not intend deliberately to defy me. Here is a letter from Miss Lipton which I wish you to read."

In her vexation Miss Wharton almost snatched the letter from Grace's hand. There was a tense stillness in the room while she read it. Jean kept her gaze steadily turned from Grace. At last the dean looked up from the letter. "This letter is, by no means, an explanation, although I am well aware of the excellent reputation Miss Lipton's school bears. What I am determined to have are the facts of this affair. If I can prevail upon neither of you to speak them I shall place the matter before President Morton and the Board of Trustees of Overton College."

Her threat met with no response from either young woman.

"Before taking the matter up with President Morton, however, I shall give both of you an opportunity to reflect upon the folly of your present course. Within a few days I shall send for you again. If then you still continue to defy me I will take measures to have you, Miss Harlowe, removed from your charge of Harlowe House as being unfit for the responsibility, while you, Miss Brent, will be expelled from Overton College for disobedience and insubordination. That will do for this morning." Miss Wharton dismissed them with a peremptory gesture.

The two young women passed out of the room in silence. Once outside Overton Hall, Jean turned impulsively to Grace: "I am sorry, Miss Harlowe, but I couldn't tell that horrid woman what I told you. She would neither understand me nor sympathize with me. I know you think I should have explained everything."

Grace could not trust herself to answer. Humiliated to the last degree by Miss Wharton's bald injustice, she felt as though she wished never to see or hear of Jean Brent again. It was not until they were half way across the campus that she found her voice. She was dimly surprised at the resentment in her tones. "You chose your own course, Miss Brent, regardless of what I thought. That course has not only involved you in serious difficulty, but me as well. If you had obeyed me in the beginning, I would not be leaving Miss Wharton's office this afternoon, under a cloud. I quite agree with you, however, that to tell Miss Wharton your secret now would not help matters. I must leave you here. I am going on to Wayne Hall."

With a curt inclination of her head, Grace walked away, leaving Jean standing in the middle of the campus, looking moodily after her.



Chapter XVIII

The Blotted Escutcheon


But Grace was destined to receive another shock before the long day was done. The shadows of early twilight were beginning to blot out the short winter day when she let herself into Harlowe House. Stepping into her office she reached eagerly for the pile of mail lying on the sliding shelf of her desk. The handwriting on the first letter of the pile was Tom's. Grace eyed it gloomily. It was not warranted to lighten her present unhappy mood. She opened it slowly, almost hesitatingly. Unlike Tom's long, newsy letters, there was but one sheet of paper. Then she strained her eyes in the rapidly failing daylight and read:

"Dear Grace:

"When you receive this letter I shall be out at sea and on my way to South America. I have resigned my position with the Forestry Department to go on an expedition up the Amazon River with Burton Graham, the naturalist. He is the man who collected so many rare specimens of birds and mammals for the Smithsonian Institute while in Africa, two years ago. It is hard to say when I shall return, and, as it takes almost a month for a letter to reach the United States, you are not likely to hear often from me.

"Aunt Rose is deeply grieved at my going. Still she understands that, for me, it is best. When last I saw you in Oakdale I had no idea of leaving civilization for tropical wildernesses. Mr. Graham's invitation to join his expedition was wholly unexpected, and I was not slow to take advantage of it.

"I would ask you to write me, but, unfortunately, I can give you no forwarding address. Mr. Graham's plans as to location are a little uncertain. Perhaps, until I can bring myself to think of you in the way you wish me to think, silence between us will be happiest for us both. God bless you, Grace, and give you the greatest possible success in your work. With best wishes,

"Your friend, "TOM."

Grace stared at the sheet of paper before her, with tear-blurred eyes. She hastily wiped her tears away, but they only fell the faster. Miss Wharton's injustice, Jean Brent's selfishness, together with the sudden shock of Tom's departure out of the country and out of her life, were too much for her high-strung, sensitive nature. Dropping into the chair before her desk, she bowed her head on the slide and wept unrestrainedly.

Her overflow of feelings was brief, however. Given little to tears, after her first outburst she exerted all her will power to control herself. The girls were dropping in by ones and twos from their classes, the maid would soon come into the living room to turn on the lights, and at almost any moment some one might ask for her. She would not care to be discovered in tears.

Grace picked up the rest of her mail, lying still unopened, and went upstairs to her room with the proud determination to cry no more. She was quite sure she would not have cried over Tom's letter had all else been well. It was her interview with Miss Wharton that had hurt her so cruelly. Yet, with the reading of Tom's farewell message, deep down in her heart lurked a curiously uncomfortable sense of loss. It was as though for the first time in her life she had actually began to miss Tom. She had not expected fate to cut him off so sharply from her. She knew that her refusal to marry him had been the primary cause of his going away. Mrs. Gray would perhaps blame her. These expeditions were dangerous to say the least. More than one naturalist had died of fever or snakebite, or had been killed by savages. Suppose Tom were never to come back. Grace shuddered at the bare idea of such a calamity. And he did not intend to write to her, so she could only wonder as the days, weeks and months went by what had befallen him. She would never know.

While she was sadly ruminating over Tom's unexpected exit from her little world, Emma Dean's brisk step sounded outside. The door swung open. Emma gave a soft exclamation as she saw the room in darkness. Pressing the button at the side of the door, she flooded the room with light, only to behold Grace standing in the middle of the floor, still wearing her outdoor wraps, an open letter in her hand.

"Good gracious, Gracious, how you startled me! What is going on? Tell your worthless dog of a servant, what means this studied pose in the middle of the room in the dark? Not to mention posing in your hat and coat. And, yes," Emma drew nearer and peered into her friend's face with her kind, near-sighted eyes, "you've been crying. This will never do. Tell me the base varlet that hath caused these tears," she rumbled in a deep voice, "and be he lord of fifty realms I'll have his blood. 'Sdeath! Odds bodkins! Let me smite the villain. I could slay and slay, and be a teacher still. Provided the faculty didn't object, and I wasn't arrested," she ended practically.

Grace's woe-be-gone face brightened at Emma's nonsense. "You always succeed in making me smile when I am the bluest of the blue," she said fondly.

"I can't see why such strongly dramatic language as I used should make you laugh. It was really quite Shakespearian. You see I have 'the bard' on the brain. We have been taking up Elizabethan English in one of my classes, and once I become thoroughly saturated with Shakespearian verse I am likely to quote it on all occasions. Don't be surprised if I burst forth into blank verse at the table or any other public place. But here I've been running along like a talking machine when you are 'full fathom five' in the blues. Can't you tell your aged and estimable friend, Emma, what is troubling you?"

"You were right, Emma. The summons came." Grace's voice was husky. "I've just had a session with Miss Wharton."

"About Miss Brent?"

"Yes. She sent for both of us. She asked Miss Brent to explain certain things which she could, but would not, explain. I was in Miss Brent's confidence. As you know, she told me about herself after I came back from the Thanksgiving holiday. It entirely changed my opinion of her. I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't. I gave her my word of honor that I would keep her secret. But, to-day, when she saw how unjustly Miss Wharton reprimanded me I thought she might have strained a point and told Miss Wharton her story. Still I don't know that it would have helped much." Grace sighed wearily. "Miss Wharton is not Miss Wilder. She is a hard, narrow-minded, cruel woman," Grace's dispirited tones gathered sudden vehemence, "and she would misjudge Miss Brent just as she misjudged me. She is going to send for us again in a few days, and she declares that, if I do not tell her everything, she will take measures to have me removed from my position here." Grace turned tragic eyes to her friend.

"The idea!" rang out Emma's indignant cry. "Just as though she could. Why, Harlowe House was named for you. If Mrs. Gray knew she even hinted such thing she'd be so angry. I believe she'd turn Indian giver and take back her gift to Overton."

"Oh, no, she wouldn't do quite that, Emma." Heartsick though she was, Grace smiled faintly. "She would be angry, though. She must never know it. It made her so happy to give Harlowe House to Overton. She would be so hurt, for my sake, that she would never again take a particle of pleasure in it. When Miss Wharton sends for me I shall ask her point-blank if she really intends to try to have me removed from my position by the Board. If she says 'yes,' I'll resign, then and there."

"Grace Harlowe, you don't mean it? You've always fought valiantly for other girls' rights, why won't you fight for your own? The whole affair is ridiculous and unjust. If worse comes to worst you can go before the Board and defend yourself. The members will believe you."

Grace shook her head sadly, but positively. "I'd never do that, Emma. If it comes to a point where I must fight to be house mother here, then I'd much rather resign. I couldn't bear to have the story creep about the college that I had even been criticized by the Board. I've loved my work so dearly, and I've tried so hard to do it wisely that I'd rather give it up and go quietly away, feeling in my heart that I have done my best, than to fight and win at last nothing but a blotted escutcheon. You understand how it is with me, dear old comrade."

"Grace, it breaks my heart to hear you say such things! You mustn't talk of going away." Emma sprang from the chair into which she had dropped and drew Grace into her protecting embrace. Grace's head was bowed for a moment on Emma's shoulder.

"Don't cry, dear," soothed Emma.

"I'm not crying, Emma. See, I haven't shed a tear. I did all my crying a while ago." Grace raised her head and regarded Emma with two dry eyes that were wells of pain. "I have had another shock, too, since I came home. Tom Gray has resigned his position with the Forestry Department at Washington, and has sailed for South America. I -- never -- thought -- he'd -- go -- away. He isn't even going to write to me, Emma, and I don't know when he will come back. Perhaps never. You know how dangerous those South American expeditions are?"

"Poor Gracious," comforted Emma, "you have had enough sorrows for one day. You need a little cheering up. You and I are not going to eat dinner at Harlowe House to-night. We are going to let Louise Sampson look after things while we go gallivanting down to Vinton's for a high tea. I'm going to telephone Kathleen and Patience. There will be just four of us, and no more of us to the tea party. They will have to come, engagements or no engagements."

"I don't care to see any one to-night, Emma," pleaded Grace.

"You only think you don't. Seeing the girls will do you good. If you stay here you'll brood and grieve all evening."

"All right, I'll go; just to please you. I must see Louise and tell her we are going."

"You stay here. I'll do all the seeing. Take off your hat and bathe your face. You'll feel better." Emma hurried out of the room and up the next flight of stairs to Louise Sampson's room, thinking only of Grace and how she might best comfort her. She was more aroused than she cared to let Grace see over Miss Wharton's harsh edict. She made a secret vow that if Grace would not fight for her rights she, Emma Dean, would. Then she remembered Grace's words, "I'd rather give it up and go quietly away, feeling in my heart that I have done my best, than to fight and, at last, win nothing but a blotted escutcheon." No, she could not take upon herself Grace's wrongs, unless Grace bade her do so, and that would never happen.

Fortunately Kathleen and Patience were both at home. Better still, neither had an engagement for that evening, and at half-past six o'clock the four faithful friends were seated at their favorite mission alcove table at Vinton's, ordering their dinner, while Grace tried earnestly to put away her sorrow and be her usual sunny self.

But while Grace had been passing through the Valley of Humiliation, there was another person under the same roof who was equally unhappy. That person was Jean Brent. On leaving Grace she had gone directly to Harlowe House. Ascending the stairs to her room with a dispirited step, she had tossed aside her wraps and seated herself before the window. She sat staring out with unseeing eyes, remorseful and sick at heart. Grace's bitter words, "If you had obeyed me I would not be leaving Miss Wharton's office this afternoon, under a cloud," still rang in her ears. How basely she had repaid Miss Harlowe, was her conscience-stricken thought. Miss Harlowe had advised and helped her in every possible way. She had taken her into Harlowe House on trust. She had sympathized with her when Jean had told her her secret, and she had brought upon herself the dean's disapproval, would perhaps leave Harlowe House, rather than betray the girl who had confided in her. Jean's conscience lashed her sharply for her stubbornness and selfish ingratitude. If only she had been frank in the beginning. Miss Harlowe would have explained all to Miss Wilder, and Miss Wilder would have been satisfied. Then she would have had no sale of her wardrobe, and Miss Harlowe would have been spared all this miserable trouble.

What a failure she had made of her freshman year? She had made few friends except Althea and her chums. They were shallow and selfish to a fault. She had held herself aloof from the Harlowe House girls, who, notwithstanding their good nature, showed a slight resentment of her proud attitude toward them and her absolute refusal to join in the work of the club. Since the day when Evelyn had taken her to task for disobeying Grace the two girls had exchanged no words other than those which necessity forced them to exchange. Evelyn had not forgiven Jean for her passionate advice to her to mind her own affairs. Jean, knowing Evelyn's resentment to be just, cloaked herself in defiance and ignored her roommate. Little by little, however, the cloak dropped away and Jean began to long for Evelyn's companionship. The yellow crêpe gown and the beautiful evening coat still lay in the bottom of Jean's trunk. In her own mind she knew that she had begun to hope for the time when she and Evelyn would settle their differences. She would then give Evelyn the belated Christmas gift. She grew daily more unhappy over their estrangement, and heartily wished for a reconciliation. Yet she was still too proud to make the first advances.

It was hardly likely that Evelyn would make the first sign. Her pride was equal to, if not greater, than Jean's. She, who abhorred prying and inquisitiveness, had been accused by Jean of meddling in her affairs. Evelyn vowed inwardly never to forgive Jean. So these two young girls, each stiff-necked and implacable, dressed, studied and slept in the same room in stony silence, passing in and out like two offended shadows. Gradually this strained attitude became so intolerable to Jean that she longed for some pretext on which to make peace. As she sat at the window wondering what she could do to atone for her fault the door opened and Evelyn entered the room. A swift impulse seized Jean to lift the veil of resentment that hung between them. She half rose from her chair as though to address Evelyn. The latter turned her head in Jean's direction. Her blue eyes rested upon the other girl with the cold, impersonal gaze of a stranger. Beneath that maddening, ignoring glance Jean's good intentions curled up and withered like leaves that are touched by frost, and her aching desire for reconciliation was once more driven out of her heart by her pride.



Chapter XIX

The Sword Of Suspense


When Miss Wharton sent Jean Brent and Grace Harlowe from her office with the threat of dismissal hanging over them she fully intended to keep her word. From the moment she had first beheld Grace Harlowe she had conceived for her a rooted dislike such as only persons of strong prejudices can entertain. Her whole life had been lived narrowly, and with repression, therefore she was not in sympathy with youth or its enthusiasm. According to her belief no young woman of Grace's age and appearance was competent to assume the responsibility of managing an establishment like Harlowe House. She had again delivered this opinion most forcefully in Miss Wilder's presence after Grace had left the office on the afternoon of their first meeting, and Miss Wilder's earnest assurances to the contrary served only to deepen Miss Wharton's disapproval of the bright-faced, clear-eyed girl whose quiet self-possession indicated a capability of managing her own affairs that was a distinct affront to the woman who hoped to discover in her such faults as would triumphantly bear out her unkind criticism.

Miss Wharton had held the position of dean in an unimportant western college, and it was at the solicitation of a cousin, a member of the Board of Trustees, that she had applied for the office of dean at Overton, and had been appointed to it with the distinct understanding that it was to be for the present college year only. Should Miss Wilder be unable to resume her duties the following October, Miss Wharton would then be reappointed for the entire year. The importance of being the dean of Overton College, coupled with the generous salary attached to the office, were the motives which caused Miss Wharton to resign her more humble position, assured as it was, for an indefinite period of years, for the one of greater glory but uncertain length.

Possessed of a hard, unsympathetic nature, she secretly cherished the hope that Miss Wilder would not return to Overton the following year. She also resolved to prove her own worth above that of the kindly, efficient dean whom the Overton girls idolized, and began her campaign by criticizing and finding fault with Miss Wilder's methods whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. At first her unfair tactics bade fair to meet with success. The various members of the Board, and even Dr. Morton, wondered vaguely if, after all, too much confidence had been reposed in Miss Wilder.

Wholly intent on establishing herself as a fixture at Overton College, Miss Wharton allowed the matter concerning Jean Brent and Grace to rest while she attended to what she considered vastly more important affairs. The thought that she was keeping both young women in the most cruel suspense did not trouble her in the least. On the contrary she decided that they deserved to be kept in a state of uncertainty as to what she intended to do with them, and deliberately put over their case until such time as suited her convenience.

Both Jean and Grace went about, however, with the feeling that a sword was suspended over their heads and likely to descend at any moment. Grace expected, daily, to be summoned to Miss Wharton's office, there to refuse to divulge Jean Brent's secret and then ask the pertinent question, "Do you intend to lay this matter before the Board?" If she received an affirmative answer, then she planned to return to Harlowe House, write her formal resignation as manager of it and mail it to President Morton. But day followed day, and week followed week, and still the dread summons did not come. Grace discussed frequently the possible cause of Miss Wharton's negligence in the matter with Emma, her one confidante. Emma was of the opinion that, in trying to fill Miss Wilder's position, Miss Wharton had her hands full. Although Emma was apt to clothe the most serious happenings in the cloak of humor, she was a shrewd judge of human nature.

"Just let me tell you one thing, Gracious," she remarked one blustering March evening as the two young women fought their way across the campus against a howling wind. They were returning from an evening spent with Kathleen West and Patience Eliot. "Miss Wharton is no more fitted for the position of dean at Overton College than I am for the presidency of the United States. She may have been successful in some little, out-of-the-way academy in a jerkwater town, but she's sadly out of place here. She has about as much tact as a rhinoceros, and possesses the esthetic perceptions of a coal shoveler. I'm just waiting for these simple truths to dawn upon the intellects of our august Board. I understand that cadaverous-looking man with the wall eyes and the spade-shaped, beard, who walks about as though he cherished a grudge against the human race, and rejoices in the euphonious name of Darius Dutton, is responsible for this crime against Overton. He recommended her appointment to the Board. It seems that he is Miss Wharton's cousin. Thank goodness he isn't mine, or Miss Wharton either."

Grace laughed at Emma's sweeping denunciation of Miss Wharton and the offending Daniel Dutton. Then her face grew sober. "You mustn't allow my grievances to imbitter you, Emma, toward any member of the Board."

"Oh, my only grudge against Darius D. so far is his having such detestable relatives and foisting them upon an innocent, trusting college," retorted Emma with spirit, "but my grudge against Miss Wharton is a very different matter. It's an active, lively grudge. I'd like to write to Miss Wilder and Mrs. Gray, and interview Dr. Morton, and then see what happened. It would not be Grace Harlowe who resigned; but it might be a certain hateful person whose name begins with W. I won't say her name outright. Possibly you'll be able to guess it."

Grace's hand found Emma's in the dark as they came to the steps of Harlowe House. The two girls paused for an instant. Their hands clung loyally. "Remember, Emma, you've promised to let me have my own way in this," reminded Grace wistfully.

"I'll keep my promise," answered Emma, but her voice sounded husky.

"I know," continued Grace, "that Miss Wharton's attitude toward me is one of personal prejudice. From the moment she saw me she disliked me. I know of only one other similar case. When Anne Pierson and I were freshmen in Oakdale High School we recited algebra to a teacher named Miss Leece, who behaved toward Anne in precisely the same way that Miss Wharton has behaved toward me, simply because she disliked her. But come on, old comrade, we mustn't stand out here all night with the wind howling in our ears. Let us try and forget our troubles. What is to be, will be. I am nothing, if not a fatalist." Grace forced herself to smile with her usual brightness, and the two girls entered the house arm in arm, each endeavoring, for the sake of the other to stifle her unhappiness.

It was not yet ten o'clock and the lights were still burning in the living room. Gathered about the library table were six girls, deep in conversation. One of them glanced toward the hall at the sound of the opening door.

"Oh, Miss Harlowe," she called, "You are the very person we have been wishing for." It was Cecil Ferris who spoke. Nettie Weyburn, Louise Sampson, Mary Reynolds, Evelyn Ward and Hilda Moore made up the rest of the sextette. "We are wondering if it wouldn't be a good plan to give our grand revue directly after the Easter vacation. It will be our last entertainment this year, because after Easter the weather begins to grow warm and the girls like to be outdoors. If you would help us plan it, then those of us who live here, and are going to take part in it, can be studying and rehearsing during the vacation. Of course, Evelyn won't be with us, but she will help us before she goes to New York. When she comes back she can give us the finishing touches. Here is the programme as far as we have planned it. We are awfully short of features."

Cecil handed Grace a sheet of paper on which were jotted several items. There was a sketch written by Mary Reynolds, "The Freshman on the Top Floor," a pathetic little story of a lonely freshman. Gertrude Earle, a demure, dreamy-eyed girl, the daughter of a musician, was down for a piano solo. There was to be a sextette, a chorus and a troupe of dancing girls. Kathleen West had written a clever little playlet "In the Days of Shakespeare," and Hilda Moore, who could do all sorts of queer folk dances, was to busy her light feet in a series of quick change costume dances, while Amy Devery was to give an imitation of a funny motion-picture comedian who had made the whole country laugh at his antics.

"How would you like some imitations and baby songs?" asked Grace, forgetting for the moment the shadow that hung over her. "I have two friends who would be delighted to help you."

"How lovely!" cried Louise Sampson. "Now if only we had some one who could sing serious songs exceptionally well."

"Miss Brent has a wonderful voice," said Evelyn rather reluctantly.

"Then we must ask her to sing," decided Louise. "You ask her to-night, Evelyn."

But Evelyn shook her head. "I'd rather you would ask her, Louise. Won't you, please?"

"All right, I will," said Louise good-naturedly, who had no idea of the strained relations existing between the two girls, and consequently thought nothing of Evelyn's request.

"Much as I regret tearing myself away from this representative company of beauty and brains, I have themes that cry out to be corrected," declared Emma Dean, who had been listening in interested silence to the plans for the coming revue.

"You can't hear them cry out clear down here, can you?" asked Mary Reynolds flippantly.

A general giggle went the round of the sextette.

"Not with my everyday ordinary ears, my child," answered Emma, quite undisturbed. "It is that inner voice of duty that is making all the commotion. I would much rather bask in the light of your collected countenances than listen to those frenzied shrieks. But what of my trusting classes, who delight in writing themes and passing them on to me to be corrected?"

"Oh, yes; we all delight in writing themes," jeered Nettie Weyburn, to whom theme writing was an irksome task. "My inner voice of duty is screaming at me this very minute to go and write one, but I'm so deaf I can't hear it."

"If you can't hear it, how do you know it is screaming?" questioned Emma very solemnly.

"My intuition tells me," retorted Nettie with triumphant promptness.

"Then I wish all my pupils in English had such marvelous intuitions," sighed Emma.

"My inner voice of duty is wailing at me to go upstairs and finish my letter to my mother," interposed Grace, rising. Her face had regained its usual brightness. She could not be sad in the presence of these light-hearted, capable girls, whose sturdy efforts to help themselves made them all so inexpressibly dear to her. She would help them all she could with their entertainment. She would write Arline and Elfreda to come to Overton for a few days and take part in the revue.

It was not until she had finished her letter to her mother and begun one to Elfreda that the sinister recollection again darkened her thoughts. She was living in the shadow of dismissal. Would it be wise to invite Arline and Elfreda to Harlowe House for a visit while she was so uncertain of what the immediate future held in store for her? If she tendered her resignation she intended it should take effect without delay. Once she had surrendered her precious charge she could not and would not remain at Harlowe House. Still she had promised her girls that she would help them. She had volunteered Arline's and Elfreda's services, knowing they would willingly leave their own affairs to journey back to Overton.

Grace laid down her pen. Resting her elbows on the table she cradled her chin in her hands, her vivid, changeful face overcast with moody thought. At last she raised her head with the air of one who has come to a decision, and, picking up her pen, went on with her letter to J. Elfreda Briggs. If worse came to worst and she resigned before the girls' entertainment she would courageously put aside her own feelings and remain, at least, until afterward. It should be her last act of devotion to Harlowe House and her work.



Chapter XX

The Awakening


The sword which hung over poor Grace's head still dangled threateningly above her when she left Overton for Oakdale, on her Easter vacation. Miss Wharton had made no sign. Whether she had, for the time being, forgotten her words of that unhappy morning of several weeks past, or was coolly taking her own time in the matter, well aware of the discomfort of her victims, Grace could not know. She determined to lay aside all bitterness of spirit and lend herself to commemorate the anniversary of the first Easter with a reverent and open mind. But there was one ghost which she could not lay, and that was the the memory of Tom Gray's face as he said good-bye to her on that memorable rainy afternoon. Just when it began to haunt her Grace could scarcely tell. She knew only that Tom's farewell letter had awakened in her mind a curious sense of loss that made her wish he had not cut himself off from her so completely. When on their last afternoon together he had pleaded so earnestly for her love Grace had been proudly triumphant in the successful accomplishment of what she believed to be her life work. From the lofty pinnacle of achievement she had looked down on Tom pityingly, but with no adequate realization of what she had caused him to suffer.

It was not until she herself had been called upon to prepare to give up that which meant most to her in life that she began to appreciate dimly what it must have cost Tom Gray to put aside his hopes of years and go away to forget. A belated sympathy for her girlhood friend sprang to life in her heart, and in the weeks of suspense that preceded her return to Oakdale for Easter she found herself thinking of him frequently. She wondered if he were well, and tried to imagine him in his new and dangerous environment. She began to cherish a secret hope that, despite his belief that silence between them was best, he would write to her.

Her holiday promised to be a little lonely as far as her friends were concerned. Mrs. Gray had gone to New York City to spend Easter with the Nesbits. Nora and Hippy had gone to visit Jessica and Reddy in their Chicago home. Anne and David were in New York. Eleanor Savelli was in Italy. Even Marian Barber, Eva Allen and Julia Crosby had married and gone their separate ways. Of the Eight Originals Plus Two, and of their old sorority, the Phi Sigma Tau, she was the only one left in Oakdale. To be sure she had plenty of invitations to spend Easter with her chums and her many friends, but it was a sacred obligation with her always to be at home during the Easter holidays. She was quite content to do this, and yet even her father's and mother's love could not quite still the longing for the gay voices of those dear ones with whom she had kept pace for so long.

There was one source of consolation, however, which during the first days at home she had quite overlooked, and that source was none other than Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell. The two little girls had by no means overlooked the fact that their Miss Harlowe was "the very nicest person in the whole world except papa and mamma," and proceeded to monopolize her whenever the opportunity offered itself.

Grace went for long walks with them. She helped them dress their dolls, and ran races and played games with them in their big sunny garden. She initiated them into the mysteries of making fudge and penuchi, while they obligingly taught her the ten different ways they knew of skipping the rope, and how to make raffia baskets. They followed her about like two adoring, persistent little shadows, until imbued with their carefree spirit of childhood, Grace, in a measure, forgot her woes and joined in their innocent fun with hearty good will.

"Really, Grace, I hardly know which is older, you or Anna May," smiled her mother one afternoon as Grace came bounding into the living room with, "Mother, do you know where my blue sweater is? Anna May and Elizabeth and I are going for a walk as far as the old Omnibus House."

"It is hanging in that closet off the sewing room," returned her mother.

"Thank you." Dropping a hasty kiss on her mother's cheek, Grace was off.

Mrs. Harlowe watched her go down the walk, holding a hand of each little girl, with wistful eyes. Grace had not been at home three days before her mother divined that all was not well with her beloved daughter. Yet to ask questions was not her way. Whatever Grace's cross might be, she knew that, in time, Grace would confide in her.

On the way to the Omnibus House Grace was as gay and buoyant as her two little friends. It was not until they had reached there and Anna May and Elizabeth had run off to the nearest tree to watch a pair of birds which were building a nest and keeping up a great chirping meanwhile, that a frightful feeling of loneliness swept over Grace. She sat down on the worn stone steps sadly thinking of Tom Gray and the good times the Eight Originals had had at this favorite haunt.

But why did the memory of Tom Gray continue to haunt her? Grace gave her shoulders an impatient twitch. How foolish she was to allow herself to grow retrospective over Tom. She had deliberately sent him away because she did not, nor never could, love him. Still she wished that the memory of him would not intrude upon her thoughts so constantly. "It's only because he's associated with the good times the Eight Originals have had," she tried to tell herself, but deep in her heart was born a strange fear that she fought against naming or recognizing.

After having watched the noisy, but successful, builders to their hearts' content, the children ran over to where Grace sat and challenged her to a game of tag. But she was in no mood for play, and suggested they had better be starting home. She felt that she could not endure for another instant this house of memories. She tried to assume the joyous air with which she had started out, but even the two little girls were not slow to perceive that their dear Miss Harlowe didn't look as happy as when they had begun their walk.

"I think we'd better go and see her to-morrow morning and take her a present," decided Anna May, after Grace had left them at their own gate. "She laughed like everything when we started on our walk, but she looked pretty sad when we were coming back and didn't say hardly a thing. I'm going to give her my bottle of grape juice that Mother made specially for me."

"I guess I'll give her that pen wiper I made. It's ever so pretty." Elizabeth was not to be outdone in generosity.

"We'll take Snowball's new white puppy to show her," planned Anna May. "She hasn't seen it yet. And a real French poodle puppy is too cute for anything."

"And we'll sing that new verse we learned in school for her," added Elizabeth.

True to their word, the next morning the two little girls marched up to the Harlowes' front door laden with their gifts. Anna May bore with proud carefulness the cherished bottle of grape juice while Elizabeth cuddled a fat white ball in her arms, the pen wiper lying like a little blanket on the puppy's back.

"We came to call as soon as we could this morning, because we thought you looked sad yesterday," was Anna May's salutation as Grace opened the door. "Here's a bottle of grape juice. Mother made it specially for me, but I want you to have it," the child said. Grace ushered her guests into the living room.

"I hope you'll like this pen wiper, too. I cut it out and sewed it and everything," burst forth Elizabeth, holding out her offering. "I hope you'll always use it when you write letters."

"Thank you, girls. You are both very good to me," smiled Grace, "and I'm so glad to see you this morning."

"We thought you would be," returned Anna May calmly. "We brought Snowball's puppy to show you. We named him this morning for a perfectly splendid person that we know. You know him, too. The puppy's name is Thomas."

"That's Mr. Gray's real name, isn't it?" put in Elizabeth anxiously. "Every one calls him Tom, but Thomas sounds nicer. Don't you think it does?"

"We like Mr. Gray better than any grown-up man we know," confided Anna May enthusiastically. "He's the handsomest, nicest person ever was. Do you think he'd be pleased to have us name our puppy for him?"

"I'm sure he would." Grace stifled her desire to laugh as she took the fluffy white ball in her arms and stroked the tiny head. Then the amused look left her eyes. Perhaps Tom would never know of his little white namesake. He might never come back from South America. Suppose she were never to hear of him again. In the past she had, during moments of vexation toward him, almost wished it, but of a sudden it dawned upon her that she would give much to look into his honest gray eyes again and feel the clasp of his strong, friendly hand.

"Miss Harlowe, shall we sing for you?" Anna May wisely noted that Miss Harlowe had begun to look "sad" again.

"We learned such a pretty new song in school," put in Elizabeth. "Anna May can play it on the piano, too. Would you like us to sing it, Miss Harlowe?"

"Yes, do sing it," urged Grace, but her thoughts were far from her obliging visitors.

The children trotted over to the piano, and after a false start or two, Anna May played the opening bars of the song. Then the two childish voices rang out:

"The year's at the spring And day's at the morn: Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven --  All's right with the world!"

Grace listened with a sinking heart. The joy of Browning's exquisite lines from "Pippa Passes" cut into her very soul. All was not right with her world. Everything had gone wrong. She had chosen work instead of love, and what it brought her? She had believed that in rejecting Tom's love for her work she had definitely and forever solved her problem. Now it confronted her afresh. She understood too well the meaning of that strange fear which had obsessed her ever since her return home. Now she knew why the memory of Tom had so persistently haunted her, and why her friendly interest in his welfare had grown to be a heavy anxiety as to whether all was well with him. Wholly against her will she had done that which she had insisted she could never do. She had fallen in love with Tom. But her awakening had come too late. Tom had gone away to forget her. He would never know that she loved him, for she could never, never tell him. On the night of Jessica's wedding, when they had strolled up the walk to the house in the moonlight, he had said with an air of conviction, which then made her smile, that there would come a time when even work could not crowd out love. His prophecy had come true, but it meant nothing to either she or Tom now, for it had come true too late.



Chapter XXI

Kathleen West Makes A Promise


On Grace's return to Overton and Harlowe House from her Easter vacation she plunged into her work with feverish energy. She wished, if possible, to free herself of this strange, unbidden love for Tom which seemed to grow and deepen with every passing day, and which made her utterly miserable. Then, too, she did not know when the dreaded summons might come from Miss Wharton, and she longed to do as much as she could for her girls while the opportunity was yet hers. It was with this spirit that she entered into the plans for their revue, which was to be given in Greek Hall, and from the number of tickets already sold promised to be a sweeping success.

Arline and Elfreda had accepted their invitations with alacrity, promising to come to Overton several days beforehand for the purpose of making Grace a visit. The girls who were to take part in the revue were using every spare moment to perfect themselves in their parts and specialties, and every night the living room was the scene of much rehearsing.

According to information received from Emma, Miss Wharton was not filling Miss Wilder's place with signal success. She had shown herself to be not only extremely narrow-minded, but quarrelsome as well. She had antagonized more than one member of the faculty by either tactlessly criticising their methods of instruction, or seeking to force them into open dispute. Being only human, those whom she sought to humble retaliated by taking advantage of her recent assumption of the duties of dean to make her college path as thorny as circumstances would admit, and Miss Wharton was obliged to put aside all else, including the judgment she intended to pass upon Grace, in a powerful contention for supremacy over those who had worsted her in sundry college matters.

Grace did not flatter herself that this state of affairs could last; she was certain that, sooner or later, the blow would fall, but she wisely resolved to put the whole unhappy business from her mind and make hay while her brief college sun still shone.

The arrival of Elfreda Briggs and Arline Thayer three days before the date set for the entertainment made things seem like old times.

"It certainly does you a world of good to have Elfreda and Arline here, Gracious," observed Emma Dean as she stopped in the doorway of Grace's little office on her way to her room from her morning recitations.

"I can't bear to think of their leaving me," smiled Grace, looking up from the account book on her desk. Her face had partially regained its former light and sparkle. "They are coming here to luncheon to-day. Did you know it?"

"Yes, I saw J. Elfreda on my way across the campus this morning. They ought to be here soon now."

A ring of the bell, answered by the maid, and the sound of Arline's clear tones, mingled with Elfreda's deeper ones, proclaimed the arrival of the two Sempers. The luncheon bell rang almost directly afterward, so the four friends had time only to exchange salutations before going to the table.

"Do you know, girls, I can't get used to Overton without Miss Wilder," declared Arline Thayer as they seated themselves at Grace's table, which had been set for four. "I keep looking about me, expecting to meet her at any minute. You must miss her dreadfully, Grace."

"I do miss her more than I can say," replied Grace briefly. The haunting shadow lurked for an instant in her gray eyes, then she began to talk with forced vivacity of the coming revue.

But one pair of keen eyes had seen that shadow, and that pair of eyes belonged to J. Elfreda Briggs. "I wonder what ails Grace?" was her thought, "It's something about Miss Wilder's not being here, I'm pretty certain." She resolved to make inquiries concerning the new dean and made an excuse to accompany Emma across the campus after luncheon, leaving Arline and Grace together.

"What's the matter with Grace?" was her abrupt question the instant they had left Harlowe House behind them. "I could see that she wasn't quite her old self at luncheon to-day."

"I believe you 'could see' in the dark or with your eyes shut or even if you had no eyes," teased Emma.

"Then there is something bothering her," said Elfreda triumphantly. "I knew it."

"Yes, there is. I wish I might tell you," returned Emma slowly, "but I am in Grace's confidence. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to ask her, though. If she would tell you, you might be able to suggest something helpful. I'll just say this much. It's very serious."

"All right, I'll ask her. If she tells me, I'll talk things over with you afterward. If she doesn't, then forget that I asked you about it."

It was not until late that afternoon that she found her opportunity to question Grace. Arline had left her to make a call upon Myra Stone, now a senior, and Elfreda and Grace sat side by side on Grace's favorite bench that stood under the giant elm at one end of the campus.

"Grace," Elfreda's matter-of-fact tones broke a brief silence that had fallen upon the two young women. "What has happened to hurt you?"

Grace started slightly. Her color receded, leaving her very pale. Then she said simply, "I suppose you 'could see,' Elfreda."

"Yes; I've been 'seeing' ever since I came. I wish you would tell me about it. Perhaps I can help you."

Grace shook her head. "No one can help me. I'll just say this. Don't be surprised at anything you may hear a little later. But please remember one thing, Elfreda. Whatever I have done since I became the manager of Harlowe House I have done always with the highest interests of my girls at heart."

"I guess we all know that," retorted Elfreda. "I'll remember what you say, though. I'm sorry I can't help you. You didn't mind my asking, did you?"

"You know I didn't. It was affection that prompted the question." Grace reached out to pat her friend's hand. J. Elfreda caught Grace's hand in hers.

Again silence reigned. They sat gazing across the campus, their hands still joined. Grace was thinking that she could not endure telling even Elfreda of the cloud that hung over her, while J. Elfreda Briggs was registering a vow to find some means of helping Grace in spite of herself.

"I must go, Elfreda," said Grace at last, rising from the seat. "I am anxious to have dinner over a little earlier to-night on account of the dress rehearsal in Greek Hall. Let me see, who is the person to be favored with your company at dinner?"

"I'm going to take dinner at Wayne Hall with Kathleen. We'll meet at the dress rehearsal." Elfreda rose, and the two sauntered across the campus to the point where their paths diverged.

After stopping for a little chat with Mrs. Elwood, Elfreda climbed the stairs to the room at the end of the hall, where she received a most vociferous welcome from Kathleen and Patience. But the moment they settled down to conversation Elfreda said solemnly, "Girls, something is breaking Grace Harlowe's proud heart. Emma knows, but she is Grace's only confidante. I asked Grace point blank, this afternoon, to tell me, but she wouldn't. It has something to do with that Miss Wharton, the new dean. Whatever it is, you know, as well as I, that Grace isn't likely to be in the wrong. If I were going to stay here at Overton, a little longer, I'd find out all about it."

"You could see," murmured Patience.

"Yes, I could," declared Elfreda with a good-natured grin. "But so long as I can't be here to see, I'm going to pass the job along to you, Kathleen. I'm sure that if any one can find out the cause of poor Grace's woes it will be you. Go after it and run it down just as you would a big story, and if you can find and kill the wicked monster and make the princess happy again, well, there isn't anything that J. Elfreda Briggs won't do for you."

"I'll do it," vowed Kathleen, setting her sharp little chin at a resolute angle.

"You can't lose much time, either. College closes the second week in June," reminded Elfreda.

"Trust me to find out before that time."

Having disposed of this important matter, J. Elfreda's gravity vanished and she became her usual funny self again. The three girls had a merry time together and set off for the dress rehearsal in high spirits.

When they reached Greek Hall they found that Grace and Arline had already arrived and were sitting far back in the hall watching a sextette of girls in smart white linen skirts, blue serge coats and straw hats, banded with blue ribbon, who were down on the programme for a song entitled "Our Fraternity Friends," the number ending with a gay little dance taught them by Hilda Moore.

"Aren't they clever?" asked Grace eagerly, turning to Kathleen. The three young women had made their way to where she was seated. "They only began practicing that dance last week. Miss Moore taught them. She dances beautifully."

The rehearsal proceeded without a hitch. Arline and Elfreda, being sure of themselves, did not take part in it. Kathleen West's clever one-act play, "In the Days of Shakespeare," was worthy of her genius. It presented the scene from the "Taming of the Shrew," where Petruchio ridicules Katherine's gown and berates the tailor. This scene was enacted in accordance with the Elizabethan age, when the nobility were permitted to take seats on the stage with the actors, the latter being obliged to step around and over that part of the audience in order to make their entrances and exits. These favored nobles had also the privilege of expressing freely their opinions of the merits of the long-suffering mummers, which they usually did in a loud voice. Kathleen had made a careful study of the conditions prevailing in the theatre at that period, and the little play was most mirth provoking from beginning to end.

Mary Reynolds had also scored in the pathetic playlet, "The Freshman on the Top Floor," depicting a lonely little girl whose poverty and diffidence kept her out of the carefree college life that went on in the house where she lived. Cecil Ferris essayed the role of the freshman.

The last number on the programme was Jean Brent's solo. After considerable coaxing Louise had persuaded her to sing, and Gertrude Earle accompanied her on the piano. Grace felt her brief resentment against the girl vanish as she listened to her glorious voice which had a suspicion of tragedy in it.

There was a certain amount of lingering on the part of the performers to talk over the success of the dress rehearsal, but at last they all trooped across the campus to Harlowe House.

By curious chance Evelyn Ward found herself walking directly behind Jean Brent. She had been greatly affected by her singing. Obeying a sudden impulse, she leaned forward and touched Jean's arm. "Can't we be friends again, Jean," she said wistfully. "I -- I love your voice, and I care so much for you. There isn't much of the year left and --  -- "

Jean's blue eyes grew strangely soft. "It was all my fault," she said huskily. "Let's begin over again, Evelyn." And under the stars they made a new and truer covenant.



Chapter XXII

Fighting Loyalheart's Battle


The revue was an unqualified success. Greek Hall was filled to overflowing, and the money fairly poured into the box office for the Harlowe House fund. There was a general rejoicing the next day among the performers, and the same night a social session was held in the living room at Harlowe House. To Grace it seemed as though she had been wafted back once more to the dear dead days when the Sempers had held forth. The presence of Arline and Elfreda was the last touch needed to complete the illusion, and she went about her work feeling happier than she had for a long time. Even the shadow cast upon her heart by Tom's absence seemed less gloomy.

But on the heels of her brief elation trod disaster. Miss Wharton had chosen to become highly incensed because she had not been consulted in regard to the holding of the entertainment, and the long-suspended sword fell. The revue had been given on Wednesday evening, and on Friday morning Jean had received a note summoning her to Miss Wharton's office. This time Miss Wharton intended to interview the two young women separately. She believed that Jean would reveal what she had hitherto kept a secret if Grace were not present. With unreasonable prejudice she chose to place the brunt of Jean's refusal to speak upon Grace's shoulders.

Jean obeyed the summons and came away from Overton Hall with a white, set face. Almost the first person she encountered on the campus was Evelyn, who was hurrying to one of her classes, and in her anguish of mind she poured forth the whole bitter story to her roommate.

"Oh, Jean, why didn't you tell me this before," cried Evelyn. "I never knew until the night of the dress rehearsal that things were not going smoothly for Miss Harlowe. Kathleen West told me in confidence that something was wrong, and asked me to find out anything I could concerning it and let her know. We must go straight to her and tell her everything. She can help us if any one can. Just for once I'll cut my English recitation. Come on. Oh, I do hope Kathleen is at home."

But Kathleen was not at Wayne Hall, and after some parleying the two girls concluded to wait until she returned from her classes to her luncheon. It was ten o'clock when they rang the bell of the college house where Grace had spent four happy years, and for the next hour and a half they waited in an agony of suspense. When Kathleen arrived they hurried her off to her room and proceeded to acquaint her with all the facts in their possession concerning the misfortune so soon to overtake Grace.

Kathleen listened to them without comment. When they had finished talking she asked one sharp question, "Do you know Miss Wilder's address?"

Neither girl knew it, but Evelyn was seized with a bright idea. "Hilda Moore knows it. I am sure she does."

"Then hurry to Overton Hall and get it from her," ordered Kathleen. "I'm going to send a telegram. Are you sure Miss Wharton hasn't sent for Grace yet?"

"Yes, yes. She said she intended to send for Miss Harlowe to-morrow morning. Evidently she has a reason of her own for not sending for her to-day," was Jean's eager response. "But she is going to report us to President Morton and the Board within the next day or so."

"Good-bye. I'll be back directly." Evelyn dashed out of the room and down the stairs on her errand.

Twenty minutes later she returned. "Here it is," she handed it to the newspaper girl.

Kathleen had not taken off her hat since her arrival at Wayne Hall. "Come on, girls," she said. "You must go home and have your luncheon. Just leave everything to me. I think I can promise Miss Wharton a surprise."

"What did she say to you, Jean?" asked Evelyn as they left Kathleen at the corner, headed for the telegraph office, and went on to Harlowe House.

"What didn't she say. She is going to send me away if she can. I told her everything, but it only made matters worse. I said over and over again that Miss Harlowe was not to blame, but she grew harder every minute. How I despise her." Jean shuddered with disgust. "All this is merely an excuse to oust Miss Harlowe. Why she doesn't like her, goodness knows. What is Miss West going to do, I wonder?"

"Telegraph Miss Wilder for one thing. Still, she can't write or come here in time to save Miss Harlowe," declared Evelyn. "Hilda knows about it. She said Miss Wharton dictated a perfectly horrid letter to Mrs. Gray, too, about Miss Harlowe this morning."

"Oh, dear," half sobbed Jean. "It's dreadful, and it's all my fault."

Evelyn did not answer. She could not help feeling that Jean deserved this bitter moment.

"Shall you tell Miss Harlowe?" asked Evelyn as they hurriedly ascended the steps.

Jean nodded.

When they entered the dining room, for luncheon they learned to their utter consternation that Grace had gone for the day to visit a classmate in Westbrook and would not return until after dinner that night. In the meantime Kathleen West had hurried to the telegraph office and despatched the following message to Miss Wilder. "Wire President Morton, delay action, charges made by Miss Wharton against Grace Harlowe, until word from you. Letter will follow. Answer. Kathleen West."

"There," she chuckled when she heard the tap of the operator's machine, "that will help a little. Never mind the expense."

She was late to luncheon, and therefore missed Patience, but toward the close of the afternoon they met, and Kathleen took her into her confidence. All evening the two girls remained in the living room listening intently for the ring of the bell that might mean an answer to Kathleen's urgent message. At ten minutes to nine Kathleen said wearily. "It's too late to hear to-night. The telegraph office closes at nine o'clock. The answer will come in the morning. Even as she spoke, the door bell rang loudly. Pale and trembling with suspense, she herself answered the door. Hastily signing the messenger boy's book she closed the door on his retreating back and returned to the living room, nervously tearing open the envelope as she walked. Then she cried out in surprise.

"What is it?" questioned Patience in alarm.

Kathleen held out to her the disquieting bit of yellow paper. "Don't be frightened. It's good news. See." Patience read over her shoulder. "Start east to-day. Recovered. Don't write. Reach Overton Friday week. Keep secret. Telegraphed president. Katherine Wilder."

"Hurrah, we've saved the day," rejoiced Kathleen.

"And Kathleen West and Evelyn Ward have left milestones worth leaving along College Lane," reminded Patience with a smile that was very near to tears.

*    *    *    *    *

Grace returned to Harlowe House from Westbrook at a little after eight o'clock in the evening. She found Jean Brent anxiously awaiting her arrival, and at Jean's request they went at once to her room, where Jean acquainted her with the bad news.

Grace listened with compressed lips, saying nothing.

Jean wound up her narration with, "I know it is all my fault, Miss Harlowe, but truly I tried to make things come right for you. I told Miss Wharton all about myself and tried to make her understand that you weren't in the least to blame for my misdeeds. But I only made matters worse. She is contemptible." Jean's voice vibrated with bitter scorn.

"I thank you for defending me." Grace spoke unemotionally. "I hope that President Morton will overlook the charge against you. I must go now. I wish to be alone. I must decide what I am to do. Good night." She had remained standing near the door during Jean's recital, now she opened it and walked slowly down the hall to her own door.

She entered her pretty room as one might enter a chamber of death. So the end had come. Well, she would meet it with a stout heart and a clear conscience. But she would not wait for Miss Wharton to charge her with being unfit for the trust Mrs. Gray had reposed in her. She stepped to the library table and, opening a drawer, took out a sheet of her own monogrammed stationery and an envelope. Seating herself at the table, she took her pen from its rack. After a little thought she began writing in the clear, strong hand that characterized her. Her letter consisted of not more than a dozen lines. When she had finished she sealed, stamped, and addressed it to President Morton with a firm, unfaltering hand.

Wrapping a light scarf about her shoulders, she stole softly downstairs and outdoors without being observed by the knot of girls in the living room. Crossing the campus, she dropped her letter into the post box at the farther side, nearest the street. Then she walked slowly back, stopping at her favorite bench under the giant elm. The moon, almost at the full, flooded the wide green stretch with her pale radiance. The fringed arms of the old elm waved her a gentle welcome.

Grace sank upon the rustic seat racked with many emotions. How often she had sat there and dreamed of what her work was to be, and now, just as she had begun to reap the glory of it, it was to be snatched from her.

The soft beauty of the spring night coupled with the ordeal through which she had just passed filled her with an unspeakable sadness. She bowed her head upon her hands, but her thoughts lay too deep for tears. Yet even while she sat for the last time in the spot she loved so dearly, Kathleen West and Patience Eliot were standing side by side reading the telegram that was to bring light out of darkness.



Chapter XXIII

Grace Solves Her Problem


Grace waited impatiently for an answer to her letter of resignation. She expected hourly a summons to President Morton's office, but it did not come. It was now six days since Jean Brent's interview with Miss Wharton. Surely the dean had long since executed her threat to humiliate and depose Grace from the position of which she had been so proud. Then why did not President Morton take action at once and end this torturing suspense? Grace could not answer this question. She could only wonder and wait.

But while she wondered and waited Kathleen West was leaving no stone unturned. In the championing of Grace's rights she did nothing by halves. The very next morning after receiving Miss Wilder's telegram she marched boldly into President Morton's office for a private interview with that dignified gentleman. Her newspaper experience had taught her how to gain an audience with the most difficult persons. She had little trouble in obtaining admittance to the president's private office. It was a long interview, lasting, at least, a half hour, and when Kathleen rose to go President Morton shook her hand and bowed her out in his most amiable manner.

From Overton Hall she went directly to the telegraph office and sent another telegram. This time it was addressed to Mrs. Rose Gray, Oakdale, N.Y., and read: "Come to Overton, but fix arrival Friday. Grace needs you. Serious. Wire train. Meet you. Kathleen West."

By five o'clock that afternoon she had received this answer: "Arrive Friday, 9.20 P.M. Arrange for me, Tourraine. Rose Gray," and was triumphantly showing it to Patience Eliot and planning her work of vindication in Grace's behalf.

But while her friends were busying themselves in her cause Grace was engaged in packing her two trunks and arranging her affairs at Harlowe House. So far as she knew, Emma Dean and Jean Brent, alone, were aware of what was about to happen. Jean, whose fate still hung in the balance, went about looking pale and forlorn. Being in Kathleen's confidence, Evelyn had not informed her roommate of the secret work that was being done in behalf of Grace. She understood that Jean was suffering acutely, and longed to tell her that all promised well for Grace, but not for worlds would she have betrayed Kathleen's confidence.

Emma Dean had learned of the mailing of Grace's resignation from Grace herself when she had returned to Harlowe House late that same evening. For once her flow of cheer had failed her, and she had broken down and cried disconsolately. For the next two days she had been unconsolable. Her bitterness against Miss Wharton was so great that it distressed Grace, who sought in vain to comfort her. But on Monday afternoon she returned from her classes in a lighter, more cheerful frame of mind. In fact as the week progressed she appeared to have thrown off her sorrow and was as funny as ever.

Grace tried to be honestly glad that Emma's sorrow had been so short-lived, but she could not help feeling a little hurt to think that Emma, of all persons, should forget so quickly. Once or twice Emma caught the half reproachful gaze of her gray eyes, and had hard work to refrain from telling Grace that the hateful shadow was soon to be lifted. For Emma and Kathleen West had had a private confab, during which both girls had laughed and cried and laughed again in a most irrational manner.

So the week wore away, and Friday came and went, leaving Grace still waiting and dreading. If she had happened to pass the Hotel Tourraine at twenty-five minutes to ten on Friday evening she would have seen a taxicab drive up to the entrance and a sprightly, little old lady step out of it, assisted by a keen-faced, black-eyed young woman, who took her by the arm and hurried her into the hotel. And if she had been on the station platform when the 11.40 train from the west pulled in she would have eagerly welcomed the stately dark-eyed woman who signaled a taxicab and drove off up College Avenue.

Saturday morning dawned, clear and radiant. The glad light of early summer streamed in upon Grace. For a brief space she forgot her sorrows as she knelt at the open window and drank in the pure morning air. Then one by one they came back. She wondered whether the same sun were shining on Tom, far away in the jungle, and if he were well, and sometimes thought of her. How happy she might have made him and herself if only she had not been so blind. Through the bitterness of being found wanting she had come to realize what a wonderful thing it was to be truly loved. Never had the love of her parents and friends for her seemed so sacred. And how beautiful, how steadfast, Tom's affection for her had been! With a sigh she turned her thoughts away from that lost happiness. Now came the old torturing question, "Would the summons come to-day?"

She was still brooding over it when she went downstairs to breakfast. Stopping in her office, she hastily went over her mail. It was with a sense of desperate relief that she separated an envelope, bearing the letter head of Overton College from the little pile of letters on the slide of her desk, and opened it. It was from President Morton, and merely stated that he wished her to call at his office at eleven o'clock that morning.

With the letter in her hand, Grace entered the dining-room. She intended to show it to Emma, but the latter, who had risen early on account of some special work she wished to do, had eaten a hasty breakfast and departed. Grace slipped the letter into her blouse and made a pretense of eating breakfast. But she had lost all appetite for food. After sipping part of a cup of coffee she rose from the table and, returning to her office, opened the rest of her mail.

Under any circumstances but those of the present her letters would have delighted her. There was one from Eleanor Savelli, written from her father's villa in Italy, a long lively one from Nora, containing a breezy account of Oakdale doings, and a still longer letter from Anne. There was one from Julia Crosby, and an extremely funny note from J. Elfreda Briggs, describing a visit she had recently made to the night court.

One by one she read them, then laid them aside with an indifference born of suffering. If only there had been one for her in Tom's clear, bold handwriting. But it was useless to linger, even for a moment, over what might have been. Grace gathered up her letters and, locking them in her desk, went upstairs, with slow, dragging steps, to dress for her call upon President Morton.

It was three minutes to eleven when a slim, erect figure walked up the steps of Overton Hall. Grace wore a smartly tailored suit of white serge, white buckskin shoes, white kid gloves and a white hemp hat trimmed with curved white quills. The lining of the hat bore the name of a famous maker. She had taken a kind of melancholy pride in her toilet that morning, and the result was all that she could have wished. Unconsciously the immaculate purity of her costume bespoke the pure, high, steadfast soul which looked out from her gray eyes. As she paused at the door for a moment, her hand on the knob, she experienced something of the thrill of a martyr, about to die for a sacred cause. Then she opened the door.

For an instant she stood as though transfixed. Was she dreaming, or could she actually believe her own eyes? A sudden faintness seized her. Everything turned dark. She swayed slightly, then with a little sobbing cry of, "Fairy Godmother! Miss Wilder!" she ran straight into Mrs. Gray's outstretched arms.

That throbbing, wistful cry brought the tears to Miss Wilder's eyes, while President Morton took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. Great tears were rolling down Mrs. Gray's cheeks which she made no effort to hide. "My little girl," she said brokenly. "How dared that dreadful woman treat you so shabbily?"

It was at least ten minutes before the three women could settle down to the exchanging of questions and explanations. President Morton, the soul of old-fashioned courtesy, beamed his approval on them.

"Now my dear," said Miss Wilder at last, "I wish you to begin at the very beginning of this affair, and tell us just what has happened."

Grace began with the coming of Jean Brent to Overton and of her refusal to be frank concerning her affairs. Then she went on to the sale of her wardrobe which Jean had conducted in her absence and her final revelation of her secret to Grace after the latter had commanded it. Then she told of her promise to Jean not to betray her secret and of the summons sent them by Miss Wharton, to come to her office.

"But what was this secret, Grace?" questioned Miss Wilder gravely. "We have the right to know."

The color flooded Grace's pale face. She hesitated, then with an impulsive, "Of course you have the right to know," she went on, "Jean Brent's father and mother died when she was a child. She was brought up by an aunt who is very rich. This aunt gave her everything in the world she wanted but one thing. She would not allow Jean to go to college. She did not believe in the higher education for girls. She believed that a young girl should learn French, music and deportment at a boarding school. Then when she was graduated she must marry and settle down. One of the friends of Jean's aunt had a son who was in love with Jean. He had been babied by his mother until he had grown to be a hateful, worthless young man, and Jean despised him. Her aunt told her that she could take her choice between marrying this young man or leaving her house forever. She gave Jean a week to decide. Then she went into the country to spend a week end with this young man's mother at their country place. She thought because Jean was utterly dependent upon her that she would not dare to defy her.

"Jean had a little money of her own, so she packed her trunks while her aunt was away and went to Grafton to talk things over with Miss Lipton, who has known her since she was a baby. She was a dear friend of Jean's mother. As Jean was of age she had the right to choose her own way of life. Miss Lipton knew all about Overton College and Harlowe House, so she wrote me and applied for admission for Miss Brent. I had room for one more girl, and I considered Miss Lipton's recommendation sufficient to admit Miss Brent to Harlowe House. Naturally I was displeased when she disobeyed me and held the sale. Still I do not consider that her offense warrants dismissal."

"Miss Brent will not be expelled from college," emphasized President Morton.

"What I cannot understand is Miss Wharton's unjust attitude toward you. Surely she could readily see that you were not at fault," cried Mrs. Gray in righteous indignation.

Miss Wilder, too, shook her head in disapproval of Miss Wharton's course of action. President Morton looked stern for a moment. Then his face relaxed. He turned to Grace with a reassuring smile that told its own story.

"Miss Harlowe," he said, looking kindly at Grace, "it has always been my principle to uphold the members of the faculty in their decisions for or against a student, if these decisions are fair and just. I am convinced, however, that you have received most unjust treatment at Miss Wharton's hands. Therefore I am going to tell you in strict confidence that Miss Wharton has not filled the requirements for dean demanded by the Overton College Board. On the day I received your letter of resignation I wrote Miss Wharton, asking for her resignation at the close of the college year. I had received a letter from Miss Wilder stating that she would be able to resume her position as dean of this college next October. I had determined to send for you to inquire into your reason for wishing to resign the position you have so ably filled, when I received Miss Wilder's telegram. At her request I delayed matters until her arrival. Miss West also called at my office in your behalf. I take great pleasure in assuring you that I was prepared to accept any explanation you might make of the charges which Miss Wharton made against you and Miss Brent. In all my experience as president of this institution of learning I have never known a young woman who has carried out so faithfully the traditions of Overton College."

Grace listened to the president's words with a feeling of joy so deep as to be akin to pain. The shadow had indeed lifted. In the eyes of those whose good opinion she valued so greatly she was worthy of her trust. She never forgot that wonderful morning in President Morton's office.

When at last she left the president and Miss Wilder, to accompany Mrs. Gray back to the Tourraine, she said with shining eyes, "Dear Fairy Godmother, would you mind if we stopped at Wayne Hall. I must see Kathleen West."

"Of course you must," agreed Mrs. Gray briskly. "I should like to see her myself. My opinion of that young woman is very high."

It seemed to Grace as though she could hardly wait until their taxicab drew up in front of Wayne Hall. Mrs. Elwood herself answered the bell.

"Oh, Mrs. Elwood," cried Grace, "is Kathleen in?"

"Yes; she came in only a little while ago."

"I'll wait for you in the living room, Grace. Bring that blessed little newspaper girl down stairs with you," directed Mrs. Gray.

As Grace hurried up the stairs and down the hall to the end room the memory of another day, when she had sought Kathleen West to do her honor, returned to her. Her face shone with a great tenderness as she turned the knob and walked straight into the room without knocking. An instant and she had folded in her arms the alert little figure that sprang to meet her. "Kathleen, dear girl," she cried. "How can I ever thank you?"

"Don't try," smiled Kathleen, her black eyes looking unutterable loyalty at Grace. "I had to leave a milestone, you know, and I couldn't have left it in a better cause. I enlisted long ago under the banner of Loyalheart. So you see it was my duty to fight for her."

*    *    *    *    *

It was after three o'clock when Grace left Mrs. Gray at the Tourraine and went back to Harlowe House. At Mrs. Elwood's urgent invitation they had remained at Wayne Hall for luncheon, and with Patience added to their number had held a general rejoicing over the way things had turned out. Mrs. Gray's last words to Grace on saying good-bye to her at the hotel were, "Grace, I am coming over to see you this evening."

Grace walked home, her heart singing a song of thanksgiving and happiness. As she entered the house the maid met her with, "There's a lady to see you, Miss Harlowe. She just came."

Grace stepped into the living room. A tall, gray-haired woman of perhaps sixty, very smartly gowned, and of commanding appearance, rose to meet her. "Are you Miss Harlowe?" was her abrupt question. Then before Grace had time to do more than bow in the affirmative, she said with a brusqueness intended to hide emotion, "My name is Brent. Jean Brent is my niece. Tell me, is she with you still? I could not bring myself to ask the maid. I was afraid she might say that my niece was not here." In her anxiety, her voice trembled.

Grace's hand was stretched forth impulsively. "I am so glad," she said eagerly. "Jean needs you. She will soon be home from her classes. Would you like to go to her room?"

The woman returned Grace's hand clasp with a fervor born of emotion. She was trying to hide her agitation, but Grace could see that she was deeply stirred. Once in Jean's room she gave one curious glance about her, then sank heavily into a chair and began to cry. "I have been a stubborn, foolish woman," she sobbed. "I drove my little girl away from me because I was determined to make her marry a man whom I now know to be worthless. Oh, I am afraid she will never forgive me."

Grace was touched by the proud woman's tearful remorse, but she doubted if Jean Brent would forgive her aunt. She had spoken most bitterly against her. Grace tried to think of something comforting to say. But before she could put her thoughts into words the door was suddenly opened and Jean walked into the room. At sight of the familiar figure she turned very pale. Her blue eyes gleamed with anger. She took a step forward.

"What brought you here?" she asked tensely.

"Jean, my child, won't you forgive me?" pleaded the woman holding out her arms.

Grace waited to hear no more. But as she turned to leave the room she caught one look at Jean's face. The sudden anger in it had died out. Grace believed that all would be well, but whatever passed between aunt and niece was not for her ears. She went directly to her room to wait there until Emma came from her classes. She had so much to say to her faithful comrade.

In due season Emma appeared with a cheery, "Hello, Gracious. How is everything?"

"Everything is lovely. Emma Dean, you dear old humbug. No wonder you couldn't look sad when I talked about leaving Harlowe House. Now, confess. You were in the secret, weren't you?" Grace stood with her hands on Emma's shoulders, looking into her face.

"The Deans of whom I am which, have always been advocates of the truth," solemnly declared Emma, "therefore I will follow their illustrious example and answer 'I was.' You tied my hands and my tongue so I couldn't fight for you, Gracious, but you couldn't tie Kathleen's."

"Oh, Emma, I have so much to tell you. I hardly know where to begin. I'm so happy. It's wonderful to feel once more that I am considered worthy of my work. You and I will have many more seasons of it, together."

"I wish we might," returned Emma, but a curious wistfulness crept into her eyes that Grace failed to note.

The two friends talked on until dinner time and went downstairs together, arm in arm. After dinner Emma pleaded an engagement with Miss Duncan, Grace's former teacher of English, and left the house at a little after seven o'clock. Grace slipped into her little office and seated herself at her desk. How glad she was that all was well again. Yes, she and Emma would, indeed, spend many more seasons together. Yet, somehow, the thought of her work did not give her the same thrill of satisfaction that it once had. Try as she might she could not keep thoughts of Tom from creeping into her mind. Where was he to-night? Had he forgotten her? Mrs. Gray had not once mentioned his name to her, and she had not dared to ask for news of him. Her somber reflections were interrupted by Jean Brent and her aunt. A complete reconciliation had taken place. Miss Brent was now anxious to thank Grace for all she had done in her niece's behalf. They lingered briefly, then went on to the Hotel Tourraine, where Miss Brent had registered. They had not been gone long when the ringing of the door bell brought Grace to her feet. Mrs. Gray had arrived. She hurried to the door to open it for her Fairy Godmother. Then she drew back with a sharp exclamation. The tall, fair-haired young man who towered above her bore small resemblance to dainty little Mrs. Gray.

Tom's Strong Hands Closed Over Hers.

"Grace!" said a voice she knew only too well.

"Tom," she faltered. Then both her hands went out to him. His own strong hands closed over them. The two pairs of gray eyes met in a long level gaze.

"Come into my office, Tom." She found her voice at last. "I -- I thought you were thousands of miles away in a South American jungle."

"So I was, but I didn't go very deeply into it. Professor Graham met with a serious accident and we had to turn back to civilization. He fell and hurt his spine and we had to carry him to the nearest village, two hundred miles, in a litter. Naturally that broke up the expedition, and when he became better we decided to sail for home. Reached New York City last week. I telegraphed Aunt Rose, and she wired me to meet her in Overton. I came in on that 5.30 train. Of course I was anxious to see you, so Aunt Rose told me to run along ahead. She'll be here in a little while."

Once seated opposite each other in the little office, an awkward silence fell upon the two young people.

"I am so glad nothing dreadful happened to you, Tom." Grace at last broke the silence. "Those expeditions are very hazardous. I thought of you often and wondered if you were well." There was a wistful note in her voice of which she was utterly unconscious, but it was not lost on Tom.

"Grace," he said tensely, "did you really miss me?" He leaned forward, his face very close to hers. His eager eyes forced the truth.

"More than I can say, Tom," she answered in a low tone.

Tom caught her hands in his. She did not draw them away. "How much does that mean, Grace? I know I vowed never to open the subject to you again, but I never saw that look in your eyes before, and you never let me hold your hands like this. Which is to be, dear; work or love?"

"Love," was the half-whispered answer. And the gate of happiness, so long barred to Tom Gray, was opened wide.



Chapter XXIV

The Bond Eternal


The full moon shone down with its broadest smile on the group of young people who occupied Mrs. Gray's roomy, old-fashioned veranda. As on another June night that belonged to the past, Mrs. Gray's Christmas children had gathered home.

"We're here because we're here," caroled Hippy Wingate. "But allow me to make one observation."

"One," jeered Reddy Brooks. "You mean one hundred."

"That's very unkind in you, Reddy," returned Hippy in a grieved tone. "Just to show you how entirely off the track you are I will make that one observation and subside."

"I didn't know you had such a word as 'subside' in your vocabulary," derided David Nesbit.

"Nora, where art thou? Thy husband is calling," wailed Hippy.

"I would hardly call that an observation," laughed Grace.

"It sounds more like an anguished appeal for help," remarked Anne.

"Or a perpetration by a deaf man who hasn't the least idea of how it sounds," added Tom Gray cruelly.

"Nora," rebuked Hippy, fixing a disapproving eye on his wife, who was laughing immoderately, "how can you hear your husband thus derided and laugh at his suffering? Oh, if Miriam were only here to protect me. By the way," he went on innocently, "where is Miriam?"

"She will be here a little later," said Grace evasively.

"Ah, yes, I see," smirked Hippy. "I suppose she is looking up further information on the drama. Miriam is really well-informed on that subject. Did she go to the library or" -- he paused and his smile grew wider -- "to the train?"

Absolute silence followed this pertinent question. Then Jessica giggled. That giggle proved infectious. A ripple of mirth went the round of the porch party.

"Here comes Miriam now." Grace pointed down the drive. Two figures were seen strolling toward the house in leisurely fashion.

"Yes, here she comes. Better ask her what you just asked us," Reddy satirically advised Hippy.

"Why ask questions when my eyes tell me it was the train? Still, if you think it advisable I will --  -- "

"Be good," ordered Nora. "Don't you dare say one word."

"But I haven't made my observation yet," reminded Hippy.

"It will keep."

"Ah, here they come! Now for a pretty little speech of welcome." Hippy rose and puffed out his chest, but before he could utter a word he was jerked back by the coat tails to the porch seat on which he and Nora had been sitting.

As Miriam and the man at her side neared the porch every one rose to greet them. Then the women of the party exchanged smiling glances. On Miriam's engagement finger shone the white fire of a diamond. The next instant Everett Southard was shaking hands with Mrs. Gray and the Eight Originals, while Miriam looked on, an expression of radiant happiness in her eyes. Then the actor turned to her with the beautiful smile, that Nora O'Malley had often declared was seraphic, and said: "Shall we tell them now, Miriam?"

Miriam's black eyes glowed with the soft light that love alone could lend to them. The pink in her cheeks deepened. "Yes," she acquiesced.

"Miriam and I are going the rest of our way together, dear friends," he said simply. Anne thought she had never heard his voice take on a more exquisitely tender tone. "I came from New York to tell you so."

Immediately a flow of congratulations ensued. In the midst of them Tom Gray's eyes met Grace's. What he read there seemed to satisfy him. When every one was again seated he walked over to the porch swing where Grace and Anne sat idly rocking to and fro. Stopping directly in front of Grace, he held out his hands to her. As she looked up at him her face took on an expression of perfect love and trust. Placing her hands in Tom's, Grace rose to her feet. Their friends watched the pretty tableau with affectionately smiling faces. Then the two young people faced the expectant company.

"You know, all of you, what I am going to say, so you must know, too, how happy I am. Grace has promised to marry me." Tom's face was aglow with happiness.

"My dear, dear child." Mrs. Gray rose, her arms extended to Grace. "I have hoped for this ever since you were graduated from high school." Grace embraced the old lady tenderly. Then her chums hemmed her in, and congratulations began all over again.

"Talk about your surprises," beamed Reddy. "I hadn't any idea that Grace and Tom had fixed up this one. I can't tell you how glad I am, old fellow." He shook Tom's hand vigorously. David and Hippy followed suit. The faces of the three young men fairly shone with joy. They had long understood the depth of Tom's dejection over Grace's steadfast refusal to give up her work for his sake.

"We saved it as a special feature of the occasion," laughed Tom, "but I'll tell you three fellows a secret." He lowered his voice and the laughter died out of his fine face, leaving it very serious. "I never expected this happiness was coming my way. Long ago I gave up all idea of ever being anything but a friend to Grace. I can't understand how it all came about, and I suppose I never shall."

"Maybe we aren't tickled over your good fortune," said Hippy warmly. "We've waited for this a long while. I always told Nora that it would happen some day. I knew there was just one Tom Gray and that it would only be a question of time until Grace found it out."

"No fair having secrets," called out Nora. "What and who are you boys talking about in such low, confidential voices?"

"Me," beamed Hippy. "Reddy was just telling me that he never fully appreciated me until cruel distance separated us. Of course I can't help feeling touched. It is so seldom that Reddy appreciates anything or any one. He is --  -- "

The confidential group suddenly dissolved in a hurry. Reddy took hold of Hippy's arm and rushed him down the steps and around the corner of the house in an anything but gentle manner. "There," he declared, as he returned to the porch alone. "That will teach him that he can't make pointed remarks about me. I guess he felt 'touched' that time."

"N-o-r-a," wailed a pathetic voice. "Come and get me. I want to sit on the veranda, too."

"Promise you'll be nice to Reddy, or I won't come after you," stipulated Nora, making no effort to rise.

"I won't promise," came the defiant answer. "I don't like Reddy. He is a hard-hearted ruffian."

"Thank you," sang out Reddy. "Now come back if you dare."

"I don't want to come back. I'd rather walk around by myself in the garden."

Nothing further was heard from Hippy for a time. Conversation on the veranda went on merrily. Apparently no one missed the stout young man. Suddenly a bland voice at Reddy's elbow said, "Why, good evening, Reddy." Hippy's fat face appeared between the lace curtains at the open parlor window. He beamed joyfully at the company, then favored Reddy with a smile so wide and ingratiating that the latter's fierce expression changed to a reluctant grin. At this hopeful sign Hippy clambered through the window and crowded himself into the swing between Jessica and Anne, who had resumed their seats there. They protested vigorously, then made room for him.

After announcing their engagement and receiving the congratulations of their friends, Tom and Grace had seated themselves on a rustic bench a little apart from the others. Grace's slim fingers lay within Tom's strong hand.

"Grace," he said, bending toward her so that he could look into her eyes, "are you perfectly sure that you love me? Are you quite content to give up your work? You don't think there will ever come a time when you will be sorry that you chose me instead? It still seems like a dream to me. I can't believe that you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives together. It's too much happiness. If you knew how black everything seemed that rainy day when you sent me out of your life --  -- "

"Hush, you mustn't speak of it," Grace lightly laid the fingers of her free hand against Tom's lips. "I did not know how wonderful your love for me was. It took sorrow and separation to make me see it. But I'm sure now, Tom, perfectly sure. I used to think I could never give up being house mother at Harlowe House, but now I am entirely satisfied to have Emma Dean take my place. She will do the work even better than I. Harlowe House can spare me, but Tom Gray can't, and I can't spare him. What you said to me so long ago came true, dear. When love came to me, not even work could crowd it out. I have found my fairy prince at last."

"Then the prince is going to claim the princess and bind her to him forever with a jeweled circle of gold," said Tom softly. His hand reached into an inner pocket of his coat. Over Grace Harlowe's slender finger was slipped the magic circle of gold, a glittering pledge of eternal devotion, and as she touched the jeweled token with her lips the knowledge came to her that though Loyalheart's pilgrimage in the Land of College was ended, an infinitely more wonderful journey on the Highway of Life was soon to begin.

How Grace Harlowe spent her last summer in her father's house before starting upon that journey, with Tom Gray as her life-long guide, will be told in "Grace Harlowe's Golden Summer."

<eob>

The Surprising Adventures Of The Magical Monarch Of Mo And His People

By

L. Frank Baum



The First Surprise

The Beautiful Valley Of Mo


I dare say there are several questions you would like to ask at the very beginning of this history. First: Who is the Monarch of Mo? And why is he called the Magical Monarch? And where is Mo, anyhow? And why have you never heard of it before? And can it be reached by a railroad or a trolley-car, or must one walk all the way?

These questions I realize should be answered before we (that "we" means you and the book) can settle down for a comfortable reading of all the wonders and astonishing adventures I shall endeavor faithfully to relate.

In the first place, the Monarch of Mo is a very pleasant personage holding the rank of King. He is not very tall, nor is he very short; he is midway between fat and lean; he is delightfully jolly when he is not sad, and seldom sad if he can possibly be jolly. How old he may be I have never dared to inquire; but when we realize that he is destined to live as long as the Valley of Mo exists we may reasonably suppose the Monarch of Mo is exactly as old as his native land. And no one in Mo has ever reckoned up the years to see how many they have been. So we will just say that the Monarch of Mo and the Valley of Mo are each a part of the other, and can not be separated.

He is not called the Magical Monarch because he deals in magic -- for he doesn't deal in magic. But he leads such a queer life in such a queer country that his history will surely seem magical to us who inhabit the civilized places of the world and think that anything we can not find a reason for must be due to magic. The life of the Monarch of Mo seems simple enough to him, you may be sure, for he knows no other existence. And our ways of living, could he know of them, would doubtless astonish him greatly.

The land of Mo, which is ruled by the King we call the Magical Monarch, is often spoken of as the "Beautiful Valley." If they would only put it on the maps of our geographies and paint it pink or light green, and print a big round dot where the King's castle stands, it would be easy enough to point out to you its exact location. But I can not find the Valley of Mo in any geography I have examined; so I suspect the men who made these instructive books really know nothing about Mo, else it would surely be on the maps.

Of one thing I am certain: that no other country included in the maps is so altogether delightful as the Beautiful Valley of Mo.

The sun shines all the time, and its rays are perfumed. The people who live in the Valley do not sleep, because there is no night. Everything they can possibly need grows on the trees, so they have no use for money at all, and that saves them a deal of worry.

There are no poor people in this quaint Valley. When a person desires a new hat he waits till one is ripe, and then picks it and wears it without asking anybody's permission. If a lady wishes a new ring, she examines carefully those upon the ring-tree, and when she finds one that fits her finger she picks it and wears it upon her hand. In this way they procure all they desire.

There are two rivers in the Land of Mo, one of which flows milk of a very rich quality. Some of the islands in Milk River are made of excellent cheese, and the people are welcome to spade up this cheese whenever they wish to eat it. In the little pools near the bank, where the current does not flow swiftly, delicious cream rises to the top of the milk, and instead of water-lilies great strawberry leaves grow upon the surface, and the ripe, red berries lie dipping their noses into the cream, as if inviting you to come and eat them. The sand that forms the river bank is pure white sugar, and all kinds of candies and bonbons grow thick on the low bushes, so that any one may pluck them easily.

These are only a few of the remarkable things that exist in the Beautiful Valley.

The people are merry, light-hearted folk, who live in beautiful houses of pure crystal, where they can rest themselves and play their games and go in when it rains. For it rains in Mo as it does everywhere else, only it rains lemonade; and the lightning in the sky resembles the most beautiful fireworks; and the thunder is usually a chorus from the opera of Tannhauser.

No one ever dies in this Valley, and the people are always young and beautiful. There is the King and a Queen, besides several princes and princesses. But it is not much use being a prince in Mo, because the King can not die; therefore a prince is a prince to the end of his days, and his days never end.

Strange things occur in this strange land, as you may imagine; and while I relate some of these you will learn more of the peculiar features of the Beautiful Valley.



The Second Surprise

The Strange Adventures Of The King's Head


A good many years ago, the Magical Monarch of Mo became annoyed by the Purple Dragon, which came down from the mountains and ate up a patch of his best chocolate caramels just as they were getting ripe.

So the King went out to the sword-tree and picked a long, sharp sword, and tied it to his belt and went away to the mountains to fight the Purple Dragon.

The people all applauded him, saying one to another:

"Our King is a good King. He will destroy this naughty Purple Dragon and we shall be able to eat the caramels ourselves."

But the Dragon was not alone naughty; it was big, and fierce, and strong, and did not want to be destroyed at all.

Therefore the King had a terrible fight with the Purple Dragon and cut it with his sword in several places, so that the raspberry juice which ran in its veins squirted all over the ground.

It is always difficult to kill Dragons. They are by nature thick-skinned and tough, as doubtless every one has heard. Besides, you must not forget that this was a Purple Dragon, and all scientists who have studied deeply the character of Dragons say those of a purple color at the most disagreeable to fight with. So all the King's cutting and slashing had no effect upon the monster other than to make him angry. Forgetful of the respect due to a crowned King, the wicked Dragon presently opening wide its jaws and bit his Majesty's head clean off his body. Then he swallowed it.

Of course the King realized it was useless to continue to fight after that, for he could not see where the Dragon was. So he turned and tried to find his way back to his people. But at every other step he would bump into a tree, which made the naughty Dragon laugh at him. Furthermore, he could not tell in which direction he was going, which is an unpleasant feeling under any circumstances.

At last some of the people came to see if the King had succeeded in destroying the Dragon, and found their monarch running around in a circle, bumping into trees and rocks, but not getting a step nearer home. SO they took his hand and led him back to the palace, where every one was filled with sorrow at the sad sight of the headless King. Indeed, his devoted subjects, for the first time in their lives, came as near to weeping as an inhabitant of the Valley of Mo can.

"Never mind," said the King, cheerfully; "I can get along very well without a head; and, as a matter of fact, the loss has its advantages. I shall not be obliged to brush my hair, or clean my teeth, or wash my ears. So do not grieve, I beg of you, but be happy and joyful as you were before." Which showed the King had a good heart; and, after all, a good heart is better than a head, any say.

The people, hearing him speak out of his neck (for he had no mouth), immediately began to laugh, which in a short time led to their being as happy as ever.

But the Queen was not contented.

"My love," she said to him, "I can not kiss you any more, and that will break my heart."

Thereupon the King sent word throughout the Valley that any one who could procure for him a new head should wed one of the princesses.

The princesses were all exceedingly pretty girls, and so it was not long before one man made a very nice head out of candy and brought it to the King. It did not look exactly like the old head, but the efface was very sweet, nevertheless; so the King put it on and the Queen kissed it at once with much satisfaction.

The young man had put a pair of glass eyes in the head, with which the King could see very well after he got used to them.

According to the royal promise, the young man was now called into the palace and asked to take his pick of the princesses. There were all so sweet and lady-like that he had some trouble in making a choice; but at last he took the biggest, thinking that he would thus secure the greatest reward, and they were married amid great rejoicing.

But, a few days afterward, the King was caught out in a rainstorm, and before he could get home his new head had melted in the great shower of lemonade that fell. Only the glass eyes were left, and these he put in his pocket and went sorrowfully to tell the Queen of his new misfortune.

Then another young man who wanted to marry a princess made the King a head out of dough, sticking in it the glass eyes; and the King tried it on and found that it fitted very well. So the young man was given the next biggest princess.

But the following day the sun chance to shine extremely hot, and when the King walked out it baked his dough head into bread, at which the monarch felt very light-headed. And when the birds saw the bread they flew down from the trees, perched upon the King's shoulder and quickly ate up his new head. All but the glass eyes.

Again the good King was forced to go home to the Queen without a head, and the lady firmly declared that this time her husband must have a head warranted to last at least as long as the honeymoon of the young man who made it; which was not at all unreasonable under the circumstances.

So a request was sent to all loyal subjects throughout the Valley asking them to find a head for their King that was neat and substantial.

In the meantime the King had a rather hard time of it. When he wished to go any place he was obliged to hold out in front of him, between his thumbs and fingers, the glass eyes, that they might guide his footsteps. This, as you may imagine, made his Majesty look rather undignified, and dignity is very important to every royal personage.

At last a wood-chopper in the mountains made a head out of wood and sent it to the King. It was neatly carved, besides being solid and durable; moreover, it fitted the monarch's neck to the T. So the King rummaged in his pocket and found the glass eyes, and when these were put in the new head the King announced his satisfaction.

There was only one drawback -- he couldn't smile, as the wooden face was too stiff; and it was funny to hear his Majesty laughing heartily while his face maintained a solemn expression. But the glass eyes twinkled merrily and every one knew that he was the same kind-hearted monarch of old, although he had become, of necessity, rather hard-headed.

Then the King sent word to the wood-chopper to come to the palace and take his pick of the princesses, and preparations were at once begun for the wedding.

But the wood-chopper, on his way to the court, unfortunately passed by the dwelling of the Purple Dragon and stopped to speak to the monster.

Now it seems that when the Dragon had swallowed the King's head, the unusual meal made the beast ill. It was more accustomed to berries and caramels for dinner than to heads, and the sharp points of the King's crown (which was firmly fastened to the head) pricked the Dragon's stomach and made the creature miserable. After a few days of suffering the Dragon disgorged the head, and, not knowing what else to do with it, locked it up in a cupboard and put the key in its pocket.

When the Dragon met the wood-chopper and learned he had made a new head for the King, and as a reward was to wed one of the princesses, the monster became very angry. It resolved to do a wicked thing; which will not surprise you when you remember the beast's purple color.

"Step into my parlor and rest yourself," said the Dragon, politely. Wicked people are most polite when they mean mischief.

"Thank you, I'll stop for a few minutes," replied the wood-chopper; "but I can not stay long, as I am expected at court."

When he had entered the parlor the Dragon suddenly opened its mouth and snapped off the poor wood-chopper's head. Being warned by experience, however, it did not swallow the head, but placed it in the cupboard. Then the Dragon took from a shelf the King's head and glued it on the wood-chopper's neck.

"Now," said the beast, with a cruel laugh, "you are the King! Go home and claim your wife and your kingdom."

The poor wood-chopper was much amazed; for at first he did not really know which he was, the King or the wood-chopper.

He looked in the mirror and, seeing the King, made a low bow. Then the King's head thought: "Who am I bowing to? There is no one greater than the King!" And so at once there began a conflict between the wood-chopper's heart and the King's head.

The Dragon was mightily pleased at the result of its wicked stratagem, and having pushed the bewildered wood-chopper out of the castle, immediately sent him on his way to the court.

When the poor man neared the town the people ran out and said: "Why, this is the King come back again. All hail, your Majesty!"

"All nonsense!" returned the wood-chopper. "I am only a poor man with the King's head on my shoulders. You can easily see it isn't mine, for it's crooked; the Dragon didn't glue it on straight."

"Where, then, is your own head?" they asked.

"Locked up in the Dragon's cupboard," replied the poor fellow, beginning to weep.

"Here," cried the King's head; "stop this. You mustn't cry out of my eyes! The King never weeps."

"I beg pardon, your Majesty," said the wood-chopper, meekly, "I'll not do it again."

"Well, see that you don't," returned the head more cheerfully.

The people were greatly amazed at this, and took the wood-chopper to the palace, where all was soon explained.

When the Queen saw the King's head she immediately kissed it; but the King rebuked her, saying she must kiss only him.

"But it is your head," said the poor Queen.

"Probably it is," replied the King; "but it is on another man. You must confine yourself to kissing my wooden head."

"I'm sorry," sighed the Queen, "for I like to kiss the real head best."

"And so you shall," said the King's head; "I don't approve your kissing that wooden head at all."

The poor lady looked from one to the other in perplexity. Finally a happy thought occurred to her.

"Why don't you trade heads?" she asked.

"Just the thing!" cried the King; and, the wood-chopper consenting, the exchange was made, and the Monarch of Mo found himself in possession of his own head again, whereat he was so greatly pleased that he laughed long and merrily.

The wood-chopper, however, did not even smile. He couldn't because of the wooden face. The head he had made for the King he now was compelled to wear himself.

"Bring hither the princesses," commanded the King. "This good man shall choose his bride at once, for he has restored to me my own head."

But when the princesses arrived and saw that the wood-chopper had a wooden head, they each and all refused to marry him, and begged so hard to escape that the King was in a quandary.

"I promised him one of my daughters," he argued, "and a King never breaks his word."

"But he hadn't a wooden head then," explained one of the girls.

The King realized the truth of this. Indeed, when he came to look carefully at the wooden head, he did not blame his daughters for not wishing to marry it. Should he force one of them to consent, it was not unlikely she would call her husband a blockhead -- a term almost certain to cause trouble in any family.

After giving the matter deep thought, the King resolved to go to the Purple Dragon and oblige it to give up the wood-chopper's head.

So all the fighting men in the kingdom were got together, and, having picked ripe swords off the sword-trees, they marched in a great body to the Dragon's castle.

Now the Purple Dragon realized that if it attempted to fight all this army, it would perhaps be cut to pieces; so it retired within its castle and refused to come out.

The wood-chopper was a brave man.

"I'll go in and fight the Dragon alone," he said; and in he went. By this time the Dragon was both frightened and angry, and the moment it saw the man it rushed forward and made a snap at his head.

The wooden head came off at once, and the Dragon's long, sharp teeth got stuck in the wood and would not come out again; so the monster was unable to do anything but flop its tail and groan.

The wood-chopper now ran to the cupboard, took out his head and placed it upon his shoulders where it belonged. Then he proudly walked out of the castle and was greeted with loud shouts by the army, which carried him back in triumph to the King's palace.

And, now that he wore his own head again, one of the prettiest of the young princesses willingly agreed to marry him; so the wedding ceremony was performed amidst great rejoicing.



The Third Surprise

The Tramp Dog And The Monarch's Lost Temper


One day the Monarch of Mo, having nothing better to do, resolved to go hunting blackberries among the bushes that grew at the foot of the mountains.

So he put on an old crown that would not get tarnished if it rained, and, having found a tin pail in the pantry, started off without telling any one where he was going.

For some distance the path was a nice, smooth taffy, that was very agreeable to walk on; but as he got nearer the mountains the ground became gravelly, the stones being jackson-balls and gum-drops; so that his boots, which were a little green when he picked them, began to hurt his feet.

But the King was not easily discouraged, and kept on until he found the blackberry bushes, when he immediately began to fill his pail, the berries being remarkably big and sweet.

While thus occupied he heard a sound of footsteps coming down the mountain side, and presently a little dog ran out from the bushes and trotted up to him.

Now there were no dogs at all in Mo, and the King had never seen a creature like this before; therefore he was greatly surprised, and said:

"What are you, and where do you come from?"

The dog also was surprised at this question, and looked suspiciously at the King's tin pail; for many times wicked boys had tied such a pail to the end of his tail. In fact, that was the reason he had run away from home and found his way, by accident, to the Valley of Mo.

"My name is Prince," replied the gravely; "and I have come from a country beyond the mountains and the desert."

"Indeed! are you in truth a prince?" exclaimed the monarch; "then you will be welcome in my kingdom, where we always treat nobility with proper respect. But why do you have four feet?"

"Because six would be too many," replied the dog.

"But I have only two," said the King.

"I am sorry," said the dog, who was something of a wag, "because where I come from it is more fashionable to walk on four feet."

"I like to be in the fashion," remarked the King, thoughtfully; "but what am I to do, having only two legs?"

"Why, I suppose you could walk on your hands and feet," returned the dog with a laugh.

"So I will," said the King, being pleased with the idea; "and you shall come to the palace with me and teach me all the fashions of the country from whence you came."

The King got down on his hands and knees, and was delighted to find he could get along in this way very nicely.

"How am I to carry my pail?" he asked.

"In your mouth, of course," replied the dog. This suggestion seeming a happy one, the King took the pail in his mouth and they started back toward the palace. But when his Majesty came to the gum-drops and jackson-balls they hurt his hands and knees, so that he groaned aloud. But the dog only laughed. Finally they reached a place where it was quite muddy. Of course the mud was only jelly, but it hadn't dried up since the last rain. The dog jumped over the place nimbly enough, but when the King tried to do likewise he failed, and came down into the jelly with both hands and knees, and stuck fast.

Now the monarch had a very good temper, which he carried in his vest pocket; but as he passed over the gum-drop pebbles on his hands and knees this temper dropped out of his pocket, and, having lost it, he became very angry at the dog for getting him into such a scrape.

So he began to scold, and when he opened his mouth the pail dropped out and the berries were all spilled. This made the dog laugh more than ever, at which the King pulled himself out of the jelly, jumped to his feet, and began to chase the dog as fast as he could. Finally the dog climbed a tall tree where the King could not reach him, and when safe among the branches he looked down and said: "See how foolish a man becomes who tries to be in fashion rather than live as nature intended he should! You can no more be a dog than I can be a king; so hereafter, if you are wise, you will be content to walk on two legs."

"There is much truth in what you say," replied the Monarch of Mo. "Come with me to the palace, and you shall be forgiven; indeed, we shall have a fine feast in honor of your arrival."

So the dog climbed down from the tree and followed the King to the palace, where all the courtiers were astonished to see so queer an animal, and made a great favorite of him.

After dinner the King invited the dog to take a walk around the grounds of the royal mansion, and they started out merrily enough. But the King's boots had begun to hurt him again; for, as they did not fit, being picked green, they had rubbed his toes until he had corns on them. So when they reached the porch in front of the palace the King asked:

"My friend, what is good for corns?"

"Tight boots," replied the dog, laughing; "but they are not very good for your feet."

Now the King, not yet having found his lost temper, became exceedingly angry at this poor jest; so he rushed at the dog and gave it a tremendous kick.

Up into the air like a ball flew the dog, while the King, having hurt his toe by the kick, sat down on the door-step and nursed his foot while he watched the dog go farther and farther up, until it seemed like a tiny speck against the blue of the sky.

"I must have kicked harder than I thought," said the King, ruefully; "there he goes, out of sight, and I shall never see him again!"

He now limped away into the back garden, where he picked a new pair of boots that would not hurt his feet; and while he was gone the dog began to fall down again. Of course he fell faster than he went up, and finally landed with a crash exactly on the King's door-step. But so great was the force of the fall and so hard the door-step that the poor dog was flattened out like a pancake, and could not move a bit.

When the King came back he said:

"Hullo! some kind friend has brought me a new door-mat as a present," and he leaned down and stroked the soft hair with much pleasure. Then he wiped his feet on the new mat and went into the palace to tell the Queen.

When her Majesty saw the nice, soft door-mat she declared it was too good to be left outside; so she brought it into the parlor and put it on the floor before the fire-place.

The good King was sorry he had treated the dog so harshly, and for fear he might do some other dreadful thing he went back to the place where he had lost his temper and searched until he found it again, when he put it carefully away in his pocket where it would stay.

Then he returned to the palace an entered the parlor; but as he passed the mat, his new boots were so clumsy, he stumbled against the edge and pushed the mat together into a roll.

Immediately the dog gave a bark, got upon its legs and said:

"Well, this is better! Now I can breathe again, but while I was so flat I could not draw a single breath."

The monarch and his Queen were much surprised to find that what they had taken for a mat was only the dog, that had fallen so flat on their door-step; but they could not forbear laughing at his queer appearance. For, as the King had kicked the mat on the edge, the dog was more than six feet long, and no bigger around than a lead-pencil; which brought its font legs so far from its rear legs that it could scarcely turn around in the room without getting tangled up.

"But it is better than being a door-mat," said the dog; and the King and Queen agreed with him in this.

Then the King went away to tell the people he had found the dog again, and when he left the palace he slammed the front door behind him. The dog had started to follow the King out, so when the front door slammed it hit the poor animal so sharp a blow on the nose that it pushed his body together again; and, lo and behold! there was the dog in his natural shape, just as he was before the King kicked him.

After this the dog and the King agreed very well; for the King was careful not to kick, since he had recovered his temper, and the dog took care not to say anything that would provoke the King to anger.

And one day the dog saved the Kingdom and all the Valley of Mo from destruction, as I shall tell you another time.



The Fourth Surprise

The Peculiar Pains Of Fruitcake Island


Prince Zingle, who was the eldest of all the princes of the Valley of Mo, at one time became much irritated because the King, his father, would not allow him to milk the cow with the golden horns. This cow was a great favorite with the King, because she gave as large a quantity of ice-cream at a milking as an ordinary cow does of milk, and in the warm days this was an agreeable luxury. The King liked to keep the cow with the golden horns for his own use and that of the Queen; so Prince Zingle thought he was being abused, having a great fondness for ice-cream himself.

To be sure, there was the great fountain of ice-cream soda-water playing constantly in the courtyard, which was free to every one; but the Prince longed for what he could not have.

Therefore, being filled with anger against his father, the King, he wandered away until he chanced to come near to the castle of the Purple Dragon.

When the wicked monster saw the Prince, it decided that here was a splendid opportunity to make mischief; so it said, politely:

"Good morning, King Zingle."

"I am not a king -- I am only a prince," replied Zingle.

"What! not a king?" exclaimed the Dragon, as if surprised; "that is too bad."

"I can never be a king while my father lives," continued the Prince, "and it is impossible for him to die. So what can I do?"

"Since you ask my advice, I will tell you," answered the naughty Dragon. "Down near Rootbeer River, where the peanut trees grow, is a very deep hole in the ground. You must get the King to go and look into this hole, and while he is leaning over the edge, push him in. Of course, he will not die, for that, as you say, is impossible; but no one will know where to find him. So, your father being out of the way, you will be king in his place."

"That is surely good advice," said the Prince, "and I will go and do it at once. Then the cow with the golden horns will be mine, and I shall become the Monarch of Mo."

The Prince turned to go back to the palace, and as soon as he was out of sight, the horrid Dragon laughed to think what a fool it had made of the boy.

When Zingle saw his father he called him aside and said:

"Your Majesty, I have discovered something very funny at the bottom of the hole near the peanut trees. Come and see what it is."

So the King went with the Prince, without suspecting his evil design, and while he leaned over the hole the Prince gave him a sudden push. The next moment down fell the Monarch of Mo -- way to the bottom!

Then Prince Zingle went back to the palace and began to milk the cow with the golden horns.

Now when the King found himself at the bottom of the hole he at first did not know what to do; so he sat down and thought about it. Presently a happy idea came into his head. He knew if only he was at the other end of the hole, he would be at the top instead of the bottom, and could make his escape. So the King took hold of the hole, and exerting all his strength, turned the hole upside down. Being now at the top he stepped upon the ground and walked back to the palace, where he caught Prince Zingle milking the cow with the golden horns.

"Oh, ho!" he said, "you wish to be King, do you? Well, we'll see about that!" Then he took the naughty Prince by the ear and led him into the palace, where he locked him up in a room from which he could not escape.

The King now sat himself down in an easy chair and began to think on how he could best punish the Prince, but after an hour of deep thought he was unable to decide on anything that seemed a sufficient chastisement for so great an offense.

At last he resolved to consult the Wise Donkey.

The Wise Donkey lived in a pretty little house away at the end of the Valley, for he didn't like to mix with the gay life at the court. He had not always been wise, but at one time was a very stupid donkey indeed, and he acquired his wisdom in this way.

One Friday afternoon, just as school was letting out, the stupid donkey strayed into the school-house, and the teachers and scholars were all so anxious to get home that they never noticed the donkey, but locked him up in the school-house and went away without knowing he was there.

No one came into the building from Friday afternoon until Monday morning; so the donkey got very hungry, and certainly would have starved had he not chanced to taste of a geography that was sticking out from one of the desks. The hungry donkey decided it was not so very bad, so he ate it all up. Then he ate an arithmetic, an algebra, and two first readers. After that he lay down and went to sleep; but becoming hungry again he awoke and commenced on the school library, which he completely devoured. This library comprised all the solid and substantial wisdom in the Valley of Mo, and when the janitor opened the school-house door on Monday morning, all the books of learning in the whole land had been eaten up by the stupid donkey.

You can readily understand that after he had digested all this knowledge he became very wise, and thereafter the King and the people often consulted the Wise Donkey when their own intelligence was at fault.

So now the monarch went to the donkey's house and told him of the Prince's wickedness, asking how he could best punish him.

The Wise Donkey thought about the matter for a moment and then replied:

"I do not know a worse punishment than a pain in the stomach. Among the books I ate in the school-house was a trigonometry, and before I had digested it I suffered very severe pains indeed."

"But I can not feed the Prince a trigonometry," returned the King. "You ate the last one yourself."

"True," answered the donkey; "but there are other things that cause pain in the stomach. You know there is a certain island in Rootbeer River that is made of fruit cake of a very rich quality. I advise you to put the Prince on this island and allow him nothing to eat except the fruit cake. Presently he will have violent pains in his stomach and will be punished as greatly as you could desire."

The King was well pleased with this plan, and having thanked the donkey for his wise advice hurried back to the palace.

Prince Zingle was now brought from his room and rowed in a boat to the Fruit Cake Island in Rootbeer River, where he was left without any way to escape. He knew how to swim, to be sure, but it was forbidden by law to swim in the Rootbeer, as many people came to this river to drink.

"You shall stay here," said the King, sternly, "until you are sorry for your wickedness; and you shall have nothing to eat but fruit cake."

The Prince laughed, because he thought the punishment was no punishment at all. When the King had rowed away in the boat and Zingle was left alone, he said to himself:

"Why, this is delightful! I shall have a jolly time here, and can eat all the cake I want, without any one scolding me for being greedy."

He broke off a large piece of the island where the raisins and citron were thickest, and commenced to eat it. But after a time he became tired of eating nothing but fruit cake, and longed for something to go with it. But the island did not contain a single thing except the cake of which it was composed.

Presently Prince Zingle began to have a pain inside him. He paid no attention to it at first, thinking it would pass away; but instead it grew more severe, so that he began to cry out; but no one heard him.

The pain steadily increased, and the Prince wept and rolled on the ground and began to feel exceeding sorry he had been so wicked. Finally he seized the telephone, which was connected with the palace, and called up the King.

"Hullo!" said the King's voice, in reply; "what's wanted?"

"I have a terrible pain," said the Prince, with a groan, "and I'm very sorry indeed that I pushed your Majesty down the hole. If you'll only take me off this dreadful island I'll be the best prince in all the Valley from this time forth!"

So the King sent the boat and had the Prince brought back to the palace, where he forgave his naughty actions. Being a kind parent he next fed his suffering son a blossom from a medicine tree, which quickly relieved his pain and led him to appreciate the pleasure of repentance.



The Fifth Surprise

The Monarch Celebrates His Birthday


There were great festivities in the Valley of Mo when the King had a birthday. The jolly monarch was born so many years ago that so every one had forgotten the date. One of the Wise Men said the King was born in February; another declared it was in May, and a third figured the great event happened in October. So the King issued a royal decree that he should have three birthdays every year, in order to be on the safe side; and whenever he happened to think of it he put in an odd birthday or two for luck. The King's birthdays came to be regarded as very joyful events, for on these occasions festivities of unusual magnificence were held, and everybody in the kingdom was invited to participate.

On one occasion the King, suddenly recollecting he had not celebrated his birthday for several weeks, announced a royal festival on a most elaborate scale. The cream-puff crop was an unusually large one, and the bushes were hanging full of the delicious ripe puffs, which were highly prized by the people of Mo.

So all the maidens got out their best dresses and brightest ribbons, and the young men carefully brushed their hair and polished their boots, and soon the streets leading to the palace were thronged with gay merry-makers.

When the guests were all assembled a grand feast was served, in which the newly-picked cream puffs were an important item.

Then the King stood up at the head of the table and ordered his ruby casket to be brought him, and when the people heard this they at once became quiet and attentive, for the Ruby Casket was one of the most curious things in the Valley. It was given the King many years before by the sorceress, Maetta, and whenever it was opened something was found in it that no living person had seen before.

So the people, and even the King himself, always watched the opening of the Ruby Casket with much curiosity, for they never knew what would be disclosed.

The King placed the casket on a small table before him, and then, after a solemn look at the expectant faces, he said, slowly:

"Giggle-gaggle-goo!" which was the magic word that opened the box.

At once the lid flew back, and the King peered within and exclaimed: "Ha!"

This made the guests more excited than before, for they did not know what he was saying "ha!" about; and they held their breaths when the King put his thumb and finger into the box and drew out a little wooden man about as big as my finger. He wore a blue jacket and a red cap and held a little brass horn in his hand.

The King stood the wooden man upon the table and then reached within the box and brought out another wooden man, dressed just the same as the other, and also holding a horn in his hand. This the King stood beside the first wooden man, and then took out another, and another, until ten little wooden men were standing in a row on the table, holding drums, and cymbals, and horns in their small, stiff hands.

"I declare," said the King, when he had stood them all up, "it's a little German band. But what a shame it is they can not play."

No sooner had the King uttered the word "play" than every little wooden man put his horn to his mouth, or beat his drum, or clashed his cymbal; and immediately they began to play such delicious music that all the people were delighted, and even the King clapped his hands in applause.

Just then from out the casket leaped a tiny Baby Elephant, about as large as a mouse, and began capering about on its toes. It was dressed in short, fluffy skirts, like those worn by a ballet-dancer, and it danced so funnily that all who saw it roared with laughter.

When the elephant stopped to rest, two pretty Green Frogs sprang from the casket and began to play leapfrog before the astonished guests, who had never before seen such a thing as a frog. The little green strangers jumped over each other quick as a flash, and finally one of them jumped down the other's throat. Then, as the Baby Elephant opened his mouth to yawn, the remaining frog jumped down the elephant's throat.

The audience was so much amused at this feat that the Baby Elephant thought he would see what he could do to please them; so he stood on his head and gave a great jump, and disappeared down his own throat, leaving the musicians to play by themselves.

Then all the young men caught the girls about their waists and began spinning around in a pretty dance of their own, and the fun continued until they were tired out.

The King thanked the tiny wooden musicians and put them back in the Ruby Casket. He did not offer to take up a collection for them, there being no money of any kind in the Valley of Mo. The casket was then carried back to the royal treasury, where it was guarded with much care when not in use.

Just then a young man approached the King, asking permission for the people to skate on the Crystal Lake, and his Majesty graciously consented.

As it was never cold in the Kingdom of Mo there was, of course, no ice for skating. But the Crystal Lake was composed of sugar-syrup, and the sun had candied the surface of the lake, so it had become solid enough to skate on, and was, moreover, as smooth as glass.

It was not often the King allowed skating there, for he feared some one might break through the crust; but as it was his birthday he could refuse the people nothing. So presently hundreds of the boys and girls were skating swiftly on the Crystal Lake and having rare sport; for it was just as good as ice, without being cold or damp.

In the center there was one place where the crust was quite thin, and just as the merriment was at its height, crack! went the ice -- or candy, rather -- and down into the sugar-syrup sank the Princess Truella, and the Prince Jollikin, and the King's royal chamberlain, Nuphsed.

Down and down they went until they reached the bottom of the lake; and there they stood, stuck fast in the syrup and unable to move a bit, while all the people gathered on the shore to look at them, the lake being as clear as the clearest water.

Of course, this calamity put an end to further skating, and the King rushed around asking every one how he could get his daughter and his son and his royal chamberlain out of the mass. But no one could tell him.

Finally the King consulted the Wise Donkey; and after he had thought the matter over and consulted his learning, the donkey advised his Majesty to fish for them.

"Fish!" exclaimed the King; "how can we do that?"

"Take a fish-line and put a sinker on it, to make it sink through the syrup. Then bait the end of the line with the thing that each one of them likes best. In that way you can catch hold of them and draw them out of the lake."

"Well," said the King, "I'll try it, for of course you know what you are talking about."

"Have you ever eaten a geography?" demanded the Wise Donkey.

"No," said the King.

"Well, I have," declared the donkey, haughtily; "and what I don't know about lakes and such things isn't in the geography."

So the King went back to the Crystal Lake and got a strong fish-line, which he tied to the end of a long pole. Then he put a sinker on the end of the line and was ready for the bait.

"What does the Princess Truella like best?" he asked the Queen.

"I'm sure I do not know," replied the royal lady; "but you might try her with a kiss."

So one of the nicest young men sent a kiss to the Princess, and the King tied it to the end of the line and put it in the lake. The sinker carried it down through the sugar-syrup until the kiss was just before the sweet, red lips of the pretty Princess. She took the kiss at once, as the Queen had guessed, and the King pulled up the line, with the Princess at the end of it, until he finally landed her on the shore.

Then all the people shouted for joy and the Queen took the Princess Truella home to change her clothes, for they were very sticky.

"What does the Prince Jollikin like best?" asked the King.

"A laugh!" replied a dozen at once, for every one knew the Prince's failing.

Then one of the girls laughed quite hard, and the King tied it to the end of the line and dropped it into the lake. The Prince caught the laugh at once, and was quickly drawn from the syrup and likewise sent home to change his clothes.

Then the King looked around on the people and asked:

"What does the Chamberlain Nuphsed like best?"

But they were all silent, for Nuphsed liked so many things it was difficult to say which he liked best. So again the King was obliged to go to the Wise Donkey, in order to find out how he should bait the line to catch the royal chamberlain.

The Wise Donkey happened to be busy that day over his own affairs and was annoyed at being consulted so frequently without receiving anything in return for his wisdom. But he pretended to consider the matter, as was his wont, and said:

"I believe the royal chamberlain is fond of apples. Try to catch him with a red apple."

At this the King and his people hunted all over the kingdom, and at last found a tree with one solitary red apple growing on a little branch nearly at the top. But unfortunately some one had sawed off the trunk of the tree, close up to the branches, and had carried it away and chopped it up for kindling wood. For this reason there was no way to climb the tree to secure the apple.

While the King and the people were considering how they might get into the tree, Prince Thinkabit came up to them and asked what they wanted.

"We want the apple," replied the King, "but some one has cut away the tree trunk, so that we can not climb up."

Prince Thinkabit rubbed the top of his head a minute, to get his brain into good working order. It was a habit he had acquired. Then he walked to the bank of the river, which was near, and whistled three times. Immediately a school of fishes swam up to him, and one of the biggest cried out:

"Good afternoon, Prince Thinkabit; what can we do for you?"

"I wish to borrow a flying fish for a few minutes," replied the Prince.

Scarcely had he spoken when a fish flew out of the river and perched upon his shoulder. Then he walked up to the tree and said to the fish: "Get me the apple."

The flying fish at once flew into the tree and bit off the stem of the apple, which fell down and hit the King on the nose, for, unfortunately, he was standing exactly under it. Then the Prince thanked the flying fish and sent it back to the river, and the King, having first put a plaster over his nose, took the apple and started for the Crystal Lake, followed by all his people.

But when the apple was fastened to the fish-line and let down through the syrup to the royal chamberlain, Nuphsed refused to touch it.

"He doesn't like it," said the King, with a sigh; and he went again to the Wise Donkey.

"Didn't he want the apple?" asked the donkey, as if surprised. But you must know he was not surprised at all, as he had planned to get the apple for himself.

"No, indeed," replied the King. "We had an awful job to find the apple, too."

"Where is it?" inquired the donkey.

"Here," said the King, taking it out of his pocket.

The donkey took the apple, looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, and then ate it up and smacked his lips, for he was especially fond of red apples.

"What shall we do now?" asked the King.

"I believe the thing Nuphsed likes best is a kind word. Bait the line with that, and you may catch him."

So the King went again to the lake, and having put a kind word on the fish-line quickly succeeded in bringing the royal chamberlain to the shore in safety. You can well imagine poor Nuphsed was glad enough to be on dry land after his long immersion in the sugar-syrup.

And now that all had been rescued from the Crystal Lake, the King put a rope around the broken crust and stuck up a sign that said "Danger!" so that no one else would fall in.

After that the festivities began again, and as there were no further accidents the King's birthday ended very happily.



The Sixth Surprise

King Scowleyow And His Cast-Iron Man


Across the mountains at the north of the Valley of Mo there reigned a wicked King named Scowleyow, whose people lived in caves and mines and dug iron and tin out of the rocks and melted them into bars. These bars they then carried away and sold for money.

King Scowleyow hated the Monarch of Mo and all his people, because they lived so happily and cared nothing for money; and he would have sent his army into the Valley to destroy the merry people who dwelt there had he not been afraid of the sharp swords that grew on their trees, which they knew so well how to use against their foes.

So King Scowleyow pondered for a long time how to destroy the Valley of Mo without getting hurt himself; and at last he hit on a plan he believed would succeed.

He put all his mechanics to work and built a great man out of cast-iron, with machinery inside of him. When he was wound up the Cast-iron Man could roar, and roll his eyes, and gnash his teeth and march across the Valley, crushing trees and houses to the earth as he went. For the Cast-iron Man was as tall as a church and as heavy as iron could make him, and each of his feet was as big as a barn.

It took a long time to build this man, as you may suppose; but King Scowleyow was so determined to ruin the pretty Valley of Mo that he made his men work night and day, and at last the Cast-iron Man was ready to be wound up and sent on his journey of destruction.

They stood him on the top of the mountain, with his face toward the Beautiful Valley, and began to wind him up. It took a hundred men a whole week to do this; but at last he was tightly wound, and the wicked King Scowleyow stood ready to touch the spring that made him go.

"One -- two -- three!" said the King, and touched the spring with his ringer.

The Cast-iron Man gave so terrible a roar that he even frightened the men who had made him; and then he rolled his eyes till they flashed fire, and gnashed his teeth till the noise sounded like thunder.

The next minute he raised one great foot and stepped forward, crushing fifty trees that stood in his path, and then away he went, striding down the mountain, destroying everything that stood in his way, and nearing with every step the Beautiful Valley of Mo.

The King and his people were having a game of ball that day, and the dog was acting as umpire. Suddenly, just as Prince Jollikin had made a home run and everybody was applauding him, a terrible roaring noise sounded in their ears, and they heard a great crashing of trees on the mountain side and saw a monstrous man approaching the Valley.

The people were so frightened they stood perfectly still, being unable to move through surprise and terror; but the dog ran with all his might toward the mountain to see what was the matter. Just as the dog reached the foot of the mountain the Cast-iron Man came tramping along and stepped into the Valley, where he ruined in one instant a large bed of lady-fingers and a whole patch of ripe pumpkin pies. Indeed, the entire Valley would soon have been destroyed had not the Cast-iron Man stubbed his toe against the dog and fallen flat on his face, where he lay roaring and gnashing his teeth, but unable to do any further harm.

Presently the King and his people recovered from their fright and gathered around their prostrate foe, marveling at his great size and strength.

"Had you not tripped him up," said the King to the dog, "this giant would certainly have destroyed my kingdom. Who do you suppose was so wicked as to send this monster to crush us?"

"It must have been King Scowleyow," declared the dog, "for no one else would care to harm you, and the giant came from the direction of the wicked King's country."

"Yes," replied the monarch, thoughtfully, "it must indeed have been Scowleyow; and it was a very unkind act, for we never harmed him in any way. But what shall we do with this great man? If he is left here he will scare all the children with his roarings, and none of the ladies will care to walk near this end of the Valley. He is so heavy that not all of us together could lift him, and even if we succeeded we have no place to put him where he would be out of the way."

This was indeed true; so all the people sat down in a circle around the Cast-iron Man and thought upon the matter intently for the space of an hour.

Then the monarch asked, solemnly, as became the importance of the occasion:

"Has any one thought of a way to get rid of him?"

The people shook their heads gravely and thought deeply for another hour. At the end of that time the dog suddenly laughed, and called out in a voice so loud that it startled them:

"I have thought of a way!"

"Good!" exclaimed the King. "Let us hear your plan."

"You see," explained the dog, "the Cast-iron Man is now lying on his face. If we could only roll him over on to his back, and then raise him to his feet again, he would be turned around, and would march straight back to where he came from, and do us no further harm."

"That is a capital idea," replied the King. "But how can we roll him over, or make him stand up?"

That puzzled them all for a while, but by and by Prince Thinkabit, who was a very clever young man, announced his readiness to undertake the job.

"First, bring me a feather," commanded the Prince.

The royal chamberlain hunted around and soon found for him a long, fluffy feather. Taking this in his hand the Prince approached the Cast-iron Man and tickled him under the left arm with the end of the feather.

"Ouch!" said the Cast-iron Man, giving a jump and rolling completely over, so that he lay on his back.

"Hurrah!" cried the people, clapping their hands with joy at this successful stratagem; "the Prince is a very wise Prince, indeed!"

Prince Thinkabit took off his hat and bowed politely to them in return for the compliment. Then he said:

"Bring me a pin."

So Nuphsed brought him a pin with a very sharp point, and the Prince took it and walked up to the Cast-iron Man, and gave him a sharp prod in the back with the point of the pin.

"Ouch!" again yelled the Cast-iron Man, giving at the same time such a great jump that he leaped square on his feet. But now, to their joy, they saw he was facing the mountains instead of the Valley.

As soon as the Cast-iron Man stood up the machinery began to work again, and he marched with great steps up the mountain side and over into the kingdom of the wicked Scowleyow, where he crushed the King and all his people, and laid waste the land wherever he went.

And that was their punishment for being envious of the good people of Mo.

As to the fate of the Cast-iron Man, he was wound up so tightly that he kept walking straight on until he reached the sea, where he stepped into the water, went down to the bottom, and stuck fast in the mud.

And I have no doubt he is there to this day.



The Seventh Surprise

Timtom And The Princess Pattycake


Now of all the monarch's daughters the most beautiful by far was the Princess Pattycake. The deep blue of her eyes made even the sky envious, and the moss roses blushed when they saw the delicate bloom on her cheeks. The long strands of her silken hair were brighter than sunbeams, while her ears were like two tiny pink shells from the seashore. Indeed, there was nothing in all the Valley so dainty and pretty as Princess Pattycake, and many young men would have loved her had they dared. But, alas! the Princess had a most terrible temper, and never was pleased with anything; so the young men, and even the old ones, were afraid to come near her.

She scolded from morning till night; she stamped her pretty foot with rage when any one spoke to her; and if ever her brothers tried to reason with her she boxed their ears so soundly that they were glad to let her alone. Even the good Queen could not love Pattycake as she did her other children, and the King often sighed when he thought of the ugly disposition of his beautiful daughter. Of course no one cared very much for her society, and she sat in her room all day long, refusing to join the others in their sports and games, and becoming more moody and bad-tempered the older she grew.

One day a young man came to the court to bring pickled peaches to his Majesty, the King. The youth's name was Timtom, and he lived so far away and came so seldom to court that never before had he seen the Princess Pattycake.

When he looked into her sweet, blue eyes he loved her at once for her beauty, and being both brave and bold he went directly to the King and asked for Pattycake's hand in marriage.

His Majesty was naturally surprised at so strange a request; so he said to the young man:

"What does the Princess say? Does she love you?"

"I do not know," replied Timtom, "for I have never spoken with her."

"Well," said the King, much amazed at the ignorance and temerity of the youth, "go and speak to my daughter about the matter, and then come and tell me what she replies."

Timtom went at once to the room where Princess Pattycake was moodily sitting, and said, boldly:

"I should like to marry you."

"What!" screamed the Princess, in a great rage; "marry me! Go away this instant, you impudent boy, or I shall throw my shoe at your head!"

Timtom was both surprised and shocked at this outburst, but he realized that the Princess had a remarkably bad temper. Still he was not moved from his purpose, for she was so pretty he decided not to abandon the attempt to win her.

"Do not be angry, for I love you," he pleaded, looking bravely into Pattycake's blue eyes.

"Love me?" echoed the surprised Princess; "that is not possible! Every one else hates me."

"They do not hate you," ventured Timtom; "it is your temper they hate."

"But my temper and I are one," answered the Princess, harshly, as she stamped her foot.

"Surely that is not so," returned the young man, "for certainly I love you, while your temper I do not like a bit. Don't you think you could love me?"

"Perhaps I might, if you could cure my bad temper; but my temper will not allow me to love any one. In fact, I believe that unless you go away at once I shall be obliged to box your ears!"

There seemed to be no help for her, so Timtom left the room sadly, and going to the King, told him what she had said.

"Then that is the end of the matter," declared the King, "for no one can cure Pattycake of her bad temper."

"I am resolved to try, nevertheless," replied Timtom, "and, if I succeed, you must give me the Princess in marriage."

"I will, and my blessing into the bargain," answered the King, heartily.

Then Timtom left the court, and went back to his father's house, where he thought on the problem for a week and a day. At the end of that time he was no nearer solving it than he was before; but his mother, who had noticed that her boy was in trouble, now came to him to ask the cause of his sad looks. Timtom told her all about the Princess Pattycake, and of his love for her, and the evil temper that would not be cured.

His mother gave him her sympathy, and after some thought, said to him: "You must go to the sorceress Maetta and ask her assistance. She is a good lady, and a friend to all the King's family. I am quite sure she will aid you, if only you can find your way to the castle in which she lives."

"Where is this castle?" asked Timtom, brightening up.

"Away to the south, in the midst of a thick wood," answered his mother.

"Then," said he, sturdily, "if this castle exists, I will surely find it, for to win Pattycake is my only hope of happiness."

The next day he set out on his journey, filled with the hope of finding Maetta's castle and securing her assistance.

Before he had gone very far a snow-storm began to rage. Now, the snow-storms in Mo are different from ours, for the snow is popcorn, and on this day it fell so thick and fast that poor Timtom had much difficulty in wading through it. He was obliged to stop frequently to rest, and ate a great deal of the popcorn that cumbered his path, for it was nicely buttered and salted.

Finally, to his joy, it stopped snowing, and then he was able to walk along easily until he came to the River of Needles.

When he looked on this river he was nearly discouraged, and could not think of a way to get across; for instead of water the river flowed a perfect stream of sharp, glittering needles.

Sitting down on the bank, he was wondering what he should do when to his astonishment a small but sharp and disagreeable voice said to him:

"Where are you going, stranger?"

Timtom looked down between his feet and saw a black spider, which sat on a blade of grass and watched him curiously.

"I am on my way to visit the sorceress Maetta," replied Timtom; "But I can not get across the River of Needles."

"They are very sharp, and would make a thousand holes through you in an instant," remarked the spider, thoughtfully. "But perhaps I can help you. If you are willing to grant me a favor in return, I will gladly build a bridge, so you may cross the river in safety."

"What is the favor?" he asked.

"I have lost an eye, and you must ask the sorceress to give me a new one, for I can see but half as well as I could before."

"I will gladly do this for you," said Timtom.

"Very well; then I will build you a bridge," promised the spider; "but if you have not the eye with you when you return I shall destroy the bridge, and you will never be able to get home again."

The young man agreed to this, for he was anxious to proceed. So the spider threw a web across the river, and then another, and another, until it had made a bridge of spider-web strong enough for Timtom to cross over.

It bent and swayed when his weight was on the slender bridge, but it did not break, and after he was safe across he thanked the spider and renewed his promise to bring back the eye. Then he hurried away on his journey, for he had lost much time at the river.

But, to his dismay, the young man shortly came to a deep gulf, that barred his way as completely as had the River of Needles. He peered down into it and saw it had no bottom, but opened away off at the other side of the world. Here was an obstacle which might well dishearten the boldest traveler, and Timtom was so grieved that he sat down on the brink and wept tears of disappointment.

"What is troubling you?" asked a soft voice in his ear.

Turning his head the youth saw a beautiful white bird sitting beside him.

"I wish to visit the castle of the sorceress Maetta on very important business," he replied, "but I can not get over the gulf."

"I could carry you over with ease," said the bird, "and shall gladly do so if, in return, you promise to grant me one favor."

"What is the favor?" inquired Timtom.

"I have forgotten my song, through having a sore throat for a long time," replied the bird. "So, try as I may, I can not sing a single note. If you will agree to bring me a new song from the sorceress I will take you over the gulf, and bring you back when you return. But unless you bring the song I shall not carry you over again."

Timtom joyfully agreed to this bargain, and then, sitting on the bird's neck, he was borne safely across the deep gulf.

After continuing his journey for an hour without further interruption he saw before him the edge of a great wood, and knew that in the midst of this forest of trees was the castle of Maetta.

He thought then that his difficulties were all over, and tramped bravely on until he reached the wood. What, now, was the youth's horror on discovering on one side of his path a great lion, crouched ready to spring on any one who ventured to enter the wood, while on the other side was a monstrous tiger, likewise prepared to attack any intruder. The fierce beasts were growling terribly, and their eyes glowed like balls of fire.

Timtom gladly would have turned back had such a thing been possible, for his heart was full of fear. But he remembered that without the bird's song and the spider's eye he could never reach home again. He also thought of the pretty face of Princess Pattycake, and this gave him courage. Resolving to perish, if need be, rather than fail in his adventure, the youth stepped boldly forward, and when he approached the snarling guardians of the forest he gave one bound and dashed into the wood.

At the same moment the lion leaped at him from one side and the tiger from the other, and no doubt they would have devoured him had not Timtom's foot slipped just then and thrown him flat on the ground. The lion and the tiger therefore met in mid air, and each one thinking it had hold of Timtom, tried to tear him to pieces, with the result that in a few moments they had devoured each other instead of him.

The youth now strode rapidly through the wood, and was getting along famously when he came to a high wall of jasper that completely blocked his way. It was smooth as glass, and Timtom saw no way of climbing over it.

While he stood wondering how he might overcome this new obstacle a gray rabbit hopped out from the bushes and asked:

"Where do you wish to go, stranger?"

"To the castle of the sorceress Maetta," answered Timtom.

"Well, perhaps I can assist you," said the rabbit. "I need a new tail badly, for my old one is merely a stump, and no use at all in fly-time. If you will be kind enough to get me a new tail from the sorceress Maetta -- a long, nice, bushy tail -- I will dig under the wall, and so make a passage for you to the other side."

"I shall be pleased to return the favor by bringing you the tail," declared Timtom, eagerly.

"Very well; then you shall see how fast I can work," returned the rabbit. Immediately it began digging away with its little paws, and in a very short time had made a hole large enough for Timtom to crawl under the wall.

"If you do not bring the tail," said the rabbit, in a warning voice, "I shall fill up the hole again, so that you will be unable to get back."

"Oh, I shall bring the tail, never fear," answered the youth, and hurried away toward the castle of Maetta, which was now visible through the trees.

The castle was built of pure, white marble, and was very big and beautiful. It stood in a lovely garden filled with blue roses and pink buttercups, where fountains of gold spouted showers of diamonds, and rubies, and emeralds, and amethysts, all of which sparkled in the sun so gorgeously that it made Timtom's eyes ache just to look at them.

However, he had not come to admire these things, gorgeous and beautiful though they were, but to win the Princess Pattycake; so he walked to the entrance of the castle, and seeing no one about, entered the great door-way and passed through.

He found himself in a passage-way covered with mother-of-pearl, where many electric lights were hidden in shells of most exquisite tintings. At the other end of the passage was a door studded with costly gems.

Timtom walked up to this door and knocked on it. Immediately it swung open, and the youth found himself in a chamber entirely covered with diamonds. In the center was a large diamond throne, and on this sat Maetta, clothed in a pure white gown, with a crown of diamonds on her brow and in her hand a golden scepter tipped with one enormous diamond that glowed like a ball of fire. Above the throne was a diamond-covered chandelier, with hundreds of electric lights, and these made the Grand Chamber of Diamonds glitter so brightly that Timtom was nearly blinded, and had to shade his eyes with his hand.

But after a few moments he grew accustomed to the brightness and advancing to the throne fell on his knees before the sorceress and begged her earnestly to grant him her assistance.

Maetta was the most beautiful woman in all the world, but she was likewise gracious and kind. So she smiled sweetly on the youth, bidding him, in a voice like a silver bell, to arise from his knees and sit before her. Timtom obeyed and looked around for a chair, but could see none in the room. The lady made a motion with her scepter and instantly at his side appeared a splendid diamond chair, in which the young man seated himself, finding it remarkably comfortable.

"Tell me what you desire," said the sorceress, in her sweet voice.

"I love the Princess Pattycake," replied Timtom, without hesitation. "But she has so evil a disposition that she has refused to marry me unless I am able to cure her of her bad temper, which not only makes her miserable but ruins the pleasure of every one about her. So, knowing your power and the kindness of your heart, I have been bold enough to seek your castle, that I might crave your assistance, without which I can not hope to accomplish my purpose."

Maetta waved her scepter thrice above her head, and a golden pill dropped at Timtom's feet.

"Your request is granted," she said. "If you can induce the Princess to swallow this pill her evil temper will disappear, and I know she will love you dearly for having cured her. Take great care of it, for if it should be lost I can not give you another. Do you wish me to grant any other request before you return to the court?"

Then Timtom remembered the rabbit, and the bird, and the spider, and told Maetta how he had promised to bring back a gift for each of them.

So the kind sorceress gave him a nice, bushy tail for the rabbit, and a very pretty song for the bird, and a new, bright eye for the spider. These Timtom put in a little red box and placed the box carefully in his pocket. But the golden pill he tied into the corner of his handkerchief, for that was more precious than the rest.

Having thanked the generous lady for her kindness and respectfully kissed the white hand she held out to him, Timtom left the Chamber of Diamonds and was soon proceeding joyfully on his homeward way.

In a short time he reached the wall of jasper, but the rabbit was not to be seen. So, while he awaited its coming, he lay down to rest, and being tired by the long journey was soon fast asleep. And while he slept a Sly Fox stole out from the wood and discovered Timtom lying on the ground.

"Oh, ho!" said the Sly Fox to himself, "this young man has been to visit the sorceress, and I'll warrant he has some fine gift from her in that little red box I see sticking out from his pocket. I must try to steal that box and see what is in it!"

Then, while the youth slumbered, unconscious of danger, the Sly Fox carefully drew the little red box from his pocket, and, taking it in his mouth, ran off into the woods with it.

Soon after this the rabbit came back, and when it saw Timtom lying asleep it awakened him and asked:

"Where is my new tail?"

"Oh, I have brought you a fine one," replied Timtom, with a smile. "It is in this little red box." But when he searched for the box he discovered it had been stolen.

So great was his distress at the loss that the gray rabbit was sorry for him.

"I shall never be able to get home again," he moaned, weeping tears of despair, "for all the gifts Maetta gave me are now lost forever!"

"Never mind," said the rabbit, "I shall allow you to go under the wall without giving me the tail, for I know you tried to keep your promise. I suppose I can make this stubby tail do a while longer, since it is the only one I ever possessed. But beware when you come to the bird and the spider, for they will not be so kind to you as I am. The bird has no heart at all, and the spider's heart is hard as a stone. Still I advise you to keep up your courage, for if you are brave and fearless you may succeed in getting home, after all. If you can not cross the gulf and the River of Needles, you are welcome to come back and live with me."

Hearing this, Timtom dried his eyes and thanked the kind rabbit, after which he crawled under the wall and resumed his journey. He became more cheerful as he trudged along, for the golden pill was still safe in the corner of his handkerchief.

When he came to the white bird and began to explain how it was he had lost the song and could not keep his promise, the bird became very angry and refused to listen to his excuses. Nor could he induce it to carry him again across the gulf.

"I shall keep my word," declared the bird, stiffly; "for I warned you that if you returned without the song I should refuse to assist you further."

Poor Timtom was at his wits' end to know what to do; so he sat down near the brink of the gulf and twirled his thumbs and tried to keep up his courage and think of some plan, while the white bird strutted around in a cold and stately manner.

Now it seems that just about this time the Sly Fox reached his den and opened the little red box to see what was in it. The spider's eye, being small, rolled out into the moss and was lost. The fox thought he would put the bushy tail on himself and see if it would not add to his beauty, and while he did this the song escaped from the box and was blown by the wind directly to the spot where Timtom was sitting beside the gulf.

He happened to hear the song coming, so he took off his hat and caught it, after which he called to the bird that he had found the song again.

"Then I shall keep my promise," said the bird. "First, however, let me try the song and see if it is suited to my voice."

So he tried the song and liked it fairly well.

"It sounds something like a comic opera," said the bird, "but, after all, it will serve my purpose very nicely."

A minute later Timtom rejoiced to find himself on the other side of the gulf, and so much nearer home. But when he came to the River of Needles there was more trouble in store for him, for the spider became so angry at the loss of its eye that it tore down the spider-web bridge, and refused to build another.

This was indeed discouraging to the traveler, and he sat down beside the river and looked longingly at the farther shore. The spider paid no attention to him, but curled up and went to sleep, and the needles looked at him curiously out of their small eyes as they flowed by in an endless stream.

After a time a wren came flying along, and when it noticed the look of despair on Timtom's face the little creature perched on his shoulder and asked:

"What is your trouble, young man?"

Timtom related his adventures to the sympathetic wren, and when he came to the loss of the spider's eye and the refusal of the spiteful creature to allow him to cross the bridge, the wren exclaimed, with every appearance of surprise:

"A spider's eye, did you say? Why, I believe that is what I have here in my claw!"

"Where?" cried Timtom, eagerly.

The wren hopped into his lap, and carefully opening one of its tiny claws disclosed the identical spider's eye which Maetta had given him.

"That is wonderful!" exclaimed Timtom, in amazement. "But where did you get it?"

"I found it in the wood, hidden in the moss near the den of the Sly Fox. It is so bright and sparkling I thought I would take it home for my children to play with. But now, as you seem to want it so badly, I shall have much pleasure in restoring it to you."

Timtom thanked the little wren most gratefully, and called to the spider to come and get its eye. When the spider tried the eye, and found that it fitted perfectly and was even brighter than the old one, it became very polite to the young man, and soon built the bridge again.

Having passed over the glittering needles in safety Timtom pushed forward on his way, being urged to haste by the delays he had suffered. When he reached the place where he had encountered the snow-storm, he found the birds had eaten all the pop-corn, so he was able to proceed without interruption.

At last he reached the Monarch of Mo's palace and demanded an audience with the Princess Pattycake. But the young lady, being in an especially bad temper that day, positively refused to see him.

Having overcome so many obstacles, Timtom did not intend to be thwarted by a sulky girl, so he walked boldly to the room where the Princess sat alone, every one being afraid to go near her.

"Good day, my dear Pattycake," he said pleasantly; "I have come to cure your bad temper."

"I do not want to be cured!" cried the Princess, angrily. "Go away at once, or I shall hurt you!"

"I shall not go away until you have promised to marry me," replied Timtom, firmly.

At this Pattycake began to scream with rage, and threw her shoe straight at his head. Timtom dodged the shoe and paid no attention to the naughty action, but continued to look at the pretty Princess smilingly. Seeing this, Pattycake rushed forward and seizing him by his hair began to pull with all her strength. At the same time she opened her mouth to scream, and while it was open Timtom threw the golden pill down her throat.

Immediately the Princess released his hair and sank at his feet sobbing and trembling, while she covered her pretty face with her hands to hide her blushes and shame.

Timtom tenderly patted her bowed head, and tried to comfort her, saying:

"Do not weep, sweetheart; for the bad temper has left you at last, and now every one will love you dearly."

"Can you forgive me for having been so naughty?" asked Pattycake, looking up at him pleadingly from her sweet blue eyes.

"I have forgiven you already," answered Timtom, promptly; "for it was not you, but the temper, that made you so naughty."

The Princess Pattycake dried her tears and kissed Timtom, promising to marry him; and together they went to seek the King and Queen. Those good people were greatly delighted at the change in their daughter, and consented at once to the betrothal.

A week later there was a great feast in the Valley of Mo, and much rejoicing among the people, for it was the wedding-day of Timtom and the Princess Pattycake.



The Eighth Surprise

The Bravery Of Prince Jollikin


There is no country so delightful but that it suffers some disadvantages, and so it was with the Valley of Mo. At times the good people were obliged to leave their games and sports to defend themselves against a foe or some threatened disaster. But there was one danger they never suspected, which at last came upon them very suddenly.

Away at the eastern end of the Valley was a rough plain, composed entirely of loaf sugar covered with boulders of rock candy which were piled up in great masses reaching nearly to the foot of the mountains, containing many caves and recesses.

The people seldom came here, as there was nothing to tempt them, the rock candy being very hard and difficult to walk on.

In one of the great hollows formed by the rock candy lived a monstrous Gigaboo, completely shut in by the walls of its cavern. It had been growing and growing for so many years that it had attained an enormous size.

For fear you may not know what a Gigaboo is I shall describe this one. Its body was round, like that of a turtle, and on its back was a thick shell. From the center of the body rose a long neck, much like that of a goose, with a most horrible looking head perched on the top of it. This head was round as a ball, and had four mouths on the sides of it and seven eyes set in a circle and projecting several inches from the head. The Gigaboo walked on ten short but thick legs, and in front of its body were two long arms, tipped with claws like those of a lobster. So sharp and strong were these claws that the creature could pinch a tree in two easily. Its eyes were remarkably bright and glittering, one being red in color, another green, and the others yellow, blue, black, purple and crimson.

It was a dreadful monster to see -- only no one had yet seen it, for it had grown up in the confinement of its cave.

But one day the Gigaboo became so big and strong that in turning around it broke down the walls of the cavern, and finding itself at liberty, the monster walked out into the lovely Valley of Mo to see how much evil it could do.

The first thing the Gigaboo came to was a large orchard of preserved apricots, and after eating a great quantity of the preserves it wilfully cut off the trees with its sharp claws and utterly ruined them. Why the Gigaboo should have done this I can not tell; but scientists say these creatures are by nature destructive, and love to ruin everything they come across.

One of the people, being in the neighborhood, came on the monster and witnessed its terrible deeds; whereupon he ran in great terror to tell the King that the Gigaboo was on them and ready to destroy the entire valley. Although no one had ever before seen a Gigaboo, or even heard of one, the news was so serious that in a short time the King and many of his people came to the place where the monster was, all having hastily armed themselves with swords and spears.

But when they saw the Gigaboo they were afraid, and stood gazing at it in alarm, without knowing what to do or how to attack it.

"Who among us can hope to conquer this great beast?" asked the King, in dismay. "Yet something must be done, or soon we shall not have a tree left standing in all the Valley of Mo." The people looked at one another in a frightened way, but no one volunteered his services or offered to advise the monarch what to do.

At length Prince Jollikin, who had been watching the monster earnestly, stepped forward and offered to fight the Gigaboo alone.

"In a matter of this kind," said he, "one man is as good as a dozen. So you will all stand back while I see where the beast can best be attacked."

"Is your sword sharp?" asked his father, the King, anxiously.

"It was the sharpest on the tree," replied the Prince. "If I fail to kill the monster, at least it can not kill me, although it may cause me some annoyance. At any rate, our trees must be saved, so I will do the best I can."

With this manly speech he walked straight toward the Gigaboo, which, when it saw him approaching, raised and lowered its long neck and twirled its head around, so that all the seven eyes might get a glimpse of its enemy.

Now you must remember, when you read what follows, that no inhabitant of the Valley of Mo can ever be killed by anything. If one is cut to pieces, the pieces still live; and, although this seems strange, you will find, if you ever go to this queer Valley, that it is true. Perhaps it was the knowledge of this fact that made Prince Jollikin so courageous.

"If I can but manage to cut off that horrible head with my sword," thought he, "the beast will surely die."

So the Prince rushed forward and made a powerful stroke at its neck; but the blow fell short, and cut off, instead, one of the Gigaboo's ten legs. Quick as lightning the monster put out a claw and nipped the Prince's arm which held the sword, cutting it from its body. As the sword fell the Prince caught it in his other hand and struck again; but the blow fell on the beast's shell, and did no harm.

The Gigaboo, now very angry, at once nipped off the Prince's left arm with one of its claws, and his head with the other. The arm fell on the ground and the head rolled down a little hill behind some bonbon bushes. The Prince, having lost both arms, and his head as well, now abandoned the fight and turned to run, knowing it would be folly to resist the monster further. But the Gigaboo gave chase, and so swiftly did its nine legs carry it that soon it overtook the Prince and nipped off both his legs.

Then, its seven eyes flashing with anger, the Gigaboo turned toward the rest of the people, as if seeking a new enemy; but the brave Men of Mo, seeing the sad plight of their Prince and being afraid of the awful nippers on the beast's claws, decided to run away; which they did, uttering as they went loud cries of terror.

But had they looked back they might not have gone so fast nor so far; for when the Gigaboo heard their cries it, in turn, became frightened, having been accustomed all its life to silence; so that it rushed back to its cavern of rock candy and hid itself among the boulders.

When Prince Jollikin's head stopped rolling, he opened his eyes and looked about him, but could see no one; for the people and the Gigaboo had now gone. So, being unable to move, he decided to lie quiet for a time, and this was not a pleasant thing for an active young man like the Prince to do. To be sure, he could wiggle his ears a bit, and wink his eyes; but that was the extent of his powers. After a few minutes, because he had a cheerful disposition and wished to keep himself amused, he began to whistle a popular song; and then, becoming interested in the tune, he whistled it over again with variations.

The Prince's left leg, lying a short distance away, heard his whistle, and, recognizing the variations, at once ran up to the head.

"Well," said the Prince, "here is a part of me, at any rate. I wonder where the rest of me can be."

Just then, hearing the sound of his voice, the right leg ran up to the head. "Where is my body?" asked the Prince. But the legs did not know.

"Pick up my head and place it on top of my legs," continued the Prince; "then, with my eyes and your feet, we can hunt around until we find the rest of me."

Obeying this command, the legs took the head and started off; and perhaps you can imagine how funny the Prince's head looked perched on his legs, with neither body nor arms.

After a careful search they found the body lying upon the ground at the foot of a shrimp-salad tree. But nothing more could be done without the arms; so they next searched for those, and, having discovered them, the legs kicked them to where the body lay.

The arms now took the head from the legs and put the legs on the body where they belonged. Then the right arm stuck the left arm in its place, after which the left arm picked up the right arm and placed it also where it belonged. Then all that remained was for the Prince to place his head on his shoulders, and there he was -- as good as new!

He picked up his sword, and was feeling himself all over to see if he was put together right, when he chanced to look up and saw the Gigaboo again coming toward him. The beast had recovered from its fright, and, tempted by its former success, again ventured forth.

But Prince Jollikin did not intend to be cut to pieces a second time. He quickly climbed a tree and hid himself among the branches.

Presently the Gigaboo came to the tree and reached its head up to eat a cranberry tart. Quick as a flash the Prince swung his sword downward, and so true was his stroke that he cut off the monster's head with ease.

Then the Gigaboo rolled over on its back and died, for wild and ferocious beasts may be killed in Mo as well as in other parts of the world. Having vanquished his enemy, Prince Jollikin climbed down from the tree and went to tell the people that the Gigaboo was dead.

When they heard this joyful news they gave their Prince three cheers, and loved him better than ever for his bravery. The King was so pleased that he presented his son with a tin badge, set with diamonds, on the back of which was engraved the picture of a Gigaboo.

Although Prince Jollikin was glad to be the hero of his nation, and enjoyed the triumph of having been able to conquer his ferocious enemy, he did not escape some inconvenience. For, as the result of his adventure, he found himself very stiff in the joints for several days after his fight with the Gigaboo.



The Ninth Surprise

The Wizard And The Princess


Within the depths of the mountains which bordered the Valley of Mo to the east lived a Wicked Wizard in a cavern of rubies. It was many, many feet below the surface of the earth and cut off entirely from the rest of the world, save for one passage which led through dangerous caves and tunnels to the top of the highest mountain. So that, in order to get out of his cavern, the Wizard was obliged to come to this mountain top, and from there descend to the outside world.

The Wizard lived all alone; but he did not mind that, for his thoughts were always on his books and studies, and he seldom showed himself on the surface of the earth. But when he did go out every one laughed at him; for this powerful magician was no taller than my knee, and was very old and wrinkled, so that he looked comical indeed beside an ordinary man.

The Wizard was nearly as sensitive as he was wicked, and was sorry he had not grown as big as other people; so the laughter that always greeted him made him angry.

At last he determined to find some magical compound that would make him grow bigger. He shut himself up in his cave and searched diligently amongst his books until, finally, he found a formula recommended by some dead and gone magician as sure to make any one grow a foot each day so long as the dose was taken. Most of the ingredients were quite easy to procure, being such as spiders' livers, kerosene oil and the teeth of canary birds, mixed together in a boiling caldron. But the last item of the recipe was so unusual that it made the Wizard scratch his head in perplexity.

It was the big toe of a young and beautiful princess.

The Wizard thought on the matter for three days, but nowhere could he think of a young and beautiful princess who would willingly part with her big toe -- even that he might grow to be as big as he wished.

Then, as such a thing was not to be come by honestly, the Wicked Wizard resolved to steal it. So he went through all the caves and passages until he came to the mountain-top. Standing on the point of a rock he placed one hand on his chin and the other on the back of his neck, and then recited the following magical incantation:

"I wish to go To steal the big toe Of a princess I know, In order to grow Quite big. And so I'll change, to a crow!"

No sooner had he spoken the words than he changed into a Black Crow, and flew away into the Valley of Mo, where he hid himself in a tall tree that grew near the King's palace.

That morning, as the Princess Truella was lying late in bed, with one of her dainty pink feet sticking out from under the covers, in through the window fluttered a Black Crow, which picked off her big toe and immediately flew away with it.

The Princess awoke with a scream and was horrified to find her beautiful foot ruined by the loss of her biggest toe. When the King and Queen and the Princes and Princesses, having heard her outcry, came running in to see what was the matter, they were each and all very indignant at the theft.

But, search as they might, nowhere could they find the audacious Black Crow, nor the Princess' big toe, and the whole court was in despair.

Finally Timtom, who was now a Prince, suggested that Truella seek assistance from the kind sorceress Maetta, who had helped him out of his own difficulties. The Princess thought well of this idea, and determined to undertake a journey to the castle.

She whistled for her favorite Stork, and soon the great bird came to her side. It was pure white, and of an extraordinary size. When the Stork had been saddled the Princess kissed her father and mother good by and seated herself on the bird's back, when it instantly rose into the air and flew away toward the castle of Maetta.

Traveling in this pleasant way, high in the air, the Princess crossed the River of Needles and the deep gulf and the dangerous wood, and at last was set down safe at the castle gates.

Maetta welcomed the pretty Princess very cordially and, on being told of her misfortune, at once agreed to assist her. So the sorceress consulted her Oracle, which told her truly anything she wanted to know, and then said to the Princess:

"Your toe is in the possession of the Wicked Wizard who lives in the ruby cave under the mountains. In order to recover it you must go yourself to seek it; but I warn you that the Wizard will put every obstacle in your path to prevent your finding the toe and taking it from him."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Truella, "I am afraid I shall never be able to get my toe from such a horrid man."

"Have courage, and trust in me," returned Maetta, "for I believe my powers are stronger than his. I shall now furnish you the weapons you must use to overcome him. Here is a magic umbrella, and in this basket which you must carry on your arm, you will find a lump of putty, an iron ball, a mirror, a package of chewing-gum and a magic veil, all of which will be very useful. Here, also, is a winged dagger, with which you must protect yourself if the Wizard attempts to harm you. With these enchanted weapons and a brave heart I believe you will succeed. So kiss me, my child, and start on your journey."

Truella thanked the kind sorceress, and mounting the saddle of her Stork flew away toward the high mountain in which dwelt the Wicked Wizard.

But the naughty man, by means of his black magic, saw her coming, and sent such a fierce wind to blow against her that it prevented the Stork from making any headway through the air. Therefore, in spite of his huge wings and remarkable strength, the brave bird was unable to get an inch nearer the mountain.

When Truella saw this she put up the umbrella and held it in front of the Stork; whereupon, being shielded from the wind, he flew easily to the mountain.

The Princess now dismounted and, looking into the hole at the top of the mountain, discovered a flight of stairs leading downward.

Taking her basket on her arm, as she had been directed, Truella walked boldly down the steps until she came to a door. But then she shrank back in affright, for before the door was coiled a great serpent, not quite a mile long and fully as large around as a stick of wood. The girl knew she must manage in some way to overcome this terrible creature, so when the serpent opened its mouth and raised its head to bite her, she reached within the basket, and finding the lump of putty, threw it quickly into the serpent's mouth. The creature snapped its jaws together so suddenly that its teeth stuck fast in the putty, and this made it so furious that it wriggled around until it had tied itself into a hard knot, and could wriggle no longer.

Seeing there was no further danger, the Princess passed the door and entered a large cave, which was but dimly lighted. While she paused to allow her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, so she might see her way, a faint rustling sound reached her ears, and a moment later there came toward her a hideous old woman, lean and bent, with wrinkled face and piercing black eyes. She had only one tooth, but that was of enormous size, being nearly as large as the tusk of an elephant; and it curved out of her mouth and down under her chin, where it ended in a very sharp point. Her finger-nails were a foot long, and they, also, were very sharp and strong.

"What are you doing here?" asked the old woman, in a harsh voice, while she moved her horrible fingers, as if about to scratch out Truella's eyes.

"I came to see the Wizard," said the Princess, calmly, "and if you will allow me to pass I shall give you, in return for the favor, some delicious chewing-gum."

"Chewing-gum!" croaked the old woman, "what is that?"

"It is a dainty of which all ladies are very fond," replied Truella, taking the packet from her basket. "This is it."

The old woman hesitated a moment, and then said:

"Well, I'll try the chewing-gum and see what it is like; there will be plenty of time to scratch out your eyes afterwards."

She placed the gum in her mouth and tried to chew it, but when she shut her jaws together the great tusk went straight through her neck and came out at the back. The old hag gave a scream and put up her hands to pull out the tusk again, but so great was her excitement that in her haste she scratched out both her own eyes, and could no longer see where the Princess was standing.

So Truella ran through the cave and came to, a door, on which she knocked. Instantly it flew open, and before her she saw another cave, this time brightly lighted, but filled with knives and daggers, which were flying about in every direction. To enter this cave was impossible, for the Princess saw she would immediately be pierced by dozens of the sharp daggers. So she hesitated for a time, not knowing how to proceed; but, chancing to remember her basket, she took from it the iron ball, which she tossed into the center of the Cave of Daggers. At once the dangerous weapons began to strike against the ball, and as soon as they touched it they were broken and fell to the floor. In a short time every one of the knives and daggers had been spoiled by contact with the iron ball, and Truella passed safely through the cave and came to another long stairway leading downward. At the bottom of this she reached the third cave, and came upon a horrible monster.

It had the body of a zebra, the legs of a rhinoceros, the neck of a giraffe, the head of a bull dog, and three corrugated tails. This monster at once began to growl and run toward her, showing its terrible teeth and lashing its three tails. The Princess snatched the mirror from her basket and, as the creature came near her, she held the glittering surface before its eyes. It gave one look into the mirror and fell lifeless at her feet, being frightened to death by its own reflection in the mirror.

Truella now walked through several more caves and descended a long flight of stairs, which brought her to another door, on which was a sign that read:

"A. WIZARD, Esq., Office hours: From 10:45 until a quarter to 11."

The Princess, knowing that she had now reached the den of the Wizard who had stolen her big toe, knocked boldly on the door.

"Come in!" called a voice.

Truella obeyed, and found herself in a large cave, the walls of which were lined with rubies. In each of the four corners were big electric lights, and these, shining upon the rubies, filled the cave with a deep red glow. The Wizard himself sat at his desk in one of the corners, and when the Princess entered he looked up and exclaimed:

"What! Is it you? Really, I did not expect to see you. How did you manage to pass the guards I placed within the caves and passageways to prevent your coming here?"

"Oh, that was not difficult," answered Truella, "for you must know I am protected by a power stronger than your own."

The Wizard was much annoyed at this reply, for he knew it was true, and that only by cunning could he hope to oppose the pretty Princess. Still, he was resolved not to give up the big toe unless obliged to, for it was necessary to complete the magic compound.

"What do you want?" he asked, after a moment's thought.

"I want the toe you stole from me while I was asleep."

The Wizard knew it was useless to deny the theft, so he replied:

"Very well; take a chair, and I will see if I can find it."

But Truella feared the little man was deceiving her; so when he turned his back she took the magic veil from her basket and threw it over her head. Immediately it began unfolding until it covered her completely, from head to foot.

The Wizard walked over to a cupboard, which he opened; and, while pretending to search for the toe, he suddenly turned on a big faucet that was concealed under a shelf. At once the thunder rolled, the lightning flashed, and from the arched ceiling of the cavern drops of fire began to fall, coming thicker and thicker until a perfect shower of burning drops filled the room.

These fell hissing upon Truella's veil, but could not penetrate it, for they all bounded off and were scattered upon the rocky floor, where they soon burned themselves out. Seeing this the Wizard gave a sigh of disappointment and turned off the faucet, when the fire-drops ceased to fall.

"Please excuse this little interruption," he said, as if he had not been the cause of it himself. "I'll find the toe in a few minutes. I must have mislaid it somewhere."

But Truella suspected he was up to more mischief, and was on her guard. She saw him stealthily press a button, and in the same instant a deep gulf opened in the floor of the cave, half way between the Princess and the Wizard.

Truella did not know what this meant, at first, unless it was to prevent her getting across the room to where her toe was; but soon she noticed that the gulf was moving toward her, slowly, but steadily; and, as it extended across the cave from wall to wall, it would in time be sure to reach the spot where she stood, when she would, of course, fall into it.

When she saw her danger the Princess became frightened, and tried to escape through the door by which she had entered; but to her dismay she found it locked. Then she turned to look at the Wizard. The little man had perched himself upon a high stool, and was carelessly swinging his feet and laughing with glee at Truella's awful peril. He thought that at last he had certainly found a way to destroy her. The poor Princess again looked into the gulf, which was gradually getting nearer and nearer; and she shuddered at its vast depths.

A cold wind began to sweep up from the abyss, and she heard mocking laughter and savage growls from below, as if evil spirits were eagerly waiting to seize her.

Just as she was giving way to despair, and the gulf had crept very close to her feet, Truella thought of her winged dagger. She drew it from her bosom and, pointing it toward her enemy, said:

"Save me from the Wizard's art --  Fly until you reach his heart. Foil his power and set me free, This is my command to thee!"

In a flash the dagger flew from her hand and struck the Wizard full on his breast. With a loud cry he fell forward into the gulf, which in the same instant closed up with a crash. Then, when the rocks about her had ceased trembling from the shock, the door swung open, leaving the Princess at liberty to go where she pleased.

She now searched the Wizard's cupboard until she found her toe, which had been safely hidden in a little ivory box. Truella stopped only long enough to put on her toe, and then she ran through the caves and up the stairways until she reached the top of the mountain again.

There she found her Stork patiently awaiting her and, having seated herself on its back, she rode safely and triumphantly back to her father's palace.

The King and Queen were delighted when she recounted to them the success of her adventure, but they shuddered when they learned of the fearful dangers their sweet little daughter had encountered.

"It seems to me," said the good Queen, "that a big toe is scarcely worth all the trouble you have had in recovering it."

"Perhaps not," replied the Princess, thoughtfully; "but a big toe is very handy to have when you wish to dance; and, after all, I succeeded in destroying the Wicked Wizard, which surely repays me for the trials I have been forced to undergo."



The Tenth Surprise

The Duchess Bredenbutta's Visit To Turvyland


The Duchess Bredenbutta was forty-seventh cousin to the Monarch of Mo and great-grandniece to the Queen; so you can readily see she was nearly related to the Princess Pattycake and had blue blood in her veins. She lived in a pretty house on the banks of Rootbeer River, and one of her favorite amusements was to row on the river in her boat, which, although rather small, was light as a cork.

One day, as usual, the Duchess went for a row on the river, expecting to return home in about an hour; but after floating a long distance down the stream she fell asleep in the boat and did not awake until she felt a sudden shock.

Then, sitting up and looking about her, she found, to her alarm, that the boat had drifted to the end of the Land of Mo, and was in the rapids leading to the Great Hole in the ground where the river disappeared from view. Becoming very much frightened, Bredenbutta looked for the oars of her boat, that she might row to the bank; but soon she discovered that the oars had fallen overboard and were lost, leaving her without any means of saving herself.

The poor Duchess now began to cry out; but no one heard her. Gradually the boat came nearer and nearer to the Great Hole, now bumping against the rocks and now spinning around with the current, until at last it paused for an instant on the very brink of the chasm down which the river fell.

The girl seized the sides of the boat in a firm grasp, and the next moment it plunged headlong into the Hole.

After the shock was over Bredenbutta wiped the moisture from her eyes and looked to see where she was, and what had become of her. She found that she had landed in a very remarkable country, and for a time could do nothing but gaze in wonder on the strange sights that met her view.

The trees were all growing on their top branches, with their roots high in the air; and the houses rested on the tops of their chimneys, the smoke going into the ground, and the doorsteps being at the tops of the buildings. A rabbit was flying around in the air, and a flock of skylarks walked on the ground, as if they belonged there.

Bredenbutta rubbed her eyes, for at first the girl thought she must be dreaming; but when she looked again everything was in the same unnatural position.

To add to her amazement she now saw a queer creature coming toward her. She might have taken him for a young man, only ho was just the reverse of any young man Bredenbutta had ever seen. He stood upon his hands, which were clad in boots, and used his feet as we use our hands, seeming to be very handy with his toes. His teeth were in his ears, and he ate with them and heard with his mouth. He also smelled with his eyes and saw out of his nose -- which was all very curious. When he walked he ran, and when he ran he stood still. He spoke when he was silent and remained dumb when he had anything to say. In addition to this, he wept real tears when he was pleased, and laughed merrily whenever anything grieved him.

It was no wonder the Duchess Bredenbutta stared in surprise when such an odd creature came up to her backward and looked at her solemnly from his pug nose.

"Who are you?" asked Bredenbutta, as soon as she could find breath to speak.

The young man kept quiet and answered: "My name is Upsydoun."

"I think you are," laughed Bredenbutta.

"You think I am what?" demanded the young man, the voice coming from his ear.

"Up-side-down," she replied.

At this retort the tears rolled down his cheeks with joy.

"Why, it is you who are up-side-down," he said; "how in the world did you get up here?"

"Down here, you mean," corrected the Duchess, with dignity.

"I mean nothing of the kind," he said, silently, while his nose twinkled with amusement; "this country is up, and not down."

"What country is it?" inquired Bredenbutta, much perplexed by such an absurd statement.

"Why, Turvyland, to be sure," was the answer.

"Oh!" sighed Bredenbutta; but she was no wiser than before.

"Now you are here," said Upsydoun, "you may come home with me and eat some dinner."

"I shall be very glad to," answered the Duchess, who was really hungry. "Where do you live?"

"Over there," replied Upsydoun, pointing to the south; "so stay where you are and follow me." Then he walked away on his hands in exactly the opposite direction from that he had indicated.

Bredenbutta followed him, and shortly after encountered several other people, of just the same queer appearance as her conductor. They looked out of their noses at her in great surprise, and, without speaking, asked Upsydoun who she was.

"The Duchess Bredenbutta," he silently answered, "I found her where the Rootbeer River bubbles up. Isn't she a queer-looking creature?"

"She is, indeed," they all answered, in a still chorus, and then they followed the girl out of curiosity, as boys follow a band or a dancing bear. When they reached the house of Upsydoun more than a hundred inhabitants of Turvyland were at Bredenbutta's heels and Upsydoun's thumbs.

She was welcomed very kindly, however, and the young man's mother kissed the Duchess with her left ear, an act which was considered a special mark of favor in Turvyland,

"Would you like to stand up and rest yourself until dinner-time?" asked the lady when the girl had entered the parlor.

"No, thank you," replied Bredenbutta, who was very tired. Being ignorant of their customs she did not know these people usually stood up when they slept or rested. Her answer seemed to satisfy Upsydoun's mother, who thought when she said "no" she meant "yes."

"You really don't look equal to lying down," she remarked, pleasantly; "so you may stand until I call you to dinner, which will be in a long time." Then she excused herself and walked backward out of the window, which Bredenbutta noticed they all used instead of doors.

"Dear me," said the Duchess, when she was left alone; "I am sure I shall never be able to understand these strange people. But I mean to sit down, anyway, and if it really is a long time before dinner, I shall probably starve in the meantime."

She had not rested more than a few minutes, however, before the lady again put her foot through the window, and waving it invitingly toward her exclaimed: "Go away to dinner."

"Go away!" replied the Duchess in dismay; "where shall I go to?"

"Why, to me, of course," answered Upsydoun's mother, dumbly; but she winked her nose thoughtfully, as if she scarcely knew how to converse with her strange visitor. Surely Bredenbutta ought to know that when they said "go" in Turvyland, they meant "come."

In spite of her uncertainty, she followed her hostess, and when they entered the dining-room the Duchess was shocked to see all the family stand on their heads on the chairs and pick up their knives and forks with their toes. She was more horrified, however, when they began to eat; for, contrary to all custom, these people placed their food in their ears. And they did it so calmly that she did not even remonstrate, remembering it must be their habit to eat in this way.

She, herself, sat down in her chair in a proper manner, and began to eat with the fork in her hand; and when the people of Turvyland saw this, they all shed tears of merriment.

Just then the youngest child of the family began laughing, and the mother rushed to it as fast as her hands could carry her, to see what was the matter. But the child had only put its foot into its pocket and could not get it out again. The mother soon managed to get it free, and then the child stopped laughing and began weeping as happily as any of the others.

Bredenbutta was greatly bewildered at all this, but she ate heartily, nevertheless, and after having begged her in vain to stand on her head, as they did, the family let her alone, being surprised to see how well she could use her hands. After dinner Upsydoun's sister played on the piano with her toes, while the others indulged in a dance, whirling around on their thumbs in a manner truly marvelous, and seeming, by their tears, to enjoy themselves very much.

As the dance ended a kitten came running into the room on its ears and the tip of its tail, and this looked so funny that Bredenbutta began laughing. But seeing she had frightened her kind friends, who wanted to send for a doctor, she refrained from laughing, and asked, gravely, if she could not find a way to return to the Valley of Mo.

"The only possible way of getting down there," replied Upsydoun, "is to jump into the Rootbeer River; but that would be dangerous, and none of our people have ever tried it"

"Any danger," said the Duchess, "I will gladly brave; for otherwise I shall be obliged to spend my entire life down here, among people whose ways are exactly opposite to my own. If you will kindly take me to the river I shall lose no time in making an effort to return home."

They good-naturedly assented to this, and walked backward with her until they came to the place where the river bubbled up. It really did bubble up, Bredenbutta noticed, although she knew very well she had fallen down the Great Hole. But, then, everything was topsyturvy in this strange land.

The girl found her little boat, which had stranded on the beach, and having placed it where she could push it into the river, she turned to say good by to the queer people of Turvyland.

"I am glad to see you go," said Upsydoun, without speaking, "for I like you. But you are a strange creature, and perhaps know what is best for you. Here are some oars for your boat, for I see you have none, and when you get down to your country you may need them."

Bredenbutta joyfully accepted the oars, and placed them in her boat. Then the people of Turvyland all kissed her with their left ears and waved their toes in farewell, while the Duchess got into the boat and pushed it out into the river.

Instantly she was in the midst of such a whirling of foam and rushing and roaring of rootbeer that she could neither see nor hear anything. Gasping for breath, the girl clung tightly to the sides of the boat, and in a few minutes it was all over, and the boat bobbed up in the Valley of Mo -- just above the Great Hole. Bredenbutta then seized the oars and rowed hard until there was no danger of her falling in again, and soon she had passed the rapids and was rowing safely up the river to her own home.

Of course the Duchess was very glad again to be among the people who acted in a natural manner, instead of the absurd fashion of her friends, the Turvylanders. She resolved that whenever she rowed her boat upon the river again, she would be careful to keep away from the Great Hole, for she realized that another visit to Upsydoun and his people would be very trying to her nerves.



The Eleventh Surprise

Prince Fiddlecumdoo And The Giant


It happened, one morning, that the Monarch of Mo was not in his usual pleasant humor; and, of course, there was an excellent reason for this.

At the back of his garden grew one tree that generally bore an abundant crop of animal-crackers, and although the King and his court, being surfeited with all the dainties of the land, did not care much for these edibles, the younger inhabitants of Mo were especially fond of them, and yelled with delight whenever the King divided the crop of his tree among them.

A few days before the King had examined the tree and found the animal-crackers not quite ripe. Whereupon he had gone away and forgotten all about them. And, in his absence, they had ripened to a delicious light brown; and their forms had rounded out, so that they hung as thickly together as peas in a pod. As they swung from their stems, swaying backward and forward in the light breeze, they waited and waited for some one to come and pick them. But no one came near the tree, and the animals grew cross and restless in consequence.

"I wonder when we shall be gathered," remarked a hippopotamus-cracker, with a yawn.

"Oh, you wonder, do you?" mockingly replied a camel-cracker hanging near, "do you really expect any one to gather you, with your thick hide and clumsy legs? Why, the children would break their teeth on you at the first bite."

"What!" screamed the hippopotamus, in much anger, "do you dare insult me, you humpbacked beast of burden?"

"Now then -- now then!" interrupted a wolf-cracker that hung from a stem just above them; "what's the use of fighting, when we are so soon to be eaten?"

But the camel-cracker would not be appeased.

"Thick-headed brute!" he yelled at the hippopotamus, angrily.

"Hump-backed idiot!" shrieked the other.

At this the camel swung himself fiercely on his branch, and bumped against the hippopotamus, knocking him off from the tree. The ground underneath was chocolate, and it was soft and sticky, not having dried since the last rain. So when the hippopotamus fell he sank half way into the ground, and his beautiful brown color was spattered with the muddy chocolate.

At this vengeful deed on the part of the camel all the other animals became furious. A full-grown goat-cracker swung himself against the camel and knocked it, in turn, from its stem; and in falling on the ground it broke its hump off. Then a lion-cracker knocked the goat down, and an elephant knocked a cat down, and soon the whole tree was in a violent commotion. The animals fought with each other so desperately that before long the entire treeful of animal-crackers had fallen to the ground, where many lay broken and disfigured, and the remainder were sunk deep in the chocolate mud.

So when the King, finally remembering his tree, came and looked on the sorry sight, it dampened his usual good spirits, and he heartily wished he had picked the quarrelsome crackers before they began to fight among themselves.

While he stood thinking dismally on this, up came Prince Fiddlecumdoo and asked permission to go on a journey.

"Where do you wish to go?" asked the King.

"I am tired of this beautiful Valley," answered Fiddlecumdoo, "and as the bicycle tree beside the Crystal Lake is now hanging full of ripe wheels, I thought I would gather one and ride over into the next valley in search of adventure." You see, this Prince was the King's youngest son, and had been rather spoiled by petting, as youngest sons often are.

"The next valley, my son, is inhabited by the giant Hartilaf," said the King, "and should you meet him he might do you an injury."

"Oh, I am not afraid of Hartilaf," replied Fiddlecumdoo, boldly. "If he should not be pleasant to me, I could run away from him on my wheel."

"I don't know about that," responded the King. "There may be bicycle trees in the next valley, as well as here; and it is always dangerous and foolish for any one to leave this Valley, where there is everything that heart could wish. Instead of running away in search of adventures, you would do better to remain at home and help your mother pick collar buttons and neckties for the family."

"That is work," said Fiddlecumdoo, sulkily, "and I hate work."

"Yet somebody has to pick the collar buttons," returned the King, "or we should be unable to keep our collars on."

"Then let Jollikin help my mother. I am horribly tired of this stupid place, and shall not be happy until I have traveled around and seen something more of the world."

"Well, well! go if you wish," answered the King, impatiently. "But take care of yourself, for when you are away from this Valley there will be no one to protect you from danger."

"I can take care of myself," cried the Prince, "so do not worry about me," and he ran away quickly, before his father had time to change his mind and withdraw his consent.

He selected the best and ripest bicycle on the tree, and, having mounted it, was soon speeding away along the path to the mountains.

When he reached the far eastern part of Mo he came on a bush bearing a very good quality of violins, and this at once attracted Fiddlecumdoo, who was a most excellent violinist, being able to play correctly a great number of tunes. So he dismounted and selected from the bush a small violin that seemed to have a sweet tone. This he carried with him, under his arm, thinking if he became lonesome he could amuse himself with the music.

Shortly after resuming his journey he came to the Maple Plains, a level stretch of country composed entirely of maple sugar. These plains were quite smooth, and very pleasant to ride on; but so swiftly did his bicycle carry him that he soon crossed the plains and came on a river of pure maple syrup, so wide and deep that he could neither leap nor swim it.

Dismounting from his bicycle the Prince began looking for some means of crossing the river. No bridge was visible in either direction, and the bank was bare save for a few low bushes on which grew maple bonbons and maple caramels.

But Prince Fiddlecumdoo did not mean to be turned back by so small a matter as a river, so he scooped a hole in the maple sand, and having filled it with syrup from the river, lighted a match and began boiling it. After it had boiled for a time the maple syrup became stringy, and the Prince quickly threw a string of it across the river. It hardened almost immediately, and on this simple bridge the Prince rode over the stream.

Once on the other side he sped up the mountain and over the top into the next valley, where, he stopped and began to look about him.

He could see no roads in any direction, but away down at the foot of the valley was a monstrous house, so big you could easily put a small village inside it, including the church. This, Fiddlecumdoo thought, must be where the giant lived; and, although he saw no one about the house, he decided to make a call and introduce himself to Mr. Hartilaf. So he rode slowly down the valley, playing on his violin as he went, that the music might announce his coming.

The giant Hartilaf was lying on the sofa in his sitting-room, waiting for his wife to prepare the dinner; and he had nearly fallen asleep when the sound of Fiddlecumdoo's music fell on his ear. This was so unusual in his valley that the giant arose and went to the front door to see what caused it.

The Prince had by this time nearly reached the house, and when the giant appeared he was somewhat startled, as he had not expected to see any one quite so big. But he took care not to show any fear, and, taking off his hat, he bowed politely to the giant and said:

"This is Mr. Hartilaf, I suppose?"

"That is my name," replied the giant, grinning at the small size of his visitor. "May I ask who you are?"

"I am Prince Fiddlecumdoo, and I live in the next valley, which is called the Valley of Mo. Being determined to see something of the world, I am traveling for pleasure, and have just dropped in on you for a friendly call."

"You are very welcome, I am sure," returned the giant. "If you will graciously step into my humble home I shall be glad to entertain you at dinner."

Prince Fiddlecumdoo bowed low and accepted the invitation, but when he endeavored to enter the house he found the steps so big that even the first one was higher than his head, and he could not climb to the top of it.

Seeing his difficulty the giant carefully picked him up with one finger and his thumb, and put him down on the palm of his other hand.

"Do not leave my bicycle," said the Prince, "for should anything happen to it I could not get home again."

So the giant put the bicycle in his vest pocket, and then he entered the house and walked to the kitchen, where his wife was engaged preparing the dinner.

"Guess what I've found," said the giant to his wife, holding his hand doubled up so she could not see the Prince.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered the woman.

"But, guess!" pleaded the giant.

"Go away and don't bother me," she replied, bending over the stewpan, "or you won't have any dinner to-day."

The giant, however, was in a merry mood, and for a joke he suddenly opened his hand and dropped the Prince down his wife's neck.

"Oh, oh!" she screamed, trying to get at the place where the Prince had fallen, which was near the small of her back. "What is it? I'm sure it's some horrible crocodile, or dragon, or something that will bite me!" And the poor woman lay down on the carpet and began to kick her heels against the floor in terror.

The giant roared with laughter, but the Prince, now being able to crawl out, scrambled from the lady's neck, and, standing beside her head, he made a low bow and said:

"Do not be afraid, Madam; it is only I. But I must say it was a very ungallant trick for your husband to play on you, to say nothing of my feelings in the matter."

"So it was," she exclaimed, getting upon her feet again, and staring curiously at Fiddlecumdoo. "But tell me who you are and where you came from."

The giant, having enjoyed his laugh, now introduced the Prince to his wife, and as dinner was ready to serve they sat down at the table together.

Fiddlecumdoo got along very well at dinner, for the giant thoughtfully placed him on the top of the table, where he could walk around as he pleased. There being no knife nor fork small enough for him to use, the Prince took one of the giant's toothpicks, which was as big as a sword, and with this served himself from the various dishes that stood on the table.

When the meal was over the giant lighted his pipe, the bowl of which was as big as a barrel, and asked Fiddlecumdoo if he would kindly favor them with some music.

"Certainly," replied the Prince.

"Please come into the kitchen," said the giantess, "for then I can listen to the music while I am washing the dishes."

The prince did not like to refuse this request, although at home he was not allowed to enter his mother's kitchen; so the giant carried him in and placed him on a high shelf, where Fiddlecumdoo seated himself on a spool of thread and began to play his violin.

The big people enjoyed the music very much at first, for the Prince was a capital player. But soon came a disagreeable interruption.

About a month before the giant had caught several dancing-bears in the mountains, and, having brought them home, had made them into strings of sausages. These were hanging in graceful festoons from the beams of the kitchen ceiling, awaiting the time when they should be eaten.

Now when the dancing-bear sausages heard the music of Fiddlecumdoo's violin, they could not resist dancing; for it is well known that sausages made from real dancing-bears can not remain quiet where there is music. The Prince was playing such a lively tune, that presently the strings of sausage broke away from the ceiling and fell clattering to the floor, where they danced about furiously. Not being able to see where they were going, they bumped against the giant and his wife, thumping them on their heads and backs, and pounding them so severely that the woman became frightened and hid under the table, while the giant started to run away.

Seeing their plight, Fiddlecumdoo stopped playing, and at once the sausages fell to the floor and lay still.

"That was strange," said the giant, as soon as he could catch his breath; "the bears evidently do not forget how to dance even after they are chopped up into sausage meat. I must beg you to abandon your concert for the present, but before you visit us again we shall have eaten the sausages, and then you may play to your heart's content."

"Had I known they were so lively," remarked the giantess, as she crawled from beneath the table, "we should have eaten them before this."

"That reminds me that I intended to have stewed polar bears for supper," continued the giant; "so I think I will walk over into Alaska and catch some."

"Perhaps the Prince would prefer elephant pie," suggested the lady, "and in that case you might make a run into South America for elephants."

"I have no choice in the matter," said the Prince, "never having eaten either. But is it not rather a long journey to Alaska or to South America?"

"Not at all!" protested the giant. "I shall enjoy the walk, and can easily be back by sundown. Won't you come with me?" he asked the boy. But Fiddlecumdoo did not like the idea of so long a journey, and begged to be excused.

The giantess brought her lord a great bag to put the polar bears in, and he prepared to start.

"I leave you to amuse my wife during my absence," he said to the Prince. "Pray make yourself entirely at home, and use my castle as you would your own house, and if I have good luck you shall eat a delicious polar-bear stew for your supper."

Then he slung the sack across his back and went away, whistling merrily. And so great were his strides that in less than a minute he was out of sight.

"This is my busy day," said the giantess to Fiddlecumdoo, "and I fear I shall not be able to entertain you in a proper manner, for I must hasten to the laundry to wash the clothes. However, if you care to accompany me, we may converse together while I am doing my work."

"I shall take great pleasure in visiting your laundry," he replied, "for never before have I been in such a place. And surely it will be more agreeable to watch you at your work than to spend the day alone in these great rooms."

"Come along, then," she said, and picking him up she placed him in the pocket of her apron, for she knew he would be unable to walk down the flight of stairs that led to the laundry. He was very comfortable in the pocket, which was just deep enough to allow his head and shoulders to project from the top. Therefore he was able to see all that was going on while the lady was at work. He watched her wash and rinse the clothes, and was greatly interested in the operation, as it was all new to him.

By and by the giantess brought an immense clothes-wringer from a shelf, and having fastened it to the side of the big wash tub began to wring out the clothes.

Prince Fiddlecumdoo had never seen a clothes-wringer before, and so pleased was he with the novelty of it that he leaned far out of the pocket to watch it work. But, unfortunately, he lost his balance, and before he knew what had happened to him had fallen from the pocket and lay sprawling on one of the giant's shirts, which was just then passing through the wringer.

The woman did not notice his fall, and the next instant he was drawn between the two great rollers, and came out on the other side as thin and flat as a sheet of paper.

Then the giant's wife saw what she had done, and realizing how serious was the Prince's condition, the good lady was much grieved over the accident. She picked Fiddlecumdoo up and tried to stand him on his feet, but he was so thin that at the least draft he fluttered like a flag, while a puff of wind would blow him completely over.

"Dear me!" exclaimed the woman, sorrowfully, "whatever can we do with you in that shape?"

"I really do not know what will become of me," replied the Prince. "I am certainly no good in this condition. I can not even walk across the room without toppling over. Can not you manage to push me together again?" The giantess tried to do this, but the Prince was so sharp that his edges hurt her hands, and all she could do was to fold him up and carry him into the drawing-room, where she laid him carefully on the center-table.

Just before sundown the giant returned from Alaska, bringing several fat polar-bears in his bag; and scarcely had he set foot within the house before he inquired after his guest, the Prince.

"You will find him on the drawing-room table," said the giantess. "I accidently ran him through the clothes-wringer this afternoon, and the poor boy is as thin as a pie crust. So I folded him up and put him away until you returned."

The giant immediately went to the table and unfolded Fiddlecumdoo, asking him how he felt.

"Very miserable," answered the Prince, "for I can not move at all when I am folded up. Where is my bicycle?"

The giant searched all his pockets, but could not find it.

"I must have lost it on my journey to Alaska," he said.

"Then how am I ever to get home again?" asked the Prince.

"That is a puzzle," the giant responded, thoughtfully. "I do not see how you could ride on a bicycle even if you had one, and you certainly can not walk far in your present condition."

"Not if the wind blows," acknowledged the Prince.

"Couldn't you go edgewise?" asked the giant after a moment's reflection.

"I might try," answered Fiddlecumdoo, hopefully.

So the giant stood him up, and he tried to walk edgewise. But whenever a breath of wind struck him he fell over at once, and several times he got badly crumpled up, so that the giant had to smooth him out again with his hands.

"This certainly will not do at all," declared the giant; "for not only are you getting wrinkled, but you are liable to be blown away; altogether. I have just thought of a plan to get you back into the Valley of Mo again, and when you are in your own country your friends may get you out of the scrape the best way they can."

Hartilaf then made the Prince into a neat roll and tied a string around the middle, to hold it in place. Then he tucked the roll under his arm and carried it to the top of the mountain that stood between the two valleys. Placing the Prince carefully on the ground he started him rolling, and in a short time he had rolled down the mountain side into the Valley of Mo.

At first the people were much frightened, not knowing what this strange thing could be that had come rolling into their midst. They stood around, curiously looking at the roll, but afraid to touch it, when suddenly Fiddlecumdoo began to cry out. And then, so fearful was the sound, they all ran away as fast as their legs could carry them.

Prince Thinkabit, however, being more courageous than the rest, at last ventured to approach and cut the string that fastened the roll. Instantly it opened, and to their amazement the people saw what it was.

"Upon my word, it is brother Fiddlecumdoo!" cried Prince Thinkabit. "The giant must have stepped on him."

"No, indeed," said poor Fiddlecumdoo, "I've been run through a clothes-wringer, which is much worse than being stepped on."

With many expressions of pity the kind people stood the Prince up and helped him to the palace, where the King was greatly shocked at his sad plight. Fiddlecumdoo was so broad that the only thing he could sit down on was the sofa, and he was so thin that when Princess Pattycake sneezed he was blown half way across the room.

At dinner he could eat nothing that was not sliced as thin as a shaving, and so sad was his predicament that the King determined to ask the Wise Donkey what could be done to relieve his unfortunate son.

After hearing all the particulars of the accident, the Donkey said: "Blow him up."

"I did blow him up, for being so careless," replied the King; "but it didn't make him any thicker."

"What I mean," explained the Donkey, "is to bore a hole in the top of his head, and blow air into him until he resumes his natural shape. Then, if he takes care of himself, he soon will be all right again."

So the King returned to the palace and bored a hole in Fiddlecumdoo's head, and then pumped him full of air with a bicycle pump. When he had filled out into his natural shape they put a plug in the hole, and stopped it up; and after that Fiddlecumdoo could walk around as well as before his accident.

His only danger now was that he might get punctured; and, indeed, his friends found him one day lying in the garden, all flattened out again, the Prince having pricked his finger on a rose-bush and thereby allowed his air to escape. But they inflated him once again, and afterward he was more careful of himself.

Fiddlecumdoo had such a horror of being flat that, if his father ever wished to make him behave, he threatened to stick a pin into him, and that always had the desired effect.

After several years, the Prince, being a hearty eater, filled up with solid flesh, and had no further use for the air-pump; but his experience had made him so nervous that he never again visited the giant Hartilaf, for fear of encountering another accident.



The Twelfth Surprise

The Land Of The Civilized Monkeys


I must now tell you of a very strange adventure that befell Prince Zingle, which, had it not turned out exactly as it did, might have resulted in making him a captive for life in a remarkable country.

By consulting Smith's History of Prince Zingle you will notice that from boyhood he had a great passion for flying kites, and unlike other boys, he always undertook to make each kite larger than the last one. Therefore his kites grew in size, and became larger and larger, until at length the Prince made one twice as tall as himself.

When it was finished he was very proud of this great kite, and took it out to a level place to see how well it would fly, being accompanied by many of the people of Mo, who took considerable interest in the Prince's amusement.

There happened to be a strong south wind blowing and, fearing the kite might get away from him, Zingle tied the string around his waist. It flew beautifully at first, but pulled so hard the Prince could scarcely hold it.

At last, when the string was all let out, there came a sudden gust of wind, and in an instant poor Zingle was drawn into the air as easily as an ordinary kite draws its tail. Up and up he soared, and the kite followed the wind and carried him over many countries until the strength died out of the air, when the kite slowly settled toward the earth and landed the Prince in the top of a tall tree.

He now untied the string from his waist and fastened it to a branch of the tree, as he did not wish to lose the kite after all his bother in making it.

Then he began to climb down to the ground, but on reaching the lower branches he was arrested by a most curious sight.

Standing on the ground, and gazing up at him, were a dozen monkeys, all very neatly dressed and all evidently filled with surprise at the Prince's sudden appearance in the tree.

"What a very queer animal!" exclaimed an old monkey, who wore a tall silk hat and had white kid gloves on his hands. Gold spectacles rested on his nose, and he pointed toward the Prince with a gold-headed cane. By his side was a little girl-monkey, dressed in pink skirts and a blue bonnet; and when she saw Zingle she clung to the old monkey's hand and seemed frightened.

"Oh, grandpapa!" she cried; "take me back to mamma; I'm afraid the strange beast will bite me."

Just then a big monkey, wearing a blue coat with brass buttons and swinging a short club in his hand, strutted up to them and said:

"Don't be afraid, little one. The beast can't hurt you while I'm around!" And then he tipped his cap over his left ear and shook his club at the Prince, as if he did not know what fear meant.

Two monkeys, who were dressed in red jackets and carried muskets in their hands, now came running up, and, having looked at Zingle with much interest, they called for some one to bring them a strong rope.

"We will capture the brute and put him in the Zoo," said one of the soldier-monkeys.

"What kind of animal is it?" asked the other.

"I do not know. But some of our college professors can doubtless tell, and even if they can't they will give it some scientific name that will satisfy the people just as well."

All this time Prince Zingle remained clinging to the branches of the tree. He could not understand a word of the monkey language, and therefore had no idea what they were talking about; but he judged from their actions that the monkeys were not friendly. When they brought a long and stout rope, and prepared to throw one end of it over his head, in order to capture him, he became angry and called out to them:

"Stop -- I command you! What is the meaning of this strange conduct? I am Prince Zingle, eldest son of the Monarch of Mo, and, since I have been blown into your country through an accident, I certainly deserve kind treatment at your hands."

But this speech had no meaning in the ears of the monkeys, who said to each other:

"Hear him bark! He jabbers away almost as if he could talk!"

By this time a large crowd of monkeys had surrounded the tree, some being barefooted boy-monkeys, and some lady-monkeys dressed in silken gowns and gorgeous raiment of the latest mode, and others men-monkeys of all sorts and conditions. There were dandified monkeys and sober-looking business monkeys, as well as several who appeared to be politicians and officials of high degree.

"Stand back, all of you!" shouted one of the soldiers. "We're going to capture this remarkable beast for the royal menagerie, and unless you stand out of the way he may show fight and bite some one."

So they moved back to a safe distance, and the soldier-monkey prepared to throw a rope.

"Stop!" cried Zingle, again; "do you take me for a thief, that you try to bind me? I am a prince of the royal blood, and unless you treat me respectfully I shall have my father, the King, march his army on you and destroy your whole country."

"He barks louder," said the soldier. "Look out for him; he may be dangerous." The next moment he threw the rope and caught poor Zingle around his arms and body, so that he was helpless. Then the soldier-monkey pulled hard on the rope, and Prince Zingle fell out of the tree to the ground.

At first the monkeys all pressed backward, as if frightened, but their soldiers cried out:

"We've got him; he can't bite now."

Then one of them approached the Prince and punched him with a stick, saying, "Stand up!"

Zingle did not understand the words, but he resented being prodded with the stick, so he sprang up and rushed on the soldier, kicking the stick from his hands, his own arms being bound by the rope.

The monkeys screamed and rushed in every direction, but the other soldier came behind the Prince and knocked him down with the butt of his gun. Then he tied his legs with another rope, and, seeing him thus bound, the crowd of monkeys, which had scattered and fallen over one another in their efforts to escape, came creeping timidly back, and looked on him with fear and trembling.

"We've subdued him at last," remarked the soldier who had been kicked. "But he's a very fierce animal, and I shall take him to the Zoo and lock him in one of the strongest cages."

So they led poor Zingle away to where the Royal Zoological Gardens were located, and there they put him into a big cage with iron bars, the door being fastened with two great padlocks.

Before very long every monkey in the country learned that a strange beast had been captured and brought to the Zoo; and soon a large crowd had gathered before Zingle's cage to examine him.

"Isn't he sweet!" said a lady-monkey who held a green parasol over her head and wore a purple veil on her face.

"Sweet!" grunted a man-monkey standing beside her, "he's the ugliest looking brute I ever saw! Scarcely has any hair on him at all, and no tail, and very little chin. I wonder where on earth the creature came from?"

"It may be one of those beings from whom our race is descended," said another onlooker. "The professors say we evolved from some primitive creature of this sort."

"Heaven forbid!" cried a dandy-monkey, whose collar was so high that it kept tipping his hat over his eyes. "If I thought such a creature as that was one of my forefathers, I should commit suicide at once."

Zingle had been sitting on the floor of his cage and wondering what was to become of him in this strange country of monkeys, and now, to show his authority, one of the keepers took a long stick and began to poke the Prince to make him stand up.

"Stop that!" shouted the angry captive, and catching hold of the stick he jerked it from the keeper's hand and struck him a sharp blow on the head with it.

All the lady-monkeys screamed at this, and the men-monkeys exclaimed:

"What an ugly disposition the beast has!"

The children-monkeys began to throw peanuts between the bars of the cage, and Zingle, who had now become very hungry, picked them up and ate them. This act so pleased the little monkeys that they shouted with laughter.

At last two solemn-looking monkeys with gray hair, and wearing long black coats and white neckties, came up to the cage, where they were greeted with much respect by the other monkeys.

"So this is the strange animal," said one of the new-comers, putting on his spectacles and looking sharply at the captive; "do you recognize the species, Professor?"

The other aged monkey also regarded the Prince critically before he answered:

"I can not say I have ever seen a specimen of this genus before. But one of our text-books mentions an obscure animal called Homo Peculiaris, and I have no doubt this is one of that family. I shall write an article on the creature and claim he is a Homo, and without doubt the paper will create quite a stir in the scientific world."

"See here," suddenly demanded Prince Zingle, standing up and shaking the bars of his cage, "are you going to give me anything to eat? Or do you expect me to live on peanuts forever?"

Not knowing what he said, none of the monkeys paid any attention to this question. But one of the professor-monkeys appeared to listen attentively, and remarked  to friend: "There seems to be a smoothness and variety of sound in his speech that indicates that he possesses some sort of language. Had I time to study this brute, I might learn his method of communicating with his fellows. Indeed, there is a possibility that he may turn out to be the missing link."

However, the professor not yet having learned his language, Prince Zingle was obliged to remain hungry. The monkeys threw several cocoanuts into the cage, but the prisoner did not know what kind of fruit these were; so, after several attempts to bite the hard shell, he decided they were not good to eat.

Day after day now passed away, and, although crowds of monkeys came to examine Zingle in his cage, the poor Prince grew very pale and thin for lack of proper food, while the continuance of his unhappy imprisonment made him sad and melancholy.

"Could I but escape and find my way back to my father's valley," he moaned, wearily, "I should be willing to fly small kites forever afterward."

Often he begged them to let him go, but the monkeys gruffly commanded him to "stop his jabbering," and poked him with long sticks having sharp points; so that the Prince's life became one of great misery.

At the end of about two weeks a happy relief came to Zingle, for then a baby hippopotamus was captured and brought to the Royal Zoo, and after this the monkeys left the Prince's cage and crowded around that of the new arrival.

Finding himself thus deserted, Prince Zingle began to seek a means of escape from his confinement. His first attempt was to break the iron bars; but soon he found they were too big and strong. Then he shook the door with all his strength; but the big padlocks held firm, and could not be broken. Then the prisoner gave way to despair, and threw himself on the floor of the cage, weeping bitterly.

Suddenly he heard a great shout from the direction of the cage where the baby hippopotamus was confined, and, rising to his feet, the Prince walked to the bars and attempted to look out and discover what was causing the excitement. To his astonishment he found he was able to thrust his head between two of the iron bars, having grown so thin through hunger and abuse, that he was much smaller than when the monkeys had first captured him. He realized at once that if his head would pass between the bars, his body could be made to do so, likewise. So he struggled bravely, and at last succeeded in squeezing his body between the bars and leaping safely to the ground.

Finding himself at liberty, the Prince lost no time in running to the tree where he had left his kite. But on the way some of the boy-monkeys discovered him and raised a great cry, which soon brought hundreds of his enemies in pursuit.

Zingle had a good start, however, and soon reached the tree. Quickly he climbed up the trunk and branches until he had gained the limb where the string of his kite was still fastened. Untying the cord, he wound it around his waist several times, and then, finding a strong north wind blowing, he skilfully tossed the kite into the air. At once it filled and mounted to the sky, lifting Zingle from the tree and carrying him with perfect ease.

It was fortunate he got away at that moment, for several of the monkeys had scrambled up the tree after him, and were almost near enough to seize him by the legs when, to their surprise, he shot into the air. Indeed, so amazed were they by this remarkable escape of their prisoner that the monkeys remained staring into the air until Prince Zingle had become a little speck in the sky above them and finally disappeared.

That was the last our Prince ever saw of the strange country of the monkeys, for the wind carried his kite straight back to the Valley of Mo. When Zingle found himself above his father's palace, he took out his pocket-knife and cut the string of the kite, and immediately fell head foremost into a pond of custard that lay in the back yard, where he dived through a floating island of whipped cream and disappeared from view.

Nuphsed, who was sitting on the bank of the custard lake, was nearly frightened into fits by this sight; and he ran to tell the King that a new meteor had fallen and ruined one of his floating islands.

Thereupon the monarch and several of his courtiers rushed out and found Prince Zingle swimming ashore; and the King was so delighted at seeing his lost son again that he clasped him joyfully in his arms.

The next moment he regretted this act, for his best ermine robe was smeared its whole length with custard, and would need considerable cleaning before it would be fit to wear again.

The Prince and the King soon changed their clothes, and then there was much rejoicing throughout the land. Of course the first thing Zingle asked for was something to eat, and before long he was sitting at a table heaped with all sorts of good things, plucked fresh from the trees.

The people crowded around him, demanding the tale of his adventures, and their surprise was only equaled by their horror when they learned he had been captured by a band of monkeys, and shut up in a cage because he was thought to be a dangerous wild beast.

Experience is said to be an excellent teacher, although a very cruel one. Prince Zingle had now seen enough of foreign countries to remain contented with his own beautiful Valley, and, although it was many years before he again attempted to fly a kite, it was noticed that, when he at last did indulge in that sport, the kite was of a very small size.



The Thirteenth Surprise

The Stolen Plum-Pudding


The King's plum-pudding crop had for some time suffered from the devastations of a secret enemy. Each day, as he examined the vines, he found more and more of the plum-pudding missing, and finally the monarch called his Wise Men together and asked them what he should do.

The Wise Men immediately shut their eyes and pondered so long over the problem that they fell fast asleep. While they slept still more of the plum-pudding was stolen. When they awoke the King was justly incensed, and told the Wise Men that unless they discovered the thief within three days he would give them no cake with their ice-cream.

This terrible threat at last aroused them to action, and, after consulting together, they declared that in their opinion it was the Fox that had stolen the pudding.

Hearing this, the King ordered out his soldiers, who soon captured the Fox and brought him to the palace, where the King sat in state, surrounded by his Wise Men.

"So ho! Master Fox," exclaimed the King, "we have caught you at last."

"So it seems," returned the Fox, calmly. "May I ask your Majesty why I am thus torn from my home, from my wife and children, and brought before you like any common criminal?"

"You have stolen the plum-pudding," answered the King.

"I beg your Majesty's pardon for contradicting you, but I have stolen nothing," declared the Fox. "I can easily prove my innocence. When was the plum-pudding taken?"

"A great deal of it was taken this morning, while the Wise Men slept," said the King.

"Then I can not be the thief," replied the Fox, "as you will admit when you have heard my story."

"Ah! Have you a story to tell?" inquired the King, who dearly loved to hear stories.

"It is a short story, your Majesty; but it will prove clearly that I have not taken your pudding."

"Then tell it," commanded the King. "It is far from my wish to condemn any one who is innocent."

The Wise Men then placed themselves in comfortable positions, and the King crossed his legs and put his hands in his pockets, while the Fox sat before them on his haunches and spoke as follows:

The Fox's Story.

"It has been unusually damp in my den of late, so that both my family and myself have suffered much. First my wife became ill, and then I was afflicted with a bad cold, and in both cases it settled in our throats. Then my four children, who are all of an age, began to complain of sore throats, so that my den became a regular hospital.

"We tried all the medicines we knew of, but they did no good at all. My wife finally begged me to go to consult Doctor Prairiedog, who lives in a hole in the ground away toward the south. So one morning I said good by to my family and ran swiftly to where the doctor lives.

"Finding no one outside the hole to whom I might apply for admission I walked boldly in, and having followed a long, dark tunnel for some distance, I suddenly came to a door.

"'Come in!' said a voice; so in I walked, and found myself in a very beautiful room, lighted by forty-eight fireflies, which sat in a row on a rail running all around the apartment. In the center of the room was a table, made of clay and painted in bright colors; and seated at this table, with his spectacles on his nose, was the famous Doctor Prairiedog, engaged in eating a dish of stewed snails.

"'Good morning,' said the Doctor; 'will you have some breakfast?'

"'No, thank you,' I replied, for the snails were not to my liking; 'I wish to procure some medicine for my children, who are suffering from sore throats.'

"' How do you know their throats are sore?' inquired the Doctor.

"'It hurts them to swallow,' I explained.

"'Then tell them not to swallow,' said the Doctor, and went on eating.

"'Sir!' I exclaimed, 'if they did not swallow, they would starve to death.'

"'That is true,' remarked the Doctor; 'we must think of something else.' After a moment of silence he cried out: 'Ha! I have it! Go home and cut off their necks, after which you must turn them inside out and hang them on the bushes in the sun. When the necks are thoroughly cured in the sun, turn them right-side-out again and place them on your children's shoulders. Then they will find it does not hurt them to swallow.'

"I thanked the great Doctor and returned home, where I did as he had told me. For the last three days the necks of not only my children but of my wife and myself, as well, have been hanging on the bushes to be cured; so we could not possibly have eaten your plum-pudding. Indeed, it was only an hour ago when I finished putting the neck on the last of my children, and at that moment your soldiers came and arrested me."

When the Fox ceased speaking the King was silent for a while. Then he asked:

"Were the necks all cured?"

"Oh, yes," replied the fox; "the sun cured them nicely."

"You see," remarked the King, turning to his Wise Men; "the Fox has proved his innocence. You were wrong, as usual, in accusing him. I shall now send him home with six baskets of cherry phosphate, as a reward for his honesty. If you have not discovered the thief by the time I return I shall keep my threat and stop your allowance of cake."

Then the Wise Men fell a-trembling, and put their heads together, counseling with one another.

When the King returned, they said: "Your Majesty, it must have been the Bullfrog."

So the King sent his soldiers, who captured the Bullfrog and brought him to the palace.

"Why have you stolen the plum-pudding?" demanded the King, in a stern voice.

"I! Steal your plum-pudding!" exclaimed the Frog, indignantly. "Surely you must be mistaken! I am not at all fond of plum-pudding, and, besides, I have been very busy at home during the past week."

"What have you been doing?" asked the King.

"I will tell you, for then you will know I am innocent of this theft."

So the Bullfrog squatted on a footstool, and, after blinking solemnly at the King and his Wise Men for a moment, spoke as follows:

The Frog's Story.

"Some time ago my wife and I hatched out twelve little tadpoles. They were the sweetest children parents ever looked on. Their heads were all very large and round, and their tails were long and feathery, while their skins were as black and shiny as could be. We were proud of them, my wife and I, and took great pains to train our children properly, that they might become respectable frogs, in time, and be a credit to us.

"We lived in a snug little hole under the bank of the river, and in front of our dwelling was a large stone on which we could sit and watch the baby tadpoles grow. Although they loved best to lie in the mud at the bottom of the river, we knew that exercise is necessary to the proper development of a tadpole; so we decided to teach our youngsters to swim. We divided them into two lots, my wife training six of the children, while I took charge of the other six. We drilled them to swim in single file, in column of twos and in line of battle; but I must acknowledge they were quite stupid, being so young, and, unless we told them when to stop, they would keep on swimming until they bumped themselves into a bank or a stone.

"One day, about a week ago, while teaching our children to swim, we started them all going in single file, one after the other. They swam in a straight line that was very pretty to see, and my wife and I sat on the flat stone and watched them with much pride. Unfortunately at that very moment a large fish swam into our neighborhood and lay on the bottom of the river to rest. It was one of those fishes that hold their great mouths wide open, and I was horrified when I saw the advancing line of tadpoles headed directly toward the gaping mouth of the monster fish. I croaked as loudly as I could for them to stop; but either they failed to hear me, or they would not obey. The next moment all the line of swimming tadpoles had entered the fish's mouth and were lost to our view.

"Mrs. Frog threw herself into my arms with a cry or anguish, exclaiming:

"'Oh, what shall we do? Our children are lost to us forever!'

"'Do not despair,' I answered, although I was myself greatly frightened; 'we must try to prevent the fish from swimming away with our loved ones. If we can keep him here, some way may yet be found to rescue the children.'

"Up to this time the big fish had remained motionless, but there was an expression of surprise in its round eyes, as if it did not know what to make of the lively inhabitants of its stomach.

"Mrs. Frog thought for a moment, and then said:

"'A short distance away is an old fish-line and hook, lying at the bottom of the river, where some boys lost it while fishing one day. If we could only -- '

"'Fetch it at once,' I interrupted. 'With its aid we shall endeavor to capture the fish.'

"She hastened away, soon returning with the line, which had a large hook on one end. I tied the other end firmly about the flat stone, and then, advancing cautiously from behind, that the fish might not see me, I stuck the iron hook through its right gill.

"The monster gave a sudden flop that sent me head over heels a yard away. Then it tried to swim down the stream. But the hook and line held fast, and soon the fish realized it was firmly caught, after which it wisely abandoned the struggle.

"Mrs. Frog and I now sat down to watch the result, and the time of waiting was long and tedious. After several weary days, however, the great fish lay over on its side and expired, and soon after there hopped from its mouth the sweetest little green frog you ever laid eyes on. Another and another followed, until twelve of them stood beside us; and then my wife exclaimed:

"'They are our children, the tadpoles! They have lost their tails and their legs have grown out, but they are our own little ones, nevertheless!'

"Indeed, this was true; for tadpoles always become frogs when a few days old. The children told us they had been quite comfortable inside the great fish, but they were now hungry, for young frogs always have wonderful appetites. So Mrs. Frog and I set to work to feed them, and had just finished this pleasant task when your soldiers came to arrest me. I assure your Majesty this is the first time I have been out of the water for a week. And now, if you will permit me to depart, I will hop back home and see how the youngsters are growing."

When the Bullfrog had ceased speaking the King turned toward the Wise Men and said, angrily:

"It seems you are wrong again, for the Frog is innocent. Your boasted wisdom appears to me very like folly; but I will give you one more chance. If you fail to discover the culprit next time, I shall punish you far more severely than I at first promised."

The King now gave the Bullfrog a present of a red silk necktie, and also sent a bottle of perfumery to Mrs. Frog. The soldiers at once released the prisoner, who joyfully hopped away toward the river.


The Wise Men now rolled their eyes toward the ceiling and twirled their thumbs and thought as hard as they could. At last they told the King they had decided the Yellow Hen was undoubtedly responsible for the theft of the plum-pudding.

So the King sent his soldiers, who searched throughout the Valley and at last captured the Yellow Hen and brought her into the royal presence.

"My Wise Men say you have stolen my plum-pudding," said his Majesty. "If this is true, I am going to punish you severely."

"But it is not true," answered the Yellow Hen; "for I have just returned from a long journey."

"Where have you been?" inquired the King.

"I will tell you," she replied; and, after rearranging a few of her feathers that the rough hands of the soldiers had mussed, the Yellow Hen spoke as follows:

The Yellow Hen's Story

"All my life I have been accustomed to hatching out thirteen eggs; but the last time there were only twelve eggs in the nest when I got ready to set. Being experienced in these matters I knew it would never do to set on twelve eggs, so I asked the Red Rooster for his advice.

"He considered the question carefully, and finally told me he had seen a very nice, large egg lying on the rocks near the sugar mountain.

"'If you wish,' said he, 'I will get it for you.'

"'I am very sorry to trouble you, yet certainly I need thirteen eggs,' I answered.

"The Red Rooster is an accommodating fowl, so away he flew, and shortly returned with a large white egg under his wing. This egg I put with the other twelve, and then I set faithfully on my nest for three weeks, at the end of which time I hatched out my chickens.

"Twelve of them were as yellow and fluffy as any mother could wish. But the one that came from the strange egg was black and awkward, and had a large bill and sharp claws. Still thinking he was one of my children, despite his deformity, I gave him as much care as any of them, and soon he outgrew the others and became very big and strong.

"The Red Rooster shook his head, and said, bluntly:

"'That chick will be a great trouble to you, for it looks to me strangely like one of our enemies, the Hawks.'

"'What!' I exclaimed, reproachfully, 'do you think one of my darling children could possibly be a Hawk? I consider that remark almost an insult, Mr. Rooster!'

"The Red Rooster said nothing more; but he kept away from my big, black chick, as if really afraid of it.

"To my great grief this chick suddenly developed a very bad temper, and one day I was obliged to reprove it for grabbing the food away from its brothers. Suddenly it began screaming with anger, and the next moment it sprang on me, digging its sharp claws into my back.

"While I struggled to free myself, he flew far up into the air, carrying me with him, and uttering loud cries that filled me with misgivings. For I now realized, when it was too late, that his voice sounded exactly like the cry of a Hawk!

"Away and away he flew, over mountains, and valleys, and rivers, and lakes, until at last, as I looked down, I saw a man pointing a gun at us. A moment later he shot, and the black chick gave a scream of pain, at the same time releasing his hold of me; so that I fell over and over and finally fluttered to the ground.

"Then I found I had escaped one danger only to encounter another, for as I reached the ground the man seized me and carried me under his arm to his home. Entering the house, he said to his wife:

"'Here is a nice, fat hen for our breakfast.'

"'Put her in the coop,' replied the woman. 'After supper I will cut off her head and pick the feathers from her body.'

"This frightened me greatly, as you may suppose, and when the man placed me in the coop I nearly gave way to despair. But, finding myself alone, I plucked up courage and began looking for a way to escape. To my great joy I soon discovered that one of the slats of the coop was loose, and, having pushed it aside, I was not long in gaining my liberty.

"Once free, I ran away from the place as fast as possible, but did not know in which direction to go, the country being so strange to me. So I fluttered on, half running and half flying, until I reached the place where an army of soldiers was encamped. If these men saw me I feared they would also wish to eat me for breakfast; so I crept into the mouth of a big cannon, thinking I should escape attention and be safe until morning. Soon I fell asleep, and so sound was my slumber that the next thing I heard was the conversation of some soldiers who stood beside the cannon.

"'It is nearly sunrise,' said one. 'You must fire the salute. Is the cannon loaded?'

"'Oh, yes,' answered the other. 'What shall I shoot at?'

"' Fire into the air, for then you will not hurt any one,' said the first soldier.

"By this time I was trembling with fear, and had decided to creep out of the cannon and take the chances of being caught, when, suddenly, 'Bang!' went the big gun, and I shot into the air with a rush like that of a whirlwind.

"The noise nearly deafened me, and my nerves were so shattered that for a time I was helpless. I felt myself go up and up into the air, until soon I was far above the clouds. Then I recovered my wits, and when I began to come down again I tried to fly. I knew the Valley of Mo must be somewhere to the west; so I flew in that direction until I found myself just over the Valley, when I allowed myself to flutter to the ground.

"It seems my troubles were not yet over; for, before I had fully recovered my breath after this long flight, your soldiers seized me and brought me here.

"I am accused of stealing your plum-pudding; but, in truth, your Majesty, I have been away from your kingdom for nine days, and am therefore wholly innocent."

The Yellow Hen had scarce finished this story when the King flew into a violent rage at the deceptions of his Wise Men, and turning to his soldiers he ordered them to arrest the Wise Men and cast them into prison.

Having given the unfortunate Hen a pair of gold earrings that fitted her ears and matched her complexion, the King sent her home with many apologies for having accused her wrongfully.

Then his Majesty seated himself in an easy chair, and pondered how best to punish the foolish Wise Men.

"I would rather have one really Wise Man," he said to himself, "than fifty of these, who pretend to be wise and are not."

That gave him an idea; so the next morning he ordered the Wise Men taken to the royal kitchen, where all were run through the meat chopper until they were ground as fine as mincemeat. Having thoroughly mixed them, the King stirred in a handful of salt, and then made them into one man, which the cook baked in the oven until it was well done.

"Now," said the King, "I have one Wise Man instead of several foolish ones. Perhaps he can tell me who stole the plum-pudding."

"Certainly," replied the Wise Man. "That is quite easy. It was the Purple Dragon."

"Good," cried the monarch; "I have discovered the truth at last!"

And so he had, as you will find by reading the next surprise.



The Fourteenth Surprise

The Punishment Of The Purple Dragon


Scarcely had the King spoken when some of his soldiers came running with news that they had seen the Purple Dragon eating plum-pudding in the royal garden.

"What did you do about it?" asked the monarch.

"We did nothing," they answered; "for, had we interfered with its repast, the Dragon would probably have eaten us for dessert."

"That is true," remarked the King. "Yet something must be done to protect us from this monster. For many years it has annoyed us by eating our choicest crops, and nothing we can do seems of any avail to save us from its ravages."

"If we were able to destroy the Dragon," said Prince Thinkabit, "we should be doing our country the greatest possible service."

"We have often tried to destroy it," replied the King, "but the beast always manages to get the best of the fight, having wonderful strength and great cunning. However, let us hold a council of war, and see what is suggested."

So a council of war was called. The Wise Man, all the Princes and Noblemen, the Dog and the Wise Donkey being assembled to talk the matter over.

"I advise that you build a high wall around the Dragon," said the Wise Man. "Then it will be unable to get out, and will starve to death."

"It is strong enough to break down the wall," said the King.

"I suggest you dig a great hole in the ground," remarked the Donkey. "Then the Dragon will fall into it and perish."

"It is too clever to fall into the hole," said the King.

"The best thing to do," declared Timtom, "is to cut off its legs; for then it could not walk into our gardens."

"The scales on its legs are too hard and thick," said the King. "We have tried that, and failed."

"We might take a red-hot iron, and put the Dragon's eyes out," ventured Prince Jollikin.

"Its eyes are glass," replied the King with a sigh, "and the iron would have no effect on them."

"Suppose we tie a tin can to its tail," suggested the Dog. "The rattling of the can would so frighten the Dragon that it would run out of the country."

"Its tail is so long," answered the King, gloomily, "that the Dragon could not hear the can rattle."

Then they all remained silent for a time, thinking so hard that their heads began to ache; but no one seemed able to think of the right thing to do.

Finally the King himself made a proposition.

"One thing we might attempt with some hope of success," said his Majesty. "Should it fail, we can not be worse off than we are at present. My idea is for us to go in a great body to the castle of the Dragon, and pull out its teeth with a pair of forceps. Having no teeth, the monster will be harmless to annoy us in any way; and, since we seem unable to kill it, I believe this is the best way out of our difficulty."

The King's plan pleased every one, and met with shouts of approval. The council then adjourned, and all the members went to prepare for the fight with the Purple Dragon.

First the blacksmith made a large pair of forceps, to pull the Dragon's teeth with. The handles of the forceps were so long that fifty men could take hold of them at one time. Then the people armed themselves with swords and spears and marched in a great body to the castle of the Purple Dragon.

This remarkable beast, which for so long had kept the Valley of Mo in constant terror, was standing on the front porch of its castle when the army arrived. It looked at the crowd of people in surprise, and said:

"Are you not weary with your attempts to destroy me? What selfish people you must be! Whenever I eat anything that belongs to you, there is a great row, and immediately you come here to fight me. These battles are unpleasant to all of us. The best thing for you to do is to return home and behave yourselves; for I am not in the least afraid of you."

Neither the King nor his people replied to these taunts. They simply brought forward the big pair of forceps and reached them toward the Dragon.

This movement astonished the monster, who, never having been to a dentist in his life, had no idea what the strange instrument was for.

"Surely you can not think to hurt me with that iron thing," it called out, in derision. And then the Dragon laughed at the idea of any one attempting to injure it.

But when the Dragon opened its mouth to laugh, the King opened the jaws of the forceps, quickly closing them again on one of the monster's front teeth.

"Pull!" cried the King; and fifty men seized the handles of the forceps and began to pull with all their strength.

But, pull as they might, the tooth would not come out, and this was the reason: The teeth of Dragons are different from ours, for they go through the jaw and are clinched on the other side. Therefore, no amount of pulling will draw them out.

The King did not know this fact, but thought the tooth must have a long root; so he called again:

"Pull! my brave men; pull!"

And they pulled so hard that the Dragon was nearly pulled from the porch of its castle. To avoid this danger the cunning beast wound the end of its tail around a post of the porch, and tied a hard knot in it.

"Pull!" shouted the King for the third time.

Then a surprising thing happened. Any one who knows anything at all about Dragons is aware that these beasts stretch as easily as if made of india-rubber. Therefore the strong pulling of the fifty men resulted in the Dragon being pulled from its foothold, and, as its tail was fastened to the post, its body began to stretch out.

The King and his people, thinking the tooth was being pulled, started down the hill, the forceps still clinging fast to the monster's big front tooth. And the farther they went the more Dragon's body stretched out.

"Keep going!" cried the King; "we mustn't let go now!" And away marched the fifty men, and farther and farther stretched the body of the Dragon.

Still holding fast to the forceps, the King and his army marched into the Valley, and away across it, and up the hills on the other side, not even stopping to take breath. When they came to the mountains and the forests, and could go no farther, they looked back; and behold! the Dragon had stretched out so far that it was now no bigger around than a fiddle-string!

"What shall we do now?" asked the fifty men, who were perspiring with the long pull and the march across the Valley.

"I'm sure I don't know," replied the panting King. "Let us tie this end of the beast around a tree. Then we can think what is best to be done."

So they tied that end of the Dragon to a big tree, and sat down to rest, being filled with wonder that the mighty Purple Dragon was now no larger around than a piece of twine.

"The wicked creature will never bother us again," said the King. "Yet it was only by accident we found a way to destroy it. The question now is, what shall we do with this long, thin Dragon? If we leave it here it will trip any one who stumbles against it."

"I shall use it for fiddle-strings," said Prince Fiddlecumdoo, "for the crop failed this year, and I have none for my violin. Let us cut the Dragon up into the proper sizes, and store the strings in the royal warehouse for general use."

The King and the people heartily approved this plan. So the Prince brought a pair of shears and cut the Dragon into equal lengths to use on his violin. Thus the wicked monster was made good use of at last, for the strings had an excellent tone.

And that was not only the end of the Purple Dragon, but there were two other ends of him; one tied to a tree in the mountains and the other fastened to a post of the castle.

That same day the Monarch of Mo gave a magnificent feast to all his people to celebrate the destruction of their greatest foe; and ever afterward the gardens of the Beautiful Valley were free from molestation.

<eob>

Naughty Miss Bunny: A Story For Little Children

By

Clara Mulholland



Chapter I.

Only For Fun.


"How nice!" cried Bunny. "Mama has sent for Miss Kerr, so I can do exactly as I like for a little while. I am very glad papa brought us up here, for it is so pretty and so cool, and these gardens are so lovely;" and she gazed about her at the garden and the lawn and then at the distant sea that lay just beyond them, sparkling and dancing in the sunshine. "If I had no governess," continued the little girl, "and no lessons, and no nasty nurse to say, 'Sit still, Miss Bunny,' and 'Don't make dirty your frock, Miss Bunny,' I think I should be jolly -- yes, that's papa's word, jolly. But, oh dear, big people are so happy, for they can do what they like, but chindrel must do everything they are told." And quite forgetting her pretty white frock and dainty sash, and the many orders she had received not on any account to soil them, she lay back comfortably upon the grass.

Bunny, whose real name was Ethel Dashwood, was six years old, and was one of the spoilt "chindrel," as she called children. If she had had brothers and sisters, very likely Bunny would have been kept in better order, but as she was quite alone no one could bear to correct her, and so she became very hard to manage indeed. Her papa indulged her, and thought she could do nothing wrong, whilst her mama was so delicate that she was very seldom able to look after her little girl, and left her to the care of a kind-hearted, but foolish old nurse, who allowed her to have her own way in everything and never for an instant thought of finding fault with her.

This was all very well so long as Bunny was no more than a baby, but when she came to be six years old Mr. Dashwood suddenly found that her little girl was much too naughty, so she resolved to make a change in the nursery, that would, she hoped, have a good effect in every way. First of all old nurse was sent away, and a trim French maid, with a quick sharp manner, was engaged to take her place.

Bunny was sorry to part with nurse, who had always been kind to her, but Sophie was so amusing, spoke such funny English, and sang such merry songs that the little girl soon ceased to fret, and became quite pleased with her new maid.

The change of nurses Bunny bore in a quiet way that surprised everyone in the house; but when her mother told her that she had arranged with a young lady to come and live with them and be her governess, the little girl burst into a passion, and stamping her foot declared she would have no one to teach her, that she would say no lessons, and that her mama was very unkind to think of such a thing.

Mrs. Dashwood was greatly shocked, and unable to understand such naughtiness, rang the bell and ordered Sophie to take the child away, and Bunny was carried off weeping bitterly. But this fit of anger only made her mama more anxious to have some one to look after her daughter, and in a few days the governess arrived, and Bunny was set down to learn to read and write.

This was a great change for the neglected child, and had her teacher been a sensible person Bunny would doubtless have become a good little girl in time. But unfortunately the governess was very foolish, and thought it much easier to allow her pupil to have her own way than to take the trouble to make her do what was right, and so instead of doing the child good she did her harm, and Bunny became more and more naughty every day.

This was in June, and as London grew very hot and dusty, Mrs. Dashwood declared they must all go away to the country, and her husband, who wished them to have a nice holiday, went off at once and took a beautiful house at Scarborough.

Bunny was enchanted, and made up her mind to have great fun at the seaside, and as the very day before they left town, her governess was obliged to leave in a great hurry on account of a death in her family, the little girl made up her mind that she was going to have perfect freedom to do exactly what she liked and to play every day upon the sea-beach. Sophie did not trouble her much except when she was cross, and so Bunny set off to Scarborough in very high spirits.

The house her papa had taken for them was a pretty rambling old place, standing on a height just above the sea, and surrounded by spreading trees and large gardens full of sweet-scented flowers. A most charming spot indeed, and to the little girl from hot dusty London it seemed a perfect paradise.

The first days in the country passed away very happily, and Bunny was not as wild as might have been expected by those who knew her, when one day, as she ran through the hall, she stopped in astonishment before a large trunk, and cried out to the butler, who was standing near, "Who does that belong to, Ashton? Has a visitor come to stay with us?"

"A visitor, miss? No, a new governess, miss -- she's just gone in to speak to your mama;" and he hurried away to his pantry.

"Nasty thing!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and growing very red and angry. Just when I thought I was going to be happy all by myself! But I'll be so naughty, and so troublesome, that she'll soon go away. I'll be ten times as hard to manage as I was before. She'll not get hold of me to-night any way, and scampering off into the garden she hid herself among the trees.

But the new governess, Miss Kerr, was a very different person from the last, and resolved to do her best to make her little pupil a good well-behaved child. She was a kind, warm-hearted girl, who had a great many small brothers and sisters of her own, and she never doubted that in a short time Bunny would become as good and obedient as they were. She soon found, however, that the task was not as easy as she had fancied, and when she had been a few days at Holly Lodge she began to fear that it would be a very long time before her lectures and advice would have the smallest effect upon the wayward little child.

She had now been a whole week in charge of the girl, and she feared that Bunny would never learn to love her.

About half an hour before our story begins, Bunny and her governess had been seated on the lawn together. Mrs. Dashwood sent to ask Miss Kerr to go to her for a few moments, and that young lady had hastened into the house, leaving her little charge upon the grass with her book.

"Do not stir from here till I return, Bunny," she said; "you can go over that little lesson again, and I shall not be long."

But as time went on and she did not return the child grew restless, and feeling very tired of sitting still, began to look about to see what there was for her to do.

"Governesses are great bothers," she grumbled to herself as she rolled about on the grass. "And now as Miss Kerr does not seem to be coming back, I think I will have a climb up that tree -- it looks so easy I'm sure I could go up ever so high. There's nobody looking, so I'll just see if I can go right away up -- as high as that little bird up there."

Bunny was very quick in her movements, and a minute later her white frock and blue sash were fluttering about among the leaves and branches of a fine old tree that grew in the middle of the lawn.

"Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to be a bird -- cheep, cheep! If I only had wings I should just feel like one this minute, perched up so high," she said with a merry laugh, as she jumped and wriggled about on the branch.

But she quite forgot that the nursery window overlooked the lawn, and that Sophie was sure to be sitting there at her work. In a moment, however, this fact was recalled to her mind by the sound of a wild shriek from the terrified maid.

"Mademoiselle! Miss Bunny, you want to kill yourself, or tear your sweet frock. Ah! naughty child, get down this instants, or I will tell monsieur your papa."

This was the one threat that had any power to move Miss Bunny, so down she scrambled and ran away as fast as she could over the grass.

There was still no sign of Miss Kerr, so the child wandered about, wondering what was keeping her governess, and wishing she had something to do, when all at once her eyes fell on a beautiful rose-tree, almost weighed down with the quantity of its flowers, and she flew at it in delight and began to pull off the lovely blossoms and pin one of them into the front of her frock. But like most foolish children she broke them off so short that there was no stalk left with which to fasten them, and so the poor rose fell upon the ground, and the little girl impatiently snatched at another and dragged it ruthlessly from the branch. This went on for some time, and would probably have gone on until not a flower remained upon the bush, had not Sophie again made herself heard from the nursery window.

"Miss Bunny, how can you derange the beautiful roses?" she cried indignantly. "There will be not one left to give to your papa when he comes home, and you know he loves those sweet flowers so much."

"Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bunny. "But there are some dear little buds, and I will just leave them for papa. Who knows perhaps they may be roses by to-morrow evening!" and away she flitted like a white-winged butterfly in search of some other sweet flowers that she might make her own, without fear of further interruption from sharp-tongued Sophie.

At last, when she had such a large bouquet that her little hands could scarcely hold it, she wearied of her occupation, and stepping softly to the drawing-room window, she peeped in just to see what Miss Kerr and her mama could be doing that kept them shut up there for so long together.

"I'll take mama these flowers," she said to herself, "and I am sure they will make her headache better. I'll just tap gently at the window and Miss Kerr will let me in, and I'll be so good and quiet that mama will not mind me being with her while she talks."

Bunny waited for some minutes, hoping to be admitted to the room, but no notice was taken of her knocking -- for the ladies were too much absorbed in their own affairs to trouble themselves about her.

Mrs. Dashwood lay on the sofa, and her face had a flushed anxious expression, as she listened to Miss Kerr, who was seated on a stool by her side, and seemed to be talking very earnestly, but her voice was low, and as the window was shut Bunny could not hear a word she said.

"Oh dear, what a lot Miss Kerr has got to say!" cried the little girl impatiently. "She seems as if she had forgotten all about me. I am tired of being out here all alone, so I'll just run in and play with my dollies."

Now the nearest way into the house was up a flight of steps and in by the dining-room window, which was like a large glass door, and always lay open in the most tempting manner possible.

So up these steps went Miss Bunny, her hands full of flowers and her mind bent on mischief, if she could only meet with anything to do that would amuse her and give her some fun.

The room into which she stepped was a very pretty one. It was very nearly round, with many high windows looking out upon the pleasant grounds and blue sparkling sea. Upon the walls were pictures of fine thoroughbred horses, some of them with their little foals beside them, others with a surly-looking old dog or a tiny kitten, their favourite stable companion and friend. Bunny loved these pictures and had given the horses pet names of her own, by which she insisted on calling them, although their own well-known names were printed under them, for they were all horses that had won a great number of races during their lives, and so had become celebrated.

The round table in the middle of the room was laid ready for dinner, and looked very inviting with its prettily arranged flowers, handsome silver, and shining glass.

"Dear me, how nice it all looks!" said Bunny, as she marched round the table on tip-toe. "One, two, three, four places. Why, it must be for company. Well, I hope there will be somebody nice to talk to me. I must get Sophie to put on my pretty new frock. But oh, dear, what fun it would be just to put a tiny, little drop of water into every glass! Wouldn't old Ashton wonder -- just when he thinks everything is nice for dinner? I will! I'll do it! It will be such fun! Oh, I'd like to see his face; won't he be horribly angry?"

Throwing her flowers on the floor, Bunny sprang to the side-board, and seizing a water-jug she climbed up on each chair in turn and poured a few drops of water into every glass all round the dinner-table.

Just as she came to the last wine-glass and held the jug ready to let the water fall into it, the door opened suddenly and the solemn-looking old butler entered the room.

"Miss Bunny!" he exclaimed, and he looked so stern and angry that the little girl felt frightened, and dropping the jug, scrambled off the chair, seized her flowers, and ran out of his sight as fast as she could.

"I only did it for fun, Ashton," she called back from the door. "It is clean water, so it won't do any harm."

"Harm, indeed!" grumbled Ashton; "just as I thought I had everything done until dinner time. Now I must begin and rub up all this glass again;" and he began at once to remove the glasses from the table. "Little himp that she is, that Miss Bunny! A perfect himp, and if I had the governessing of her for sometime I'd -- I'd -- bah! there's that bell again! Some folks is in a mighty hurry," and full of anger and indignation against the little girl whom he could not punish for her naughty trick, Ashton hurried to the hall door, longing for something upon which he could vent his wrath.

Bunny was skipping merrily in the hall, and the pretty roses that she had gathered with so much pleasure lay scattered on the ground. This sight did not tend to put the butler in a better temper, but he made no remark, and passing by the little girl without a word he opened the hall door with a jerk. A poor boy with a thin pinched face stood upon the step.

"If you please, sir, will you give me a bit of bread, for I am very hungry?" he said in an imploring voice, as he gazed up into the butler's face.

"There's nothing for you. How dare you come here with your wretched lies?" cried Ashton fiercely, and he shut the door with a bang.

"That's not true, Ashton," cried Bunny darting forward and opening the door again. "Wait, little boy, and I will get you something!" and before the astonished butler knew where he was, she had rushed into the dining-room, and came back carrying a large loaf and a pat of butter that she had found upon the side-board.

"You must not give that away, Miss Bunny," cried the man; "that is in my charge, and I cannot allow you to give it to a beggar;" and he tried to drag the bread from her hands.

"You nasty man! I will give it to him if I like," she screamed. "My papa always lets me do what I like, and you are only a servant -- and I will give it;" and she struggled to get away from him. "I only put the water in your glasses for fun -- but I'm very glad I did it -- and I wish I had put dirty water in -- and I wish -- let me go -- I'll tell papa, and he'll be very angry and -- "

"Bunny," said a soft reproachful voice, "my dear child, what is the matter?" and Miss Kerr laid her hand gently upon the little girl's shoulder.

"That nasty Ashton won't let me give this loaf to a poor boy who is there begging," cried Bunny; "he's very hungry and I want -- "

"Ashton is quite right, Bunny," said Miss Kerr gently; "give him back the loaf, dear. It is not yours, so you have no right to give it away. Have you no money of your own to give the boy?"

"No, I have not," cried Bunny bursting into tears, "and I am sure papa would not mind my giving the loaf away -- he never does. Ashton's a nasty, cross old thing;" and she flung the loaf on the floor.

"Ashton is only doing his duty, Bunny, and you must not speak in that way."

"Well, I wish he wouldn't do his duty then," sobbed the little girl; "it's a great shame of him to do his duty, when I tell him not."

"Come, now, dear, dry your eyes and give this to the poor boy," said Miss Kerr kindly; "see, I will lend you threepence to give to him, and when your papa gives you some pocket-money you can repay me. The boy will like the money better than the bread, I daresay, and you will feel that you are giving something that is really your own."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Bunny with delight, her tears drying up in an instant. "You are good! You are kind!" and throwing her arms round Miss Kerr's neck she kissed her over and over again; then seizing the pennies she flew to the door, and handing them to the boy said in a subdued voice: "Here, boy, a good lady gave me these pennies for you. I am a greedy little girl and spend all my own money on sweets, but I'll save up and pay Miss Kerr back very soon."

"That is enough, Bunny," said the governess, taking the child by the hand. "I have something to tell you, dear, so come with me now."

"Very well, I will come," answered Bunny quite meekly, and shutting the door, she followed Miss Kerr down the hall.




Chapter II.

Pleasant News For Bunny.


"And now, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, as she led the little girl into the library and took her on her knee, "I am afraid you have been a very naughty child. I do not like to scold you, you know, but when children are told to stay in one place they should do so, and not run about all over the house in the way you seem to have been doing."

"But you were so long away," replied Bunny, "and I was tired sitting there all by myself. Sophie kept screaming at me not to touch the flowers, so I had nothing to do."

"And what about the lesson? Did you learn that?"

"No, I didn't, it was so stupid," said Bunny, "I got quite tired of it, and all the letters went wrong, so I thought I would go to the nursery and play with my toys, and then when I went into the dining-room there was nobody there, and I thought it would be great fun to tease old Ashton, so I jumped on the chairs and poured water into all the glasses, and he was so angry; and oh it was fun to see his face when he cried out, 'Miss Bunny!'" and carried away with delight at the recollection of her naughty trick, the little girl clapped her hands and laughed long and merrily.

"But, my dear child, do you not know that that was extremely naughty conduct?" said Miss Kerr gravely. "It is very wicked to make anyone angry, and it was very unkind of you to play such a trick upon Ashton. How would you like if he were to spoil your toys or break your dolls for you?"

"Oh, I shouldn't like it at all," answered Bunny; "I'd be awfully cross, and I'd get papa to send him away. That would be a good way to punish him, I know."

"Well, Bunny, you think you could punish him but he has no way of punishing you, so you should always be very careful not to annoy or trouble him. Besides, my child, we should never do anything to other people that we know we would not like them to do to us. God wishes us to be good and kind to everyone about us, remember, and to be unkind is to disobey Him."

"Oh, then, I'm very sorry that I was so naughty," cried Bunny, "for Sophie told me this morning that God has been good and kind to me always, for she says He gave me all the nice things I have, and my papa and mama, so I should not like to vex Him when He has been so kind to me."

"If my little Bunny will just remember that, whenever she feels inclined to be naughty she will soon find it easy to be good, and she will be a much happier child, for then she will know that she is pleasing God who has been good to her."

"Oh, I will try, dear Miss Kerr, indeed I will," said the little girl; "I'll be good and kind to God, and you, and papa, and mama, because you are all so good to me;" and she laid her soft cheek against Miss Kerr's face.

"That is right, darling," said the governess with a smile; "and now that I have given you a little lecture, and you have promised to be good, I have a piece of news to tell you that will, I am sure, give you great pleasure;" and she smoothed the child's fair hair with her hand.

"Good news! Oh, dear Miss Kerr, do tell me what it is," cried the little girl eagerly.

"Well, I have been having a long talk with your mama, Bunny, and -- "

"Oh, yes, I know that. I saw you talk, talk, talk, only I couldn't hear what you were saying, because the window was shut."

"No, I suppose not, dear, but listen. Your mama says you have an uncle in India who has a little son of seven years old -- "

"Oh, I know that, Miss Kerr! Why, that's no news! Of course I know about Uncle Jim and Cousin Mervyn. I never saw them though, but still I know they are in India, an awfully hot place it is, Sophie says."

"Yes, so it is. But would you like to see this Cousin Mervyn, do you think?"

"Oh, I'd just love to see him -- but is he black? Sophie says the people in those countries are black. Oh, I shouldn't like a black cousin, Miss Kerr, indeed I should not," cried Bunny in a piteous voice.

"You little goose, he's not black at all," cried Miss Kerr, laughing at the little girl's look of consternation; "I have never seen him, but his papa is supposed to be like your mama, so I daresay he will have fair hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks something very like your own."

"Oh, I'm glad he is like that, for indeed I could not bear a black cousin. Once I had a black doll given to me for a present, and I screamed and screamed till nurse put it away out of the nursery."

"It is certainly very lucky that your cousin is not black, for it would never do to scream at him, would it?" said Miss Kerr, "for he has arrived in London and is coming here with your papa to-morrow evening."

"Oh, I am glad! Oh, I am glad!" sang Bunny, dancing round the room on the points of her toes. "What fun it will be to have a little cousin to play with! Will he stay long, Miss Kerr?"

"Yes, a long time, Bunny," answered the governess. "It is too hot in India for him to stay there any longer -- indeed they think he has stayed there too long already, and your mama has promised to take care of him until he is old enough to go to school."

"Oh, that will be a nice long visit," said the little girl; "he'll be staying with us just as if it was home, and he was my own brother."

"Yes, dear, just so. He will be like your brother, I am sure; and he is to have his lessons with you. I am to teach you both."

"Yes, and I'll lend him my pony and I'll let him play with my kittens. And oh, Miss Kerr, I'll give him tea out of my own little tea-set; and we'll have such fun."

"Yes, dear, it will be very nice, and I hope that little Bunny will be a good child and not make her cousin naughty and teach him mischievous tricks."

"Oh, I'll be good, indeed, dear Miss Kerr. I won't want to be naughty so much when I have someone to play with, for it's always when I feel lonely that I want to play tricks on people."

"Is that so really, you poor mite? Well, you will not be lonely any more, Bunny, and I hope you will try hard and learn to read soon. When children can read they do not want a companion so much, because they can read pretty stories about other children and so amuse themselves for hours together."

"Oh, I don't want to read stories one bit," said Bunny with a pout. "Sophie and mama read lots of stories to me, so it doesn't matter whether I can read them for myself or not."

"And what will you do when you grow up, Bunny? Don't you think you would feel very much ashamed if you could not read when you had grown to be a tall lady?"

"Oh, no one would ever know, for I am sure people never ask grown-up ladies if they can read. Do they, now? No one ever asks you or mama if you know how to read."

"No, people never ask us if we can read, certainly, Bunny," answered Miss Kerr laughing, "but they would soon find out if we did not, I can tell you. People who cannot read seldom learn those things that everyone should know, and so they are ignorant and stupid. Surely you would not like Mervyn to beat you at his lessons, would you?"

"Oh, but he's older than me," said Bunny, "and, of course, he knows a great deal more than me, and --  -- "

"Than I, Bunny, say he is older than I am," corrected Miss Kerr. "Yes, he is older, but I do not think he knows more than you do. His papa says he has never been taught anything but his letters, and he can hardly speak English."

"Oh, dear! Does he only speak French then?" said Bunny with a look of alarm.

"No, Hindustanee. That is the Indian language, you know, and as he always had a native nurse he does not know English very perfectly. But we will soon teach him, won't we, dear?"

"Oh, yes, it will be fun, and I'll try very hard to learn to read well before he does! It will be nice to have a cousin, won't it? I wonder what he's like. But I'm sure he'll be nice. I know he will. Don't you think he'll be nice, Miss Kerr?"

"Yes, dear, I think it is very likely, but you will know all about him to-morrow."

"Oh, I wish to-morrow would come, quick, quick!" cried Bunny; "the days and the hours go over so slowly, and I do want to see that little Indian."

"Poor little boy! I daresay he will be very tired and shy when he arrives. It is a sad thing to leave father and friends and come among strangers, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, and there were tears in her eyes as she gazed out over the garden.

"Dear Miss Kerr, why should you feel sorry for Mervyn? I'm so glad that he is coming here," said Bunny softly, and she put her little hand into Miss Kerr's. "Why should you cry for him? We will be very kind to him, you and I, and papa and mama."

"Yes, darling, of course," answered Miss Kerr stroking the little hand. "But I was not thinking of Mervyn, but of someone I know, who had to leave her dear home, her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, to go be governess to a wild little girl, who did not care to learn her lessons and did not love her at all."

"Why, that's like me and you! But I do love you; oh, I do love you!" cried the child, and she flung her arms round Miss Kerr's neck. "You are so good and kind, and I am sorry you had to leave your little brothers and sisters, and I won't be wild, and I'll love you very much."

"If you do, Bunny, you will make me very happy, and I think you will soon be a very good little girl," and Miss Kerr kissed the eager face over and over again. "But run away now and get ready for tea. I have some letters to write for the post, and I shall just have time if you run off at once."

"Very well," said Bunny jumping off Miss Kerr's knee. "I must go to tell Sophie the news." And away she ran, calling, "Sophie, Sophie," as she went up the stairs.

"She has a good little heart, and will become a fine character in time, if she is properly managed," said Miss Kerr to herself as the child left the room. "But she has been terribly spoilt and neglected. If the boy from India is as great a pickle as Miss Bunny, I shall have my hands very full indeed," and with something between a sigh and a laugh, Miss Kerr seated herself at the table and began to write her letters.




Chapter III.

Bunny Gets Up Early.


For a long time after she went to bed that night, Bunny could not go to sleep, and lay tossing about from side to side, wishing over and over again that it was morning, that she might get up and put all her toys and books in order, so that they should look as nice as possible when she came to show them to the new cousin.

At last she dropped off into a sound sleep, and did not wake again until the sun was shining brightly into her room. She jumped up and looked about to see if Sophie had gone to get her bath ready. But the maid lay fast asleep in her bed at the other side of the room, and poor Bunny felt sure she would not get up for a very long time yet. She felt ready to cry at the thoughts of lying there for so long doing nothing, whilst the sun was shining so brightly over the sea and dancing so merrily up and down the nursery walls. Suddenly, however, a happy idea presented itself to her mind, and she sprang out of her crib with a soft well-pleased little laugh.

"It will be such fun," she whispered to herself, "and Sophie will get such a start when she sees the crib empty! But I must go about very gently or she might wake up and send me back to bed."

So the little girl slipped very quietly about the room, and struggled bravely with buttons and tapes, as she did her best to dress herself without the assistance of her maid.

"They're all upside down and tied in big knots," she said ruefully, "but Sophie will just have to do them all over again when she gets up. Oh, dear, where are my boots, I wonder? I can't see them anywhere about. Well, I must go out in these, I suppose;" and sitting down on the floor she put on a pair of dainty Queen Anne shoes, with satin bows and steel stars, that she had worn the evening before when she went down to the drawing-room to see her mama.

At this moment Sophie turned round with a loud snore, and Bunny gave a start of alarm, as she looked quickly towards the bed. If Sophie awoke and saw what she was doing, all her fun would surely be spoiled, and she would be sent back to her crib in disgrace.

Very cautiously then she got up off the floor, seized her hat that lay on the chest of drawers, and opening the door as softly as possible, flew along the corridor and away down the stairs.

Not a servant was to be seen about, for it was not yet seven o'clock, and so Bunny passed on without any interruption into the dining-room, and stood on tip-toe at the side-board looking anxiously to see if there was anything there for her to eat. But there was not even a crust to be seen.

"Nasty old Ashton!" she cried, "he might have left a few pieces of bread for me; but he wouldn't, I'm sure, even if he had known I was coming. I must get something for my dear pony, now that I am up, so I'll go off to the larder and see what I can find there."

So away went Bunny in high glee at her clever thought; but when she arrived at the larder door she found it locked, and she was about to turn away sad and disappointed when a sudden jingling of keys was heard in the passage, the kitchen door opened, and Mrs. Brown, the cook, appeared upon the scene.

"Miss Bunny, dear, what brings you here at such an hour? And law but you are dressed queer! But, indeed, them Frenchies are little good with their new-fangled ways. It's nurse that used to dress you smart, deary, and as for Sophie, she beats all;" and the good woman held up her hands in dismay at the child's untidy appearance.

"Oh, Sophie didn't dress me at all!" cried Bunny. "She doesn't even know I'm up, for she's fast asleep. But I was so tired lying there listening to Sophie snoring that I thought I would get up and go out. I want to take my pony a piece of bread, so please give me some for him and some for myself, Mrs. Brown, for I'm very hungry."

"Bless your heart, of course I will," cried the good-natured woman, as she unlocked the door, and cutting two large slices of bread and butter, handed them to the little girl.

"Oh, thank you," said Bunny; "Frisk will like this, I am sure. Good morning, Mrs. Brown, and mind you don't tell Sophie where I am, if she comes to look for me."

"Don't be afraid, deary, I won't give her any news of you. I don't admire her and her stuck-up French airs, so she won't get much out of me."

But Bunny did not wait to hear the end of the good woman's speech against poor Sophie; she had got all she wanted, so away she ran to pay her morning visit to her little pony.

When Frisk heard the stable door opening and a footstep approaching his stall, he whisked his tail and twisted his head as well as he could, to see who was coming to visit him at such an early hour. And when he found it was his little mistress, and heard her voice at his ear he neighed with delight, and rubbed his velvety nose up and down her frock.

"Dear old Frisk," she cried, patting his neck, "there's a little cousin coming all the way from India to stay with us. Sophie is not glad, but I am, and Miss Kerr is, and you must be glad too, old man. And he's not black at all, Frisk, oh, no, and it is very, very silly of you to think so, sir. You must be good to him, dear little pony, and give him nice rides, and then he'll love you, just as I do, and we'll all be friends together. So now eat this, little Frisk," she continued, and breaking off a piece of the bread, she held it up to the pony's nose.

But suddenly Bunny gave a little shriek, and drew her hand quickly away; for without intending it, Frisk had actually bitten his kind little mistress. The bread she offered him was so small, and his mouth was so big, that the child's fingers got rather far in among his teeth, and when Frisk's white grinders came down upon the dainty offered him, they met rather sharply upon poor Bunny's thumb. The skin was slightly cut, and as a little stream of blood ran down her finger the child grew frightened and began to cry.

"Oh, Frisk, Frisk, why did you bite? I never thought you would do such a thing," she cried reproachfully. "I never, never knew you do such a thing before;" and sinking down on the straw by his side, she tried to stop the blood by rolling her finger tightly up in the corner of her pinafore. "Just when I wanted to tell the new cousin that you were a good, kind pony, you go and bite me -- oh dear, oh dear, I am very sorry, Frisk, I am indeed."

But in spite of the little girl's sorrowful lecture, Frisk did not in the least know that he had done anything wrong, and poking his soft nose into Bunny's lap, he carried off the remaining piece of bread and ate it with much relish.

"You artful old thing," cried Bunny, delighted with his cleverness, and smiling through her tears, "if you hadn't bit me I'd have said you were the best and dearest little pony alive;" and forgetting her anger at him for hurting her, she jumped up and patted and kissed his soft silky nose.

"Where is Mademoiselle Bunny? Ah! that child will be the death of me. Jean, have you seen Meess Bunny anywhere about?" cried Sophie, just outside the stable door; and the little girl knew that her hour was come and that she was going to get a good scolding.

"Oh, Miss Bunny is in there, talking to Frisk, Mamzelle Sophie," answered the groom.

"Little naughty one! Ah, these English children are so dreadful!" cried Sophie, and in a moment Bunny was dragged out from her seat on the straw and carried away to the nursery.

"Oh!" she screamed as soon as they were inside the door, "what is that I see on your dress, mademoiselle? Blood, I declare! Oh, what will your mama say? She will send away that beast of a pony I am sure, and then you will not make such early walks to the stable."

"Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't tell! don't tell!" cried Bunny, "Frisk did not mean to hurt me I am sure, and it's nearly well now. Look, it has stopped bleeding already, so don't tell mama, pray don't," and the little girl raised her eyes full of tears to the maid's face.

"Well, I won't tell if you will promise me never to slip out of your bed and away out of the house again as you have done just now."

"Oh, I never will, I never will, Sophie!" cried Bunny, "but do say you won't tell. I couldn't bear to see Frisk sent away."

"Well, well, don't cry any more," said Sophie good-naturedly. "Be a good enfant, and I will say not anything about it."

"Oh! you dear, darling Sophie, I'll be so good, so good!" cried the little girl, "I'll be so good that you'll never have to scold me any more."

"Ma foi, what a change that will be!" cried Sophie, "if you get so good as all that I will send for the doctor."

"For the doctor!" exclaimed Bunny in surprise. "Why would you send for him?"

"Good gracious, mademoiselle, because I will surely think you are ill if you get to be an angel like that; but I am very certain I shall have to scold you many times before this evening comes."

"Very likely, Sophie, but still I'm good now," said Bunny with a merry little laugh, and as the maid gave the last touch to her hair, the last pull to her sash, she ran out of the nursery and away to her mama with whom she always had her breakfast.

Bunny was in a wild state of excitement all that day, and Sophie and Miss Kerr found it very hard to keep her in order and prevent her disturbing her mama, who was not well, and could not bear much noise.

"Oh, dear, how long the day is! How long the day is!" she cried over and over again. "I don't think evening will ever come, Miss Kerr, I don't, indeed."

"It will come fast enough, Bunny dear, if you will only have patience. Try and forget that you are expecting anything to happen."

"I wish I could! I wish I could! But I do so wish to see what Mervyn is like."

"You impatient little goose, do try and think of something else and time will go over much faster. But I tell you what, Bun," said Miss Kerr, when they had finished their early dinner, "we will go and take a good run on the sands and that will pass the afternoon very nicely for us."

"But they might come when we are away, and that would be dreadful."

"No, they won't, because they can't," said Miss Kerr with a smile. "The train does not come in until seven, and it is only three now, so you see we have plenty of time for a nice walk."




Chapter IV.

Bunny Gets A Fright.


"Do be quick, Sophie," cried Bunny as she rushed into the nursery after her walk upon the sands, "Miss Kerr says it is half-past five, and papa and Mervyn will be here at seven, so do be quick and dress me as fast as ever you can, for I want to be down in the hall, ready to jump out at them the minute they come to the door."

"Indeed," said Sophie without moving from her chair at the window. "What haste we are in, certainly. But you may just keep still, Miss Bunny, for I am not going to touch you for one half hour. What is the use for me to dress you now, when long before seven you would be so black as a sweep again, I know."

"Oh, what a bother!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and flinging her pretty white hat upon the floor. "You are a nasty thing, and I wish you had not come to be my maid at all, for you never do anything I ask you to do. I wish dear old nurse was back with me again, she used to be so nice, and always did whatever I wanted."

"Old nurse was an old silly," answered Sophie, stitching away at her work. "She neg-lect you and make you so naughty, and it is for me to keep you in order and make you good."

"Well, I won't be kept in order, and I won't be made good -- not one bit," cried Bunny bursting into tears. "It's very unkind of you not to dress me in time to see my papa, and he'll be very angry with you."

"Come, Miss Bunny, don't be a silly baby," said Sophie, "I'll dress you soon enough, do not fear that. You had so much best go and make tidy that doll's house, for the little cousin will be ashamed to see it in so much of disorder."

"I don't want to tidy my doll's house, and I don't care whether Mervyn likes it or not, not a bit!" said Bunny, and taking off one little glove she threw it into the very furthest corner of the room, and then rolling the other into a ball she threw it at Sophie's head as she sat bending over her work.

But the maid did not take the slightest notice of the young lady, and without another word went quietly on with her sewing.

When Bunny saw that Sophie was really determined not to dress her for some time, she sat down on the floor in silence, and leaning her head up against the side of her crib, kicked about for some minutes in a very ill-tempered way indeed. After a while she grew tired of this conduct, which to her great surprise did not seem to make Sophie the least bit angry, and not knowing what to do with herself she sat staring about the room with a very sulky expression on her little face.

But by degrees the tears dried up, the cross look disappeared, and jumping suddenly to her feet, she trotted off to the other end of the room. Pulling open the wide door of the doll's house, she set to work very industriously to put it in order.

She brushed the carpets, dusted the chairs, shook out the dolls' dresses and set them out in the drawing-room as if they were waiting to receive their visitors.

"Now it's tidy, Sophie," she cried with a bright little smile. "Mervyn will think it a very nice doll's house. Won't he?"

"Yes, my dear enfant, I am sure he will," said Sophie kindly, "and now as you have been good and quiet for so long, I will begin to dress you if you like."

"Oh, that is a dear good Sophie. I am so afraid that I shall not be ready when papa comes."

"You will be ready, never fear," said Sophie, and taking off the child's frock, she began to wash her face and hands.

"You hurt, Sophie, you hurt," cried Bunny pettishly, as the maid combed out her long fair hair.

"Bah, no I don't hurt you, mademoiselle, except when you pull your head aside. But in truth it is hard to comb your hair properly when you move and fidget about. You are very difficult to manage to-day."

"I tell you, you do hurt me -- you pull as hard as anything," cried Bunny growing very red.

"Very well, miss, if you are in such humour," cried Sophie, "you may just stand there till you get back to your temper again. I'm going into the next room to get your frock, and I hope that when I come back you will be quiet and let me dress your hair like a little lady," and the maid flounced out of the nursery, leaving Bunny standing before the glass in her short white petticoat, with one shoe off and the other on, her hair hanging in disorder about her shoulders, and her face puckered up in dismay at Sophie's sudden and unexpected departure.

"Oh, why was I so cross about my hair?" she cried. "Papa and Mervyn will be here directly, and just look at the state I am in. What shall I do? What shall I do? Sophie, I'll be good. Do come back, and get me ready to go down."

But Sophie did not answer, nor did she return, and poor Bunny sat down on the edge of her crib, and in spite of all the efforts she made to keep them back, the big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel below, and brushing away her tears, the little girl started to her feet and ran over to the window.

A cab covered with luggage was coming in at the big gate, and in a minute she saw her papa nodding gaily up to his little Bunny, with a bright well-pleased smile upon his dear face.

Without a moment's thought as to the state she was in, or of what her papa or the little boy from India might think of her in such a condition, Bunny dropped the blind, and with a joyful cry of "Papa, papa, my own dear papa," she rushed out of the nursery and away down the stairs.

"My little darling! My sweet little Bun," exclaimed Mr. Dashwood, as the small wild-looking figure came running along the hall and jumped into his arms. "Why, dear, why did you come out of the nursery before you were dressed?" he said, as he smoothed back the ruffled hair and kissed the hot cheeks of the excited child. "You are in a strange state to receive visitors, Bunny dear, and I am afraid cousin Mervyn will be shocked at my wild girl, for he is a very tidy little man, I can tell you. Mervyn, this is your cousin Ethel, commonly called Bunny, I hope you will be very good friends," and he put out his hand to a pale gentle-looking boy of about seven years old, who was clinging shyly to the skirts of an Indian Ayah, as though afraid to let her go from beside him for an instant.

When Bunny raised her head from her papa's shoulder to look at her new cousin, her eyes suddenly lighted upon the grinning black face of the strange foreign-looking woman, and with one wild yell of terror she turned away, and buried her little face in her father's coat.

"Oh, send that dreadful thing away!" she cried, "I'm not half so naughty as I used to be! And I have promised Miss Kerr to be so good! Oh, papa, papa, don't give your little Bunny to that dreadful black woman."

"My darling, that is Mervyn's nurse, and he loves her very dearly. See how he clings to her and begs her to stay with him! Just look how kind she is to him!"

"Oh, no, no, papa, she's a bogie, I am sure," cried the child, clinging to him more nervously than ever. "Sophie always tells me a bogie will come for me if I am naughty, and I was naughty just now because Sophie pulled my hair, and I was cross, and cried and stamped my foot and -- "

"My poor foolish little girl, she is not a bogie, but a good kind woman -- her face is black, but she can't help that. It was very wrong of Sophie to frighten you about bogies, very wrong -- there is no such thing in the world."

"Ah, monsieur, monsieur, I'm so sorry Meess Bunny has been so naughty to run down to you in such a state," cried Sophie running into the hall with a very angry look on her face. "I just left her for a minute to get her frock, and when I came back she was gone."

"Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't scold me, please," cried Bunny, "I'll go back to the nursery, and let you dress me now. Oh, take me away quick, for if I see that dreadful face, I shall scream again, I know I shall;" and with one little hand over her eyes that she might not see the terrible creature again, Bunny flung herself into Sophie's arms and was carried off upstairs to have her toilet completed for dinner.

"Poor little monkey!" said Mr. Dashwood laughing, "I never thought she would be so easily frightened. Ashton, take the nurse down to the housekeeper's room, and tell the servants to look after her, and give her her dinner. Come, Mervyn, my little man, I want to take you to see your aunt."

"Yes, uncle," answered the little boy in a shy nervous voice, and looking up into the Ayah's face to see what she wished him to do.

"Go at once," she said in Hindustanee, and then Mervyn went up to his uncle, and putting his little hand into his, allowed him to lead him down the passage to the drawing-room.




Chapter V.

The Little Indian.


Mrs Dashwood lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, and Miss Kerr sat beside her reading aloud.

The two children, Bunny and Mervyn, were seated side by side upon a large white woolly rug in the bow-window, and they whispered together in very low tones lest they should disturb the ladies by their noise.

Bunny was nursing a pretty black kitten, with a red ribbon round its neck, whilst Mervyn sat with his little hands clasped over his knees, looking out at the blue sparkling sea, with a well-pleased expression on his thin pale face.

"What a lovely cool place England is!" he whispered; "it feels so comfortable and nice here, and that sea is so beautiful to look at."

"Yes, to look at," answered Bunny, nodding her head; "but, oh! Mervyn, wouldn't you feel afraid to go into it, and have your face stuck right under the water, and held there till you had no breath, and -- "

"Oh, that would be horrible!" cried Mervyn with a frightened look; "my papa would be angry if I were put into the sea in that way. Oh! I will write and tell him if -- "

"Well, I know he wrote to say that bathing would be very good for you," said Bunny, "and mama told Miss Kerr this very morning she was sure it would be. But I tell you, Mervyn, it's only Sophie that is so rough and nasty. One day I went to bathe with Miss Kerr, and it was lovely! She told me when she was going to dip me, and she let me play at the edge, and I took dolly in and I dipped her, and it was such fun."

"Well, then, I will ask Miss Kerr always to bathe me," replied Mervyn; "I should die, I am sure, if I were pushed under the water and could not get my breath."

"Oh! I was often and often pushed down that way by Sophie, and I didn't die at all; but I kicked and screamed most dreadfully," cried Bunny; "but then, mama says I am very strong, and Sophie said last night that you were a misserble creature, so thin and white."

"Sophie is very rude!" exclaimed Mervyn with a slight flush; "I am not a miserable creature; I can't help being white; everyone is in India, because it's so hot."

"That is funny!" cried the little girl, "for Sophie said all Indians were black, and I thought you would have a little black face like Pussy here, only Miss Kerr told me you would be as white as me; but you're whiter, much whiter," and she laid her small plump pink hand on Mervyn's thin white one.

"I don't like your Sophie," cried Mervyn impatiently; "she talks in such a queer way, and she's not half so nice as my dear old Indian nurse. I do wish she had been able to stay in England with me."

"Oh, I think she was a horrid fright!" cried Bunny, "with her nasty black face and her dreadful flappy wild dress, and I'm sure nobody could understand a word she said."

"I could," said Mervyn with a sigh, "and I liked talking Hindustanee much better than English."

"But it sounds so silly!" cried Bunny; "I think it's a great pity people shouldn't always speak English everywhere, for that would be so plain and easy."

"Well, I would much rather everyone would speak Hindustanee, for that would be much nicer."

"Oh, dear! I don't think so," said Bunny; "and I think you speak English very well."

"Do you?" said Mervyn, smiling; "papa did not; and do you know, I can't always think of the right words for things."

"Oh! just ask me and I will tell you," replied Bunny jauntily, "for I never have to think for my words at all."

"Bunny, dear," said Mrs. Dashwood from her sofa, "I think you have nursed that kitten quite long enough; the poor little thing looks very tired. Put it into its basket like a good child."

"Very well, mama," answered Bunny, and, jumping up, she ran over to a corner of the room where stood a pretty round basket, which was always used as a snug bed for Miss Puss.

Bunny dropped her pet gently in upon the soft cushion, and after much stroking and tucking up, she stole away on tip-toe to her mother's side.

But Pussy was in a playful mood, and as soon as the little girl's back was turned she sprang lightly out of her bed and went scampering gaily round the room.

"Naughty, naughty puss!" cried Bunny laughing, and off she went in pursuit of the runaway.

"Bunny, dear Bunny, I can't bear that noise," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as her little daughter tumbled over a footstool and knocked down a chair. "I can't bear it indeed, dear child, so I think you had better go out. Sophie will take you for a walk, as I want Miss Kerr to read to me."

"Oh, mama! I like Miss Kerr much better than Sophie," cried Bunny, "and so does Mervyn. Do let Miss Kerr come."

"But, Bunny, dear," said Miss Kerr, "you would not like poor mama to have no one to read to her, would you? It is so dull for her all day on the sofa by herself. You would not ask me to leave her, would you?"

"Oh! no, no, dear, darling mama, I will not ask Miss Kerr to come, not for a minute!" cried Bunny as, kneeling beside the sofa, she threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her vehemently. "I could not bear to think of you being lonely, mamey dear. But do let us stay here now, and go out in the afternoon with Miss Kerr. Mervyn can't bear Sophie."

"I am sorry for that, my little man," said Mrs. Dashwood, drawing the boy towards her; "Sophie is sharp and quick, but she is very good-natured, I think, so I hope you will try and like her."

"Oh! yes, aunt," answered Mervyn, flushing, "I only meant that I would rather have my own dear nurse, and that I was very sorry she had been sent away to India again."

"She was not sent away, dear," answered Mrs. Dashwood; "she went by her own wish. She was fond of you, Mervyn, but she did not like to live in England, so she hurried back to India as soon as she could. It will be better for you to learn English well, and try to pick up a little French from Sophie, than to be always talking with an Indian, my child. But the first thing you have to do, Mervyn, is to get fat and rosy like Bunny here. And you must grow tall, dear boy, for you are very, very small for your age; you must grow as fast as you can or this little girl will soon be the tallest," and Mrs. Dashwood pinched her daughter's plump cheek.

"Oh! but mama, dear, he can't make himself grow," remarked Bunny, as she stood up to measure herself with her cousin. "He has not got a key to wind up the works of himself, so he must just wait small till he begins to grow big."

"You are sharp enough, Miss Pert," said her mother, laughing. "I wish you would learn to be more steady and to remember what is said to you."

"Oh! I can remember," cried Bunny gaily; "I've got a splendid memory, haven't I, Miss Kerr?"

"Yes, I think you have, dear," said Miss Kerr gravely; "but I am afraid you do not always remember at the right time. Eh! Bunny?"

"No, I don't," said the little girl, hanging her head; "I quite forgot when I got up and went to feed Frisk. But I don't think God minded that much; it was not much harm."

"God is always displeased at disobedience, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood very seriously. "The first thing God expects of a little child is that she should be obedient, and so my Bunny must try and remember things that she is not allowed to do, and then be very careful not to do them."

"Yes, mama, I will try," said Bunny in a subdued voice.

"That is right, dear, and I hope little Mervyn will do the same."

"Yes, aunt, I will indeed; papa told me to be very good until he came home, and I mean to be," he said, drawing himself up in a determined manner.

"Well, then, I am sure you will do Bunny good and help her to remember. But now run away like good children and tell Sophie to take you out for a walk. It is a lovely morning, and a run on the sands will give you an appetite for your dinner."

"Very well, mama," cried Bunny gaily, and away she darted out of the room singing and shouting at the top of her voice.

"Good morning, aunt," said Mervyn gently, and he followed his little cousin in a slow dignified manner, turning quietly to shut the drawing-room door behind him.

"What a harum-scarum that Bunny is!" said Mrs. Dashwood with a sigh. "It is very hard to make an impression on her."

"Yes, it is certainly, at least for more than a few minutes at a time," answered Miss Kerr; "she is always so ready to be good, no matter what she has done, that it is not easy to scold her much. But she is a good-hearted child, and I am sure in a short time you will see a great change in her."

"I hope so, indeed," said Mrs. Dashwood, "for she is a constant worry at present and extremely hard to manage."




Chapter VI.

Bunny Forgets Again.


Out of the gate and down the road went the two little cousins hand in hand, whilst close behind them walked Sophie, holding up a big umbrella, and carrying a yellow-covered novel under her arm.

On they went; the little ones laughing and talking pleasantly together, until they came to the entrance of the Spa, a gay promenade which the fashionables of the place were in the habit of frequenting in the morning to inhale the sea breezes, listen to sweet music and meet their friends.

Sophie liked the Spa, for there she saw much to delight and amuse her, whilst on the sands she always felt dull and weary.

But Bunny's ideas and those of her maid were not at all the same, for the little girl loved the sands, and could spend hours there digging and building castles of all shapes and sizes. Every day there was an angry dispute between the nurse and child as to where they should spend their time between breakfast and dinner; sometimes one came off victorious and sometimes the other. This morning, as usual, Bunny was quite determined to go on the sands, and Sophie was equally resolved to go down to the Spa.

"Mama said we were to go on the sands, Sophie, and I hate that old Spa," cried Bunny, making a rush towards the steps that led down to the sands; "I've got my spade, and so has Mervyn, and it's very unkind of you not to come there when it looks so nice and we both want to go."

"You'll just please to come where I tell you, mademoiselle," said Sophie, making a dive at the little girl, and dragging her through the turnstile and on to the bridge that led into the Cliff grounds.

"Don't you think you go to play any of your bad tricks on me. It is enough difficult minding two of you in here without running all over the sands for you."

"Never mind, Bunny," said Mervyn gently, as they walked along together, "Miss Kerr will come on the sands with us after dinner, perhaps, and then we will have fine fun."

"Yes, indeed," answered the little girl with a toss of her head, and speaking in a loud voice so that the maid might hear her; "Miss Kerr always does what I ask her to do, but Sophie is a regular cross-patch."

"Sit down here, mademoiselle, and try to behave like a lady," cried Sophie, as she seated herself upon a bench at the top of the cliff, overlooking the promenade and sea.

"Oh, I don't want to sit down, I want to walk," cried Bunny tearfully; "why, we have just come out."

"Of course you want to do exactly what I tell you not to do," said Sophie angrily; "sit down, both of you, when I tell you," and she lifted first one and then the other, and placed them very roughly upon the bench.

In a few minutes a friend of Sophie's approached them, and after some pressing she took a seat beside the maid, and the two children were pushed away by themselves to the other end of the bench.

"How long an age it is since I've seen you, Kitty!" cried Sophie, smiling pleasantly upon the new-comer.

"Yes, it is a long time," answered her friend, "and I've lots of news for you. I've heard of a place -- but it might be dangerous to say much just now," and she glanced at the children.

"Oh, they will not pay attention," cried Sophie, "but it's easy to get rid of them if you like. Meess Bunny, you can run and play up and down for a little with your cousin. But do not go very far."

"That is nice!" exclaimed Bunny gaily; "thank you, Sophie, very much," and jumping off the seat, she took Mervyn by the hand and dragged him away for a race down the hill.

"What is that, Bunny? What is that?" cried Mervyn suddenly, and he pointed his finger towards the far end of the Spa. "It's like a train, at least one carriage of a train, and it's running so fast up the side of the cliff, and, oh dear! I declare there is another one just the same coming down past it."

"That is the lift, Mervyn; doesn't it look very funny hanging all down like that? Do you know, I went in it once with papa and it was lovely. It went along so smooth and so fast."

"I would like so much to go in it," said Mervyn, "I wonder if uncle will take me some day."

"Yes, I am sure he will, and me too," cried Bunny, skipping gaily along. "But I tell you what, Mervyn, wouldn't it be fun to go off now, all by ourselves."

"Now!" exclaimed Mervyn in surprise, "and what would Sophie say?"

"Oh, she will never know," said Bunny. "We'll go up in the lift and run down those paths among the trees ever so fast, and get back to her before she knows we have gone away at all. She always has so much to say to that friend of hers."

"Yes, but don't you have to pay to go up in the lift?" asked Mervyn, "and I have no money. Have you?"

"Of course we must pay, but it's only a penny each, I know," answered Bunny, "and I have got twopence in my pocket that papa gave me this morning. I was going to give it to Miss Kerr, but I won't now."

"To Miss Kerr! Why should you give her your money?"

"Oh, that's a secret of mine. But I don't mind telling you, Mervyn, only you must not tell anyone, will you now? Promise you won't, like a good boy."

"I promise," answered Mervyn earnestly; "I would not tell anyone for the world."

"Well, one day Miss Kerr lent me three pennies to give to a poor boy, and I said I would pay her back very soon."

"Then I would not spend the pennies," said Mervyn decidedly; "keep them, Bunny, and give them to Miss Kerr when we go home."

"Oh, no; I would much rather go in the lift," cried Bunny. "Miss Kerr won't mind, for she said I need not be in a hurry to pay it."

"Still I think it would be better," began Mervyn solemnly, "to pay Miss -- "

"Oh, bother! Never mind thinking, but come along, or we will not have time to go up in the lift before Sophie wants to go home for her dinner."

"I should like to go up in it very much," said Mervyn weakly, and casting longing looks at the distant lift, "but, indeed, Bunny -- "

"Oh, you are silly!" cried the little girl. "Come on quick or we sha'n't have time," and grasping his hand, she hurried him down the steps, with just one backward glance to make sure that Sophie was still safe upon her bench. The maid's face was turned away towards her friend, who seemed to be telling a very interesting story; they were both completely occupied and quite unaware of what was going on about them.

"We shall have plenty of time!" said Bunny growing bold at the sight of the back of Sophie's head. "So come along, Mervyn, and see what the lift is like."

There was a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the promenade, and it took the children a long time to make their way as far as the band-stand, and even then they were at some distance from the wonderful lift that had attracted the little stranger so much.

As they hurried along, pushing their way right and left through the people, the band began to play the "Blue Danube Waltzes," and Mervyn stopped short in delight.

"Oh, what a lovely waltz!" he cried. "Bunny dear, do let us stay here and listen to it. I'd much rather hear the music than go up in the lift, I would, indeed."

"Oh! no, no," cried Bunny, "I'm tired of that old band, it's a stupid old thing! We can come and listen to it to-morrow if you like; but do come on now, you can't think how nice it is flying up the cliff in the lift; besides, I am quite sure that we sha'n't get a chance to go another day."

"Oh, very well, if you want to go so much; but really, Bunny, I would far rather stay and hear the music," said Mervyn, "I would indeed."

"Bother the music! Do come, like a good boy," cried the little girl impatiently, and catching him by the hand she dragged him away through the gate that led to the lift.

There was a great crowd of people of all kinds waiting to go up in the lift, for it was getting near luncheon hour at the hotels, and many were anxious to be in good time for that pleasant meal.

Our little friends, Bunny and Mervyn, were so small that they were a good deal knocked about by the crowd, and the lift went off several times before they managed to push themselves anywhere near the front. At last the conductor noticed the two mites, and stepping forward in a kindly way, he took them by the hand, helped them into the carriage, and seating them side by side, remarked with a smile:

"You're a funny pair to be sure! Where is your nurse?"

"She's on the Spa, at least on a bench just at the top of the steps," said Bunny gaily as she arranged her short skirts about her on the seat. "My cousin is a stranger here, so I have brought him to see what the lift is like."

"Indeed!" said the man with a laugh. "What a kind little lady you are to be sure;" and then, as the carriage was full, he banged the door and away they went.

"Isn't it nice, Mervyn? Aren't you glad I brought you?" asked Bunny in a patronizing tone. "It is much nicer in here than sitting up on that bench. Isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," answered Mervyn doubtfully, "but oh, Bunny, I don't much like it! I have a sort of feeling as if I were in a ship, and it makes me giddy to look out -- indeed it does."

"Don't look out then," said Bunny decisively. "But really, Mervyn, I think it's lovely -- it's so -- Oh, dear what is that?" she cried in alarm, as with a harsh grating noise the lift they were in, came to a sudden stand-still, and the descending one shot quickly past them.

"Something gone wrong, I expect," grumbled an old gentleman beside her; "ah, they have to let us go down again! What an awful nuisance!"

"Oh, please, sir, is there going to be an accident?" cried Bunny in a voice of terror, and growing very pale. "My cousin is just come from India, and I am sure he will be frightened," and she put her little arm round Mervyn as if to protect him from danger.

"No, no, there is not going to be any accident, my little girl," answered the old gentleman with a kind smile. "Don't be afraid, we'll go up again in a minute; but I must say the small cousin from India doesn't look half so much frightened as you do," and he patted her on the back. "There, now, off we go, you see, and we'll be at the top in a minute."

"Oh, I am so glad we are out of that horrid thing! and, Bunny, I am sure we should never have gone into it," cried Mervyn, as they at last stepped out of the lift and ran quickly along the cliff towards the entrance to the Spa grounds. "Just think, there might have been an accident and we might have been killed! Oh, it would have been so dreadful if such a thing had happened."

"Yes, it would," answered Bunny, "and Sophie will be angry, for we have been away such a long time. And oh, Mervyn, now I remember, mama told me that I should never leave my nurse when I was out with her, and I quite forgot, and there, I have been disobedient again! I am so sorry."

"Oh, Bunny, Bunny! why don't you try and remember?" cried Mervyn reproachfully, "and we promised aunt to be so good just before we came out," and tears of sorrow stood in the little boy's eyes.

"Never mind, Mervyn, dear," said Bunny kissing him, "it was my fault. Don't cry -- you were not naughty at all. It was all because I forgot again. Oh, dear, I am afraid Miss Kerr will be angry with me. But come along quick, there is Sophie. See, she is looking about everywhere for us."

The two children trotted along at a brisk pace down the steep winding path that led through the pretty ornamental grounds with which the cliff, overhanging the Spa, was tastefully laid out. The trees were high and shady, so the little creatures were not visible from below as they ran quickly on their way. But soon they came to a part where there was not even a bush to hide them from view, and as Sophie walked up and down in despair, her eyes wandering about wildly in every direction, she suddenly caught sight of Bunny's white hat and blue sash, and with a shriek of rage, she bounded up the path, and taking hold of them by the shoulders shook them angrily as she cried in a hoarse voice:

"Ah, you wicked bad ones, I thought you were lost! I thought the kidnappers had taken you away for ever."

"Oh, we are too big for that!" cried Bunny, "and you need not be in such a rage, Sophie, we only went up in the lift, as Mervyn wanted to see what it was like;" and she walked past the maid with a scornful toss of her little head.

"I am very sorry, Sophie, indeed I am," said Mervyn gently; "I did not know we had so far to go. I am sorry you thought we were lost."

"Ah! much I care whether you are sorry or not," cried the angry maid. "It will be like Mademoiselle Bunny's sorrow -- it will last one minute -- and then off to some more naughty things," and with a push and a slap Sophie drove the two children on before her, over the bridge and away home to Holly Lodge.

"And now," she cried as they reached the hall door, "I will march you both up to Miss Kerr, and see what she will do with you. Some punishment should be given to you, and I don't know what to do."

"Oh, very well!" said Bunny, "we'll go and tell Miss Kerr ourselves. You need not come with us, we don't want you at all. Come along, Mervyn;" and taking the little boy by the hand, she dragged him up the stairs after her.




Chapter VII.

In Miss Kerr's Room.


When the two children reached Miss Kerr's bed-room, they found the door shut, and feeling quite certain that she was there, they knocked gently, and then stood very still upon the mat, expecting every moment to hear her voice calling to them to go in.

"Dear Miss Kerr," said Bunny at last, as, growing impatient at the delay, she put her little mouth to the key-hole and tried very hard to make herself heard within the room, "Mervyn and I want to tell you something, so please, please, open the door and let us in."

But to her surprise she received no answer, and becoming more and more cross and impatient, she rattled the handle as noisily as possible in order to attract Miss Kerr's attention.

"I can't make out why she doesn't speak to us," said Mervyn in a whisper. "I think she must be asleep."

"Asleep!" exclaimed Bunny indignantly. "She isn't a baby, and she isn't ill, so why should she be asleep at this time of the day?"

"Well, in India people sleep in the day when they're not a bit ill, just because it's hot -- so why shouldn't they here?"

"What a lot of sillies they must be in India then!" cried Bunny contemptuously. "Why, I have not been asleep in the day for years -- not since I was quite small," and she rattled away more noisily than ever at the door-handle.

"Miss Kerr is not there, children," said a housemaid who passed along the passage at that moment, "she has been in the drawing-room all the morning."

"Has she?" said Bunny, "oh, then, I tell you what, Mervyn, we'll just go in and wait for her. She will be sure to come up in a few minutes to wash her hands before dinner, and then we'll tell her."

"Oh, but there is Sophie calling to us to get ready ourselves. She will be awfully angry if we don't go," said Mervyn. "Listen how she is screaming."

"Never mind her, the nasty, cross old thing!" cried Bunny, opening the bed-room door. "Come in, Mervyn, come in! There is Sophie -- do be quick, or she will catch us and drag us off with her -- and then she'll tell Miss Kerr before we do. Come in, come in," and once more she hurried her cousin along with her, against his own will and inclination.

"But, Bunny, I do think we ought to go to Sophie, I do indeed," said Mervyn; "listen, she is asking the housemaid if she has seen us anywhere. And oh, she is coming here to look for us -- she will be awfully cross! Do let us go into the nursery quietly and take off our things and get ready for dinner."

"Well, you are a silly, Mervyn! That would spoil all the fun. But I know what I'll do -- I'll lock the door, and then Sophie will not be able to get us. I can easily open it for Miss Kerr when she comes up," cried Bunny; and before Mervyn could say a word to prevent her, the little girl turned the key in the lock, and, clapping her hands with delight, danced up and down the room singing at the top of her voice:

"What a good plan! What a good plan! And the dinner is in the frying pan!"

"Indeed, then I wish it was here," grumbled Mervyn, "I'm awfully hungry, and it would be much better to go down to dinner now, and tell Miss Kerr afterwards, or at dinner-time, Bunny, indeed it would."

"Yes, and let Sophie hear her scolding us," cried the little girl. "I am hungry too, I can tell you, Mervyn; but Miss Kerr won't be long, I am sure. Hasn't she got a pretty room? and doesn't the sea and the bridge look nice from the window?"

"Well enough," answered Mervyn crossly, as he rolled about in an arm-chair that stood away in the furthest corner. "But oh, it is silly to be sticking up here when the dinner is ready down-stairs -- oh, I smell it, and it does smell nice! and I am so hungry, and it's very stupid of you to keep me shut up here."

"Well, I thought you were sorry and wanted to tell Miss Kerr so," said Bunny complacently, as she shook out her frock and admired herself in the long glass. "It's very greedy to talk so much about your dinner."

"Is it?" grumbled Mervyn. "Well, I don't care! I'm sure you're just as bad twisting about and looking at yourself in the glass, for that's being vain, and I'd rather be greedy than vain, so I would, Bunny."

"Would you? Oh, that's because you're a boy. Boys are greedy, but it's vulgar to be greedy -- Sophie says it is, but it's different to be vain, I -- "

"Mademoiselle Bunny, come out this minute. Ah, what a little naughty one you are! and that cousin of yours he is a wicked bad boy -- he leads you into the mischiefs of all kinds. Come out, I say, the dinner is ready and Miss Kerr is waiting for you;" and Sophie rattled the handle and hammered at the door till the whole passage was filled with the noise and the other servants came running from all parts of the house to see what could be the matter.

"What is wrong, Sophie?" asked Miss Kerr, as she too hurried upstairs wondering what was going on in the corridor. "Why are you making such a dreadful noise?"

"Ah! ma foi! Noise, Miss Kerr! What can I do but make a noise, when those two children have locked themselves into your room, and will not come out for their dinner. Is it then a wonder that I make a noise?" and she began once more to bang the door as if she would like to break it in.

"That was Miss Kerr's voice, Bunny," whispered Mervyn; "do open the door and let us go out to her now."

"Is it really? I only heard Sophie. Miss Kerr," she called, "are you there?"

"Yes, Bunny, I am here. Come out, child, come to your dinner. You must be starving, both of you."

"Yes, we are," answered Bunny, "and we will go out if you will send Sophie away. Mervyn and I want to tell you something."

"Ah! what a naughty child!" cried Sophie. "Meess Kerr, they have both been so very difficult, so wicked! They have run away, they have gone in the lift, they have just escaped being seized by kidnappers and -- "

"That's a great story, Sophie," cried Bunny through the door, "for there was not a single kidnapper near us; was there, Mervyn?"

"No, there wasn't," said Mervyn, "not one, Sophie, there wasn't really."

"Now!" shouted Bunny triumphantly, "you see you are quite wrong, Sophie."

"Open the door, Bunny, this minute," said Miss Kerr decidedly, "I am surprised that you should behave in such a naughty way, just when I thought you were going to be a good girl."

"I'll open it now, indeed I will," cried Bunny, "and please, please don't be angry with us. We are so sorry we ran away from Sophie, indeed we are, and that is the reason we came up here, just to tell you so."

All the time the child was talking she was also working away at the key, trying her very best to open the door. But no matter how she turned or pulled it, round it would not go, and at last, hot and tired with so many violent efforts, she begged Mervyn to try if he could make it turn.

"No, Bunny, I can't," said the boy sadly, after working patiently at the key for some time. "It's no use, I can't do it at all."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" cried Bunny in a miserable voice, "what shall we do? Miss Kerr, dear, we can't open the door, it's locked quite fast."

"Take the key out of the lock and push it under the door, and I will try and open it from this side," said Miss Kerr; "it was really very naughty of you to lock yourselves up in such a way. But be quick and give me the key."

After a good deal of pulling and tugging, Bunny at last managed to get the key out of the lock, and kneeling on the floor she tried with all the strength of her tiny hands to push it out under the door.

But the key was too large or the door fitted too closely, and the little girl gave a cry of alarm as she found that it was quite impossible to get it out into the passage.

"Oh, Mervyn, dear, it won't go out! Oh! Miss Kerr, what shall we do?" she cried, bursting into tears; "if we can't open the door what shall we do?"

"And I am so hungry," said Mervyn in a doleful tone. "How nasty it will be to be stuck in here for ever! Oh, pray open the door! Oh! pray open the door, Miss Kerr."

"Throw the key out of the window, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "and I will go round and pick it up, and let you out in a minute."

"Oh! the window is shut. The window is shut," cried the two children in despair, "and we cannot reach to open it. What shall we do? What shall we do?"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Miss Kerr, "who can have shut the window?"

"I am sorry to say I did, miss," said the housemaid. "The wind was so strong upon the window that was open, that I shut it, intending to open the middle one, but I forgot all about it when I was leaving the room."

"It is extremely awkward, and has helped to give the poor children a great fright," said Miss Kerr. "Go and bring me the keys of all the doors, Sarah, and I will try if any of them will fit the lock. Don't be uneasy, Bunny; don't cry, little Mervyn. We will get you out some way or other, you may be quite sure, so don't be afraid. I have sent for some keys to try if they will open the door, so don't fret. Ah! here they are."

One after the other the keys were taken and tried, but not one was of the slightest use. One was too large, and another too small, and Miss Kerr felt really grieved for the poor little prisoners, whose sobs were distinctly heard through the door.

"What can I do?" she said. "It is really very hard on them to be shut in there for such a long, long time! And they are so hungry too."

"Send for a man to pick the lock, miss," said Sarah. "Ashton will get some one from one of the shops."

"But that will take such a time!" cried Miss Kerr; "it is a long way to the town, and the children want their dinner so badly. No, I must think of some quicker plan than that. Ah, now I know one!" she exclaimed with a sudden smile; "it is a pity, but it can't be helped! Bunny, dear, will you take the poker, break a pane of glass with it, and throw the key out upon the grass. Be very careful not to cut your fingers."

"I'll do it!" cried Mervyn, jumping up out of the chair, where he had been rolling about disconsolately. "I'd just like to break a window, and I'm taller than you, Bunny; do let me, like a good girl."

"No, no; Miss Kerr told me to do it," cried Bunny, "and I should like to break a pane too;" and seizing the poker she sent it crash through the glass.

"Oh, what fun! What a rare smash!" exclaimed Mervyn in delight. "I will throw the key out;" and he darted across the room, picked up the key, and flung it with all his strength at the window.

But he did not aim straight, and instead of flying into the garden the key merely shattered the glass a little more, and fell back again on to the floor.

"You stupid boy! What a bad shot!" cried Bunny, and taking it up between her finger and thumb she stepped on a chair, and dropped it down cleverly upon the grass, just at Miss Kerr's feet.

"That is right," said the governess with a smile, as she stooped to pick up the key; "and now don't you think it would be a good punishment for all your naughtiness to keep you both locked up there for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Oh, no, no, pray do not do that, Miss Kerr, we are so sorry and so hungry!" and the two little faces, as they were pressed against the window, looked so utterly miserable and woebegone, that the kind-hearted governess could not bear to carry out her threat of punishment, but hurried away as fast as possible to let the poor children out.

When the door was at last opened and they were told to come forth, Mervyn hung back and did not dare to raise his eyes to Miss Kerr's face. Bunny, on the contrary, greeted her with a cry of joy, and springing into her arms, kissed her heartily over and over again.

"I'm so glad to get out! I'm so glad to get out! Oh, I was afraid we should have to stay in here all day by ourselves."

"Well, I hope this will be a lesson to you never to shut yourself into a room again, Bunny," said Miss Kerr severely. "It was a very foolish thing to do, and I cannot say that I am very sorry that you got a little fright, for I really think you deserved to suffer something for your naughtiness. But tell me, little man," she said to Mervyn, "are you not glad to get out too? You don't look so cheerful over it as Bunny does."

"I am very glad to get out. But I -- I -- wanted to tell you," he said with much difficulty, and clasping his little hands tightly together. "I want -- to tell you -- that I am very sorry I was disobedient and ran away from Sophie."

"I am glad to hear you say you are sorry, dear," answered Miss Kerr. "I am sure you mean it Mervyn, and that I may trust you not to be disobedient again."

"Yes, you may trust me, indeed you may," the boy cried with a bright smile, "I will really try to be good, and make Bunny remember if I can."

"Naughty little Bun! Why do you always forget as you do?" said Miss Kerr gently. "I did think you were going to be good to-day, and just see how you have disappointed me!"

"I'm very sorry," murmured Bunny, hanging her head. "I did want to be good, and I promise you I won't be naughty again. I'll always stay as close up to Sophie as ever I can when we go out, I will indeed."

"Very well, then, I will not say any more about the matter. Run away now, like good children, and get ready for dinner. And Bunny, dear, if Sophie is a little cross, be gentle and polite with her, for you have tormented and tried her temper very much, you know."

"Oh, I will be ever so nice and kind to her, dear, dear Miss Kerr," cried Bunny as she gave the governess a bear-like hug and another loving kiss. "I'll be awfully polite;" and laughing merrily she jumped off her perch on Miss Kerr's knee, and ran down the passage to the nursery, waving her hat and singing at the top of her voice.

"Poor little giddy-pate!" said Miss Kerr with a sigh. "I wonder how long she will keep all those splendid promises. But why don't you go off and get ready for dinner too, Mervyn?" she asked in surprise as she saw the little boy lingering at the door in a shy uncertain manner. "Run along, dear, at once."

"Will you -- give me a kiss?" said Mervyn with a deep blush. "I want to know that you have really forgiven me."

"Of course I have, dear boy," answered Miss Kerr, and she put her arm round him and kissed him affectionately. "I have quite forgiven you, Mervyn, and I feel sure that you are going to be a very good boy."

"I am going to try very hard to be good," replied the boy solemnly, "and as Bunny is so small perhaps I may make her do the same."

"Very likely, Mervyn, dear, for good example is sure to have a strong effect upon little Bunny, who is more thoughtless than really naughty. But run off now, dear, and get your hands washed as quickly as possible. The dinner will not be fit to eat if we keep it waiting any longer."

"That is true," said Mervyn with a bright happy smile. "We have kept it waiting a dreadfully long time, and we are all just dying with hunger, I'm sure;" and he too went off singing to the nursery.




Chapter VIII.

Bunny Tries To Show Off.


For some time after this there was a marked improvement in little Bunny's behaviour, and everyone in the house was delighted with the change, and rejoiced over it in a very open manner.

"It is perfectly wonderful!" said Mrs. Dashwood; "our little troublesome is becoming quite a well-behaved young person. I feel very grateful to you, Miss Kerr, for I believe it is all owing to your tender care and kind good-nature that the child is improving so much."

"I don't think I have so much to do with the change as little Mervyn," answered Miss Kerr with a smile. "I have lectured poor Bunny very often, it is true, but I think a good obedient little friend does a child more real good than all the scoldings and lectures in the world."

"Yes, I daresay it is an excellent thing," replied Mrs. Dashwood; "but still I think your lectures and sermons have improved my poor darling a great deal. She was very ignorant when you came to look after her."

"Yes, she was," said Miss Kerr; "she did not know much, poor child, and what was worse, did not care to learn anything. But lately she has begun to get on very nicely. And there, again, you see it is Mervyn who has done her good, for her whole ambition is to do everything better than he does it."

"The little rogue!" exclaimed Mrs. Dashwood laughing. "Well, it is a good thing to have found a way to make her work. Where is she now, I wonder?"

"Mr. Dashwood took her off with him to the stables. Mervyn went too, as it seems there is a pleasant surprise awaiting them there. They both went off laden with bread for Frisk."

"I think I can guess what the surprise is," said Mrs. Dashwood with a smile; "I -- "

"Oh, mama, mama! we are glad! we are glad!" cried Bunny bursting suddenly into the room, followed by Mervyn with a radiant look of happiness on his little white face. "What do you think? Guess what has happened. Just guess what papa has given Mervyn."

"Dear aunt, it was so kind of uncle to buy me such a -- "

"Let her guess -- let her guess, Mervyn. Don't tell her what he bought you. Miss Kerr, what did papa buy for him? Something living, something with a tail, something with a nose, a dear velvety nose and a soft silky coat," cried Bunny, as she danced up and down the drawing-room in high glee.

"A kitten," said Miss Kerr gravely.

"A kitten! oh, the idea!" exclaimed Bunny, "as if people bought kittens."

"Something far nicer!" said Mervyn in a voice full of pleasure. "I'll tell her, Bunny, something to ride -- "

"No, no, don't tell, don't tell!" cried the little girl, laying her hand quickly over his mouth. "Mama, guess, guess."

"A pony, Bun, a little brown pony," said Mrs. Dashwood, smiling brightly upon the eager excited children.

"You dear clever mamey, that's just what it is," exclaimed Bunny, giving her mother an affectionate hug. "And Mervyn's so pleased, and I am so glad, and oh, it will be so nice going out to ride together!" and jumping up sideways on the arm of the sofa the little girl began to work herself about as if she were really on Frisk's back and trotting along a country road.

"My dear Bunny, please don't," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as she felt the sofa upon which she was lying, shaken up and down by the child's vigorous antics. "Please don't, dear, you hurt me very much."

"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Bunny bounding quickly down from her perch, and holding her face up for a pardoning kiss. "But won't it be nice, mama? Frisk is so glad to have a friend in the stable with him, and it will be fun for me to have Mervyn to ride with."

"Yes, it will be very nice, dear. But, Bunny, you talk so much that Mervyn never gets saying a word. Tell me, my dear, do you really like your pony?"

"Oh, yes, aunt, I am delighted with him, he is so pretty. It was very good of uncle to buy him for me."

"And you will not be afraid to ride him, I hope," she said with a smile.

"No, I think not, at least not if we go along quietly. But Bunny says she will make Frisk go awfully fast, and then my pony will run after him, and that she is sure I shall be frightened and hold on by the mane and -- "

"Bunny, Bunny, you must not say such naughty things," cried Mrs. Dashwood shaking her finger at the mischievous child. "But don't mind her, Mervyn. She does not ride at all so splendidly herself. The groom or her papa always holds Frisk by a leading rein, so it would be quite impossible for her to go on as fast as she likes; so do not mind her."

"Oh, I don't feel a bit afraid if some one holds my pony by a rein," said Mervyn bravely; "not one bit; I think it will be lovely riding along together."

"That is right," said Mrs. Dashwood. "I am sure you will be a clever horseman, for your papa was when he was a boy."

"And so he is now, aunt. He has a beautiful horse, and he looks splendid on it when he goes off to ride," cried Mervyn, smiling brightly at the recollection; "I used to think he looked grander than any of the other officers."

"Poor little man," said his aunt gently, as she smoothed back the hair from his brow. "You are very fond of your papa, Mervyn, and do you know, I think you will be like him when you grow big and strong."

"I want to be like him in every way," said Mervyn, "and I mean to be an officer when I grow up."

"And go away to that nasty, hot India," cried Bunny; "oh, I'd be so lonely if you went away again -- please don't, Mervyn, please don't."

"What is Mervyn not to do, my little woman?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who entered the room at this moment.

"He's not to go back to India again, because I should be so lonely without him," cried Bunny catching hold of her papa's hand and laying her little cheek against it; "you won't let him go, papa, will you, dear?"

"No, indeed, I couldn't think of such a thing. But I am sure he won't want to go when he hears that his papa is coming home for Christmas; eh, my boy?"

"That is good news, uncle," cried Mervyn joyfully; "I never thought he would come so soon. Not much fear of my wanting to go to India when he comes home."

"So I thought," said Mr. Dashwood. "And now, children, when are we to have our first ride?"

"Now, now; to-day, to-day," cried Bunny; "dear papa, let us go off at once!"

"Very well, my dear. I thought you would like to go soon, so I told John to get the ponies and horses ready in half an hour. You had better run and get on your habit -- that is, if Miss Kerr will let you both off with your afternoon lessons. What do you think, Miss Kerr, do they deserve a ride?"

"Yes, I think they do, for they have both been very good," answered the governess with a smile; "besides, I really don't think they look studiously inclined -- they are very much excited."

"I couldn't learn a lesson if I tried ever so," cried Bunny, "I really couldn't, so I am glad you are going to let us off. Good-bye, Miss Kerr; good-bye, mama I sha'n't be long, papa, dear;" and away she flew in breathless haste to the nursery.

Sophie had received a message informing her that her young lady was going out for a ride, and when Bunny went up to be dressed she found her pretty brown habit and neat felt hat laid all ready for her on the bed.

"That is a dear good Sophie," she cried, and she was in such good humour that she allowed the maid to brush her hair and put on her habit without uttering a single cross word or complaint.

"Thank you very much, that will do nicely," she said politely, as Sophie put the last finishing touch to her curls; then taking her little whip with the pretty silver top from the maid's hand, she gathered up her skirts and ran quickly down to the hall-door.

"What a pleasure it is to dress her when she is so good and polite as that!" said Sophie to herself as she watched the little figure running away from her down the passage. "What a pity it is that children are so often naughty and troublesome!"

When Bunny arrived in the hall she found her papa and Mervyn quite ready to start for their ride.

"Oh, how nice Brownie looks!" cried the little girl in delight, as her cousin was lifted on to his new pony; "but I don't think he is as handsome as you, old Frisk. Is he, papa?"

"I don't know, I am sure, dear," answered her papa, laughing; "but I suppose you like Frisk best because he is your own."

"Yes, I suppose I do," said Bunny, and placing her little foot on her papa's hand she sprang nimbly to her saddle. "Good-bye, Miss Kerr, good-bye."

Mr. Dashwood mounted his horse, the groom jumped on his, and the whole party rode gaily up the avenue and out of the gate.

"I declare Mervyn sits very well, papa," said Bunny in a patronizing manner, as she looked back at her cousin, who was following them with the servant.

"Yes, of course he sits well; why shouldn't he?" asked Mr. Dashwood; "he wants a few lessons and then he will ride very well, I am sure."

"Yes, I daresay," said Bunny; "but he never rode before, you know, except just little short rides on Frisk, and he'd be awfully afraid to go without the leading rein, I know."

"Yes, and quite right too," said her father; "it's only children who ride very well who should be allowed to go without a leading rein, and especially on a country road. Supposing the pony took it into his head to bolt -- what do you think would happen then?"

"Oh, he could be pulled up quite tight by his rein. I wouldn't be a bit afraid to ride all by myself."

"Wouldn't you, indeed, Miss Vanity. Well, I would rather not trust you," said Mr. Dashwood laughing; "I think it is very likely you would find Master Frisk rather too much for you without a leading rein, my dear child."

"No, I shouldn't," answered Bunny, bending over her pony and patting his neck; "Frisk and I are such friends he would be sure to do what I told him. Wouldn't you, Friskie?"

"Don't trust him or your own power too much, Miss Bunny," replied her father with a smile. "But who is that coming down the road towards us? I think I ought to know him."

"Why, papa, it's Mr. Davis, that nice old gentleman who gave me the box of sweets; don't you remember? I'm sure it is."

"Yes, so it is," said Mr. Dashwood; "what sharp eyes you have, little woman! You and Mervyn had better ride on with John, as I want to say a word to Mr. Davis."

"Very well, papa, but don't be long, pray," said the little girl; "it's so much nicer talking to you than to John."

"No, I sha'n't be very long, dear. Good morning, Mr. Davis," said Mr. Dashwood to a tall fine-looking old gentleman who at this moment rode up to them on a beautiful chestnut horse; "I am very glad to see you. This little girl of mine knew you a long way off."

"Ha! Miss Bunny and I are great friends," answered Mr. Davis with a smile, as he bent forward to shake her warmly by the hand.

"Those pretty eyes of yours are a deal sharper than mine, my dear, for I had not the faintest idea who it was that was coming along the road. But I am glad I met you, Dashwood, as I want to say a few words to you about -- " and he lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Very well," said Mr. Dashwood; "I'll send these little people on with the groom, and ride down the road a short way with you. John," he called to the servant, "take Miss Bunny's rein and go on up the hill with the children, turn in at Lady Edith's Drive, and I will overtake you in a few minutes."

"Yes, sir," said the groom, touching his hat respectfully, and riding forward he took the rein from his master's hand.

"Ride quietly along and I will be back to you very soon, Bunny," said Mr. Dashwood, and then he turned his horse round and walked it leisurely down the road again with Mr. Davis.

"Oh, what a pretty place!" cried Mervyn, as the riding party trotted along through a gate and into a cool shady avenue, with tall stately trees growing closely together on every side.

"This is Lady Edith's Drive," said Bunny; "I think it is the prettiest place about Scarborough. It is so cool and pleasant, and then it is so quiet."

"Why is it called Lady Edith's Drive?" asked Mervyn.

"I don't know," answered Bunny. "Do you, John?"

"Well, no, Miss," said John; "I can't exactly say as I do. I suppose some Lady Edith used to drive here very often."

"I suppose so, indeed," said Bunny, laughing merrily at this explanation.

"I don't think that tells us much, John," said Mervyn; "anyone might know that."

"Yes, sir, very likely, sir," replied the groom; "but I never asks no questions. If I'm told a place is called by a name, I never asks why or wherefore, but just takes it as the name that it's to be called by."

"Well, I think you are very foolish then," said Mervyn; "I like asking questions, and it's a very good way to learn about things, I can tell you."

"I daresay it is, sir, for a young gentleman like you, sir. But you see the people about me don't know no more nor I do, so what's the use of asking them what's this an' what's that, an' showin' them I don't know nothin' myself."

"I never thought of that," said Mervyn, "but I don't think it matters about showing that you don't know. Miss Kerr says no one should be ashamed to ask a question about a thing they don't understand."

"John, John," cried Bunny suddenly as she pulled very hard at the leading rein in order to attract the groom's attention, "I want to ask you something. Stoop down that I may whisper it into your ear."

The man did as she requested; but when he had heard what she wanted him to do he shook his head in a very determined manner, saying, "I couldn't on no account, Miss. Your pa would be as angry as anything."

"No, he wouldn't, John. I told him I could manage Frisk myself, and he only laughed. Do let me -- just for a few minutes. I'll go along quite quietly, you'll see I will. I want to show Mervyn that I can ride better than he does, and that I am not afraid to go without a leading rein."

"Well, it's very quiet here, so I suppose it could not be much harm," said the man, yielding a little at her pleading voice; "I really don't think it could be any harm;" and he turned in his saddle and looked carefully up and down the drive.

"Harm!" exclaimed Bunny, "of course it could do no harm. Oh! pray take off the rein, John," and she looked up into his face in a most imploring manner.

"Well, you are a funny little lady, to be sure," he answered with a good-natured laugh, and, bending forward, he unfastened the leading rein and put it into his pocket.

"Thank you, John," said the child, sitting up proudly on her pony. "It feels ever so much nicer without it; it's so silly to be always led along by a rein like a baby. Mervyn, I am riding all by myself. Wouldn't you like to ride without a leading rein?" she shouted across at her cousin, who was trotting along quietly at the other side of the groom; "it's twice as nice to feel that you can go just as you like."

"I feel just as nice as I am, Bunny, thank you," said Mervyn; "I would rather have the rein, thank you."

"I can't hear what you say, so I think I'll go round beside you, Mervyn," she cried gaily; and, raising her whip, she brought it down heavily upon poor Frisk's back, and tried to make him go round beside Brownie. But Frisk was not accustomed to such treatment, and tossed his head and whisked up his tail, but absolutely refused to go to the other side of John's horse, no matter what she did to him.

"You naughty pony," she cried, "you must do what I tell you," and she tugged violently at his mouth, and gave him another sharp blow with her whip. This was more than the pony could bear; and before his little mistress knew where she was, he pricked up his ears, and with an angry toss of his head galloped away down the road as fast as he could.

"Stop, Miss Bunny, for goodness sake stop," shouted the groom; "you must not go so fast; come back here at once."

"I can't stop -- I can't!" shrieked the little girl in a voice of terror. "Oh! he's running away -- he's running away;" and, completely overcome with fright, poor Bunny dropped her reins, and, catching hold of the pony's mane, held on to him with all her strength.

"What a fool I was to let her go!" cried the groom; "what on earth will my master say to me? Goodness, the silly child has let go her reins; she'll be off -- she'll be off;" and, spurring up his horse, he rode after the runaway, hoping to overtake him and put a stop to his mad race.

But the noise of the horses as they clattered down the road after him seemed only to excite Master Frisk, and on he went faster than ever.

As the pony reached the end of the drive, and poor little Bunny had become so weak and faint from terror that she was in great danger of being thrown to the ground, a young lad of about sixteen jumped up from the grass where he had been seated, and, dashing forward, seized Frisk by the head and brought him to a sudden stand-still.

"Poor little girl," said the boy kindly, as he lifted Bunny from her saddle and laid her gently on the grass. "What a fright you have had! How did this beggar come to run away? He looks quiet enough."

"I whipped him," answered Bunny in a shaky voice; "and oh! I thought I was going to fall," and she put her hand to her head as if she still felt giddy.

"You were certainly very nearly off," said the boy; "but what a fool that groom of yours was to let a kid like you ride without a leading rein; he shouldn't have done such a thing."

"Oh! but I begged him so hard that he let me go," said Bunny; "he didn't want to let me, and -- "

"Miss Bunny, I'm ashamed of you," cried John, riding up beside her. "You promised you'd ride quite quiet beside me, and you broke your word. I'm very thankful to you, sir, I'm sure," he continued, turning to the young stranger. "In another minute this little lady might have been thrown on her head and been killed on the spot."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! it wasn't my fault," cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "I only mean't to go round beside Mervyn, and Frisk ran away and -- "

"Don't cry, dear," said the strange lad kindly; "you must not say another word to her, my man," he continued, turning to the groom; "she is rather shaken with her fright, and it's best to leave her alone. Take hold of this pony and I will go and get your young lady some fresh water; that will do her good."

"Very well, sir," said John, pulling the leading rein once more from his pocket, and fastening it on to Frisk's bridle with an angry jerk. "It's not my place to scold, Miss Bunny, but a young lady should keep her word, and not get a servant into trouble."

"But I didn't mean to break my word, John, indeed I didn't," sobbed Bunny. "Oh! why did papa leave us? oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Drink this, you poor little mite," said her new friend as he held a flask full of fresh water to her lips. "It will do you ever so much good. I will bathe your face for you, and then you will see how comfortable you will feel, but you must not cry any more."

"Thank you so much," said Bunny, drinking off the water; "it is very cool and nice."

"Yes," the boy answered, "it is very refreshing, but this will do you more good, I am sure;" and, removing her hat, he took a neatly-folded, perfectly clean handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and, dipping it into the water, bathed the child's face as tenderly as a girl might have done.

"You are very kind," said Bunny, as she raised her big blue eyes to his face; "you are a nice good boy," and she raised her face to give him a kiss.

"That's right," he said smiling; "you are beginning to look more cheerful," and, stooping, he kissed her gently on the forehead.

At this moment the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and Mr. Dashwood soon appeared, riding quickly towards them.

"What is the matter?" he cried in alarm, as, drawing up sharply, he sprang from his horse and rushed to his little girl's side.

"Oh! papa, papa!" cried the child, running into her father's arms, "your poor Bunny was nearly killed, only this nice boy stopped Frisk and took me off his back."

"My poor darling!" cried Mr. Dashwood, lifting her gently from the ground, and smoothing back her ruffled hair, "I am very thankful to God that you are not hurt. Thank you, too, my lad, for your kind and ready assistance," he said to the young stranger, grasping him warmly by the hand, "and now tell me, sir," he cried with a stern look, as he turned to the groom, "how it is that the child whom I left in your care came to be in such danger."

"If you please, sir, Miss Bunny asked -- " began John very nervously.

"Yes, papa, I -- it was all my fault," interrupted the little girl; "don't scold John. I wanted to show Mervyn that I could ride better than he does, and as I could not do so properly with John holding me by the rein, I begged him to let me go, and I promised to ride quietly; but I whipped Frisk, and he ran off so fast that I got frightened, and -- "

"It was very wrong of you, John, to allow the child to ride without a rein, and I am really angry and vexed that you should not have taken more care of her when she was left in your charge."

"Indeed, sir, I am very sorry, and it shall never happen again," said John.

"I hope not," said Mr. Dashwood; "and as for you, Bunny, I am very much surprised that you should have been so naughty. You know I told you you could not manage Frisk without a leading rein."

"Yes, I know you did, dear papa," said Bunny, as she rubbed her little face up and down against her father's cheek, "but don't scold us any more. We are all very sorry, aren't we, John?"

"Very, Miss," answered the groom; "I'd rather have died than let any harm come to you, an' I hope master will forgive me for lettin' you have your own way about the rein."

"I forgive you this time, John," said Mr. Dashwood; "but remember for the future you are to keep Miss Bunny well to your side when you take her out to ride on her pony."

"Yes, sir, surely I will," answered the man earnestly; "I will never do what Miss Bunny asks me to do again, never while I live."

"And now, my dear fellow," said Mr. Dashwood, turning to the young stranger and shaking him once more by the hand, "I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you. May I be permitted to ask your name?"

"My name is Francis Collins; but indeed I did not do much," the boy answered modestly.

"You have done me a very great service, Master Francis, and one that I can never repay you," said Mr. Dashwood earnestly. "Do you live anywhere about here?"

"No, sir; I live in London," replied the lad; "my father is in India with his regiment, and I am staying up here for a time with my aunt."

"Is your father a captain? and is he in India now?" asked Mervyn shyly.

"Yes, little man," answered young Collins with a smile, "he is a captain in the 45th, and is now stationed at Jublepoore."

"Why, Captain Collins is papa's great friend, and of course he was my friend too; and Mrs. Collins was so good and kind to me. Oh, I did love her so much!" cried Mervyn, looking up into the lad's face. "Are you the Frank she used to talk to me about?"

"Yes, I am the Frank, her only child," said the boy sadly; "poor mother! it's a whole year and a half since I saw her last;" and tears came into his eyes as he spoke.

"I have often heard my brother-in-law speak of your father, my dear boy, and I am very glad to have made your acquaintance," said Mr. Dashwood as he seated his little daughter upon her pony. "Where are you staying?"

"I am living with my aunt at a quiet hotel on the West Cliff."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Mr. Dashwood, "for you will be able to come over and see us. Our name is Dashwood, and we are staying at Holly Lodge, a house standing in its own grounds and facing the sea, yonder on the South Cliff. Anyone will point it out to you; so be sure and pay us a visit some day soon."

"Yes, thank you, I certainly will," the boy replied with a bright smile; "I must have a talk with this little chap, Mr. Dashwood, and find out all I can about my father and mother from him. By the by I suppose you are the Mervyn Hastings she told me she missed so much."

"Yes, I am Mervyn Hastings; and oh, did she miss me?" cried the little fellow eagerly.

"Most dreadfully! And I don't wonder, for you seem to be a capital little fellow," said Frank Collins, patting Mervyn on the shoulder.

"Come over and lunch at the children's dinner to-morrow at two o'clock, and then you and Mervyn can have a long talk together," said Mr. Dashwood as he sprang to his horse. "It is rather late now, so these youngsters must get home as quickly as they can. Remember we shall all be delighted to see you, if you can spare time for visiting."

"Oh, do come, do come," said Mervyn, earnestly.

"Mama will be so glad to see you," cried Bunny, "so do come, please."

"Thank you all very much," answered the lad brightly; "I will be sure to be at Holly Lodge by two o'clock. Good-bye, Mr. Dashwood; good-bye, Miss Bunny; good-bye, little Mervyn;" and Frank lifted his hat politely as the riding party turned and rode away from him down the drive towards Scarborough.




Chapter IX.

Miss Kerr Promises A Prize.


The next morning was very wet, and as it was quite impossible for the children to go out, Miss Kerr insisted on their going into the library to learn their lessons.

Bunny pouted and declared that her papa did not wish them to sit still all day over their books, and that it would be much nicer to run about the house and play at "Hide and seek."

"Yes, it would be pleasanter for you, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "but you forget that 'Hide and seek' is a very noisy game, and that your mama's head is aching so much that she could not bear the noise you would be sure to make. Come now, be good children, and try to learn your lessons as well as you possibly can."

"I hate lessons! and so does Mervyn," cried the little girl in a cross voice. "Don't you, Mervyn?"

"No, I don't," answered the boy; "I will go if you like, Miss Kerr, for I want to learn how to write soon, that I may be able to send papa a letter."

"You are a good boy, Mervyn," said the governess with a smile as she took him by the hand, "and I promise you that I will soon let you write a little letter to your papa. Come, Bun, dear, you are not going to be naughty, I am sure. Come along and we'll have such a nice quiet morning over our books;" and she held out her other hand to the little girl.

"Well, if I am good, will you read us a story after we have said our lessons?" bargained Miss Bunny; "I just love to hear you read stories."

"Yes, I will read you a very nice story if you are good, and I have a pretty box of chocolate here that I will give to the child who studies the hardest and keeps silence the longest."

"Oh, how nice! Oh, how jolly!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands in delight. "I'll learn my lessons awfully hard;" and away she ran down the passage to the library, pulled her spelling-book out of the drawer, and perching herself on a chair at the table began to shout out the words at the top of her voice.

"My dear Bunny, how do you think Mervyn can learn his lessons if you scream yours out in that way?" said Miss Kerr laughing; "repeat those words quietly to yourself whilst I show your cousin what he is to do."

"I don't know very much, Miss Kerr," said Mervyn shyly as he took the book from her hand; "papa says I am a dreadful dunce, but I only began to learn last year."

"Never mind that, my dear boy. If you give your attention to your book and feel anxious to learn, you will soon get on. Spell over these words for me and let me see what you can do."

Mervyn did as he was told, and with much difficulty he managed to spell down half a column of very easy words.

"Oh, I can do better than that! I can do better than that!" cried Bunny, wriggling about on her chair; "why, I could spell those words in a minute. Listen -- h-o-u-s-e, d-a-y, m-o-u-s-e."

"Hush! Bunny, I cannot allow you to go on like that," said Miss Kerr gravely; "you have learned those words over and over again, so of course you know them well. Now, Mervyn, go and read them over by yourself and I will hear you say them without the book in a few minutes. Bunny, come and say your lesson."

The little girl slipped off her chair and came slowly across the room to Miss Kerr.

"Be quick, Bun, stir yourself," cried the governess; "I want to hear how beautifully you can spell words that you have never seen before; come along."

But Bunny still hung back with an obstinate look on her little face, that showed plainly how very unwilling she was to do as she was told.

"Come, dear child, be quick, you are wasting all my time;" and Miss Kerr held out her hand for the spelling-book.

Bunny handed it to her, and then dragging one foot slowly after the other, she at last stood by Miss Kerr's side.

"Take your finger out of your mouth, Bunny," said the governess, as she laid the book before the child and pointed to the place. "Now begin, B -- "

"If you please, Miss Kerr," said Ashton, opening the door. "Mrs. Dashwood wants to see you very particular, miss, in the drawing-room. She said as she wouldn't keep you long, but you was to go to her at once."

"Very well, I will go now, Ashton," said Miss Kerr; "and now, children, I hope you will be good while I am away. Bunny, you can go over those words by yourself. See here is the box of chocolate. I will put it in the middle of the table so that you may see what you have to work for;" and placing a pretty cardboard box upon a pile of books so that the children might see the gay picture on the lid, she smiled kindly upon them both, and hurried out of the room.

For a few moments after they were left alone the little people were very silent and quiet; but soon Bunny raised her head, yawned noisily, and pushing her book away began to amuse herself by looking about the room.

"I shall get the prize," said Mervyn, "you are not learning your lesson, you know."

"No more are you," cried Bunny; "I'll learn mine up in a minute when Miss Kerr comes back, and you're as slow as an old snail at yours;" and again she began to mimic his voice and manner of spelling.

"You're very rude," cried Mervyn, getting red, "and I'll just tell Miss Kerr when she comes back."

"Tell-tale! tell-tale!" sang Bunny; "much I care! If I know my lesson best I'll get the chocolate and I won't give you one bit."

"You're a greedy thing! But you won't get it. I know my lesson splendidly, and you don't know yours at all, so I am sure to get the prize, I can tell you."

"Ha, how grand you are, to be sure!" screamed Bunny, and stretching out her hand she tried to pull the chocolate box towards her.

"You sha'n't touch it! You sha'n't touch it!" shouted Mervyn; "it isn't yours, so just leave it alone."

"It isn't yours either," cried Bunny with flaming cheeks, and she fastened her little fingers more firmly than ever round the box.

"I am sure to get it, so I shall keep it beside me till Miss Kerr comes back."

"No, you sha'n't," answered Mervyn in an angry voice, and jumping up on his chair he sprawled over the table and tried to drag the box from Bunny's hand.

"You nasty boy, let go! I'll tell Miss Kerr! I'll tell mama! You're a coward! You're a horrid -- "

"Who's going to be tell-tale now?" shrieked the boy. "Give it to me, I say, give it to me," and he gave a vigorous pull at the box.

But the cardboard of which the chocolate box was composed was not strong enough to stand such pulling, and before the naughty children knew where they were it suddenly gave way and came to pieces in their hands. The beautiful prize was completely destroyed, and its whole contents were strewn all over the place.

"Now, see what you have done!" cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "you have broken the box -- oh dear, oh dear, you cross, nasty, greedy boy, I -- "

"I didn't do it," said Mervyn, but his voice was low and shaky, for all his anger disappeared when he saw the pretty box torn to pieces and the chocolate creams lying scattered about all over the table and floor.

"Yes, you did! If you hadn't pulled so hard it would have been all right," said Bunny tearfully. "Oh, what will Miss Kerr say? I think I'll run away to the nursery and hide. I shall be afraid to let her see me -- "

"That would be cowardly," answered Mervyn; "I'm very sorry I pulled the box, and I'll stay here and tell her so;" and he went down on his knees and began to gather up the sweetmeats and put them into a sheet of paper.

"Don't eat any, Mervyn," said Bunny, "they look awfully nice, but -- "

"Eat them!" exclaimed the boy indignantly, "I should think not indeed! I am not so mean as that; I wouldn't -- "

"Mean -- is it mean?" cried Bunny, rubbing her mouth; "oh, I didn't know, and I just took one -- but Miss Kerr won't mind."

"Well, you are nasty! You tell me not to eat them, and then you go and take some yourself. Go away, I won't speak to you or be friends with you any more; you're a mean -- "

"Oh, Mervyn, Mervyn, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" cried Bunny, flinging herself on her knees beside her cousin. "I didn't want to take the chocolate cream, but it looked so nice, and I just longed to take it and -- "

"Children! what are you doing?" cried Miss Kerr in astonishment as her eyes fell upon the two kneeling figures and she heard Bunny's miserable tone of voice; "why are you on the floor? Come back to the table at once."

"Bunny," whispered Mervyn, "we must tell Miss Kerr now what we have done;" and springing to his feet he caught the little girl by the hand and dragged her over to the other side of the room, where the governess had seated herself, ready to begin lessons again.

"We have been very naughty," he began, looking down at the floor; "we didn't learn our lessons -- and -- we -- broke -- the box -- and spilt all the chocolates -- but we are very sorry, indeed we are," and he raised his blue eyes full of tears to Miss Kerr's face.

"Yes, we are very sorry -- and -- I eat a chocolate cream -- but Mervyn didn't because it was mean," cried Bunny, and then, overcome with grief, she buried her face in her pinafore and sobbed aloud.

"I cannot tell you how much surprised and shocked I feel at such conduct," said Miss Kerr gravely. "I really thought I could trust you for a few minutes alone. Mervyn, I am very much grieved to think that you could behave in such a naughty way. Bunny is wild and giddy, but I thought you were going to show her a good example, by being good and gentle yourself."

"Yes, and I wanted to," said Mervyn, "but she called me names and then I got cross, and then -- I -- "

"Yes, and I got cross too," cried Bunny, putting down her pinafore for a minute. "I was angry and -- "

"And I am afraid you both forgot that God was looking at you, and that he was greatly displeased at you for giving way to your wicked passions in such a manner. How did you come to be so naughty? Mervyn, what began it all?"

The tears were rolling down the little boy's cheeks, but he dried them with his handkerchief, and choking back those that were still ready to flow, he tried to tell the story of the torn chocolate box as well as he could.

"Well, I am glad you have told me all about it," said Miss Kerr, gently, "and as you both seem so sorry for your conduct, I suppose I must forgive you. But remember, dear children, that you must tell God that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you. Pray to Him that he may help you to overcome your tempers and become good, gentle little children. I will not scold you any more, and you have punished yourselves by breaking the box and spilling the sweetmeats, for now I cannot allow you to have any of them."

"Oh, I don't mind that!" cried Mervyn quickly. "If you will forgive me for being naughty, I don't want any sweets."

"I do forgive you, Mervyn, but don't forget what I told you. Say a prayer to-night before you go to bed and ask God's forgiveness and help."

"Yes, I will, I will," cried the boy, "and I will try and be ever so good all day to make up for being so naughty this morning."

"And I'll be good too," said Bunny; "I am sorry you won't give us any sweets, for they look so nice, but still I -- "

"You won't ask for any! That is right, dear. I know you like sweets, Bun, but I must punish you a little, you know, so I can't give you any to-day. Come, now, I forgive you both, so let us go back to our lessons at once; and I hope you will do your best to show me that you are truly sorry, by working very hard for the next two hours."

"Yes, yes, we will, indeed," cried the children together, and off they ran to get their books.

"That is right! That looks like real work," said Miss Kerr, as she wrapped up the chocolate creams in paper, and locked them away in a drawer. "Come, Bunny, bring your book to me, dear."

Bunny opened her spelling-book briskly, Mervyn began to read his lesson attentively, and perfect peace reigned once more.




Chapter X.

On Oliver's Mount.


The lessons were over about half-past one, and as they had been well learned and quickly said, Miss Kerr was really pleased with the children, and rewarded them for their industry and attention by reading a pretty story, that interested and amused them very much.

This kept them pleasantly occupied until nearly two o'clock, and then they ran off to the nursery in high spirits, to get themselves washed and dressed for their early dinner.

"I am so sorry, Miss Kerr," said Bunny, as she took her seat at the dinner-table, "I'm really dreadfully sorry that nice boy we saw yesterday has not come to have lunch with us as he promised he would."

"Yes, dear, so am I, for I should like very much to see him," answered Miss Kerr, "but I daresay the rain kept him from coming."

"But it's not raining one drop now," said Mervyn, "and I declare, there is the sun coming out; I do wish he would come."

"Oh, but it's wet under-foot, Mervyn," remarked Bunny wisely, "and it's a bad thing to get your feet wet -- Sophie screams fearfully at me if I put my toe out, even long after the rain has stopped."

"Yes, when you go in your thin shoes, of course," cried Mervyn; "but big boys like Frank Collins are not afraid of wetting their feet. Are they, Miss Kerr?"

"No, I don't think they are, dear," answered the governess, laughing, "I know my brothers run out in all kinds of weather."

"Come in, my boy! Here they are at their dinner," said Mr. Dashwood, opening the door at this moment, and entering the room with young Collins. "Miss Kerr, this is our young friend who so bravely saved poor Bunny yesterday," he added as he presented Frank to the governess.

"I am very glad to see you, Master Collins, and these children have been longing for you to come," said Miss Kerr; "it was very brave of you to stop the pony."

"Brave! not at all, Miss Kerr," answered Frank with a bright honest smile that won the lady's heart at once. "I don't think the pony was really running away, and if this little girl," and he patted Bunny on the head, "had not been frightened, but had sat up properly and kept a good hold of her reins, she would have been all right."

"Oh! Bunny, Bunny, you little coward," cried Miss Kerr, "and so, after all, it was you who held on by the mane, and not Mervyn, as you so gaily told him he would do yesterday."

"Did she tell him that?" asked Frank as he took a seat at the table beside Mervyn. "Well, I think this little chap would be the bravest of the two in real danger. He would not be so rash, perhaps, but I think he would keep cool and not lose his head as she did."

"Oh, but I was frightened," sighed Bunny. "I was sure Frisk was running away;" and she looked so very tearful that her papa kindly changed the conversation by asking his young guest how he liked staying at Scarborough.

"Are there many nice walks about?" asked Mr. Dashwood, when they had all finished their lunch and were preparing to leave the table. "I mean short walks within easy distance, where these little folks could go, for instance?"

"Yes, there's the old castle," said Frank, "on the West Cliff, then there's the people's Park in the valley, which of course you all know well, and Oliver's Mount, which I think the nicest walk of any."

"Oliver's Mount! Oh, that is a nice place," said Bunny, who had quite recovered her gay spirits again. "Sophie says she went up there one day with some friends, and she had buns and lemonade and all kinds of things, in a little house, a funny small house, she says, that is up there on the top. Do take us up Oliver's Mount, like a dear good papa."

"Yes, I know the little house Sophie means," said Frank; "it is only a small shed, you can just see it from the window, look, there it is, right away up on the top of the mount."

"It looks a great height, certainly," said Mr. Dashwood. "I wonder if these little ones could manage to go such a long way."

"Oh! yes, we could, we could," cried the children together.

"Very well, then, I suppose we had better set off at once," said Mr. Dashwood; "you have no objection to my taking these small people, Miss Kerr?"

"Not the slightest," she replied. "I was going to send them with Sophie, but I am sure they will enjoy going with you much better. Mrs. Dashwood is not well enough to go out, so I intend to read to her the best part of the afternoon."

"I am glad to hear that, for I was afraid she might feel dull if we set off for a long walk," said Mr. Dashwood. "Well, run away, children, and get ready; the sooner we start the better."

"It will be a long way for their little legs if we go right to the top," said Frank doubtfully. "Mervyn doesn't look very strong, and Bunny's legs are very short."

"Indeed they are not," cried Bunny indignantly. "I can walk splendidly; can't I, Miss Kerr?"

"Yes, dear, you are a very good walker for your age and size."

"There, do you hear that?" cried Bunny, jumping off her chair and throwing her arms round her father's neck. "Do take us, do take us, dear darling old papa."

"You little rogue!" cried Mr. Dashwood, "I do believe you could coax the birds off the bushes."

"No, papa, indeed I couldn't," answered Bunny gravely; "I often tried, but they would not come; and I tried to put salt on their tails too, but they flew away and -- "

"You dear little goose, that was a great shame; they must have been very rude birds indeed, my poor Bun," said Mr. Dashwood with a hearty laugh at the child's simplicity. "You have coaxed me anyway, dear. I will take you to Oliver's Mount; and I have thought of a plan that will save your short legs and Mervyn's weak ones a good deal."

"A plan! Oh! what is it? you dear, darling papa," she cried joyfully.

"No, I won't tell you, little one. Run off and get dressed, and you will see what it is when you come back. Away you go! -- both of you. Be quick, or Frank and I will not wait for you."

Bunny and Mervyn were both very curious to know what this wonderful plan of Mr. Dashwood's could be, and chattered away about it as they were being dressed by Sophie.

"To the top of Oliver's Mount!" cried the maid, holding up her hands in astonishment when the children told her where they were going. "Gracious! is it that monsieur your papa knows how far it is? You will both be too tired to return home to-night."

"Then we shall sleep in that little house at the top, among the buns and the lemonade," said Mervyn. "That would be fine fun, wouldn't it, Bunny?"

"I don't know about that," replied the little girl. "But do not be frightened, Sophie; papa has a fine plan, so we sha'n't be one bit tired. Come on, Mervyn," and, laughing merrily, the two children ran off together down-stairs.

"Papa, papa! where is your plan?" cried Bunny, as they met her father and young Collins in the hall. "We do so want to know what your wonderful plan can be."

"Here it is, then, my dear," said Mr. Dashwood, and he threw open the door, and displayed two steady-looking old donkeys standing ready saddled at the gate. "You are to ride one of those fellows, and Mervyn the other. That is my plan; isn't it a good one?"

"Capital! capital! What fun! what fun!" cried the children, clapping their hands in delight. "But, papa, the donkeys will never go up the mountain," exclaimed Bunny suddenly; "Sophie says there is a big stile to get over, so how will they manage that?"

"We won't ask them to go over the stile," said Frank Collins, as he lifted the little girl and seated her comfortably on the saddle.

"They will carry you up the road to the foot of the Mount, and then we will leave them there to rest and eat some grass, while we go on our rambles up to the top."

"Wasn't it a capital plan of papa's, Mervyn, to get us these donkeys?" asked Bunny, as she and her cousin jogged quietly along the road on the steady old animals. "These are such nice well-behaved creatures, and don't run away in a hurry like Master Frisk."

"No, I should think not," answered Mervyn laughing. "Why, just look at this fellow," he cried as his donkey came to a sudden stand-still in the middle of the road. "What can we do to make him go on? Here, boy, please make him move a little," he shouted to the donkey-boy, who was loitering behind talking to a comrade.

"Hey up!" screamed the lad, running up quietly from behind, and bringing his stick down heavily on the poor brute's back; "hey up, Teddy!" and away trotted the donkey at a rapid pace up the hill.

When Bunny's charger saw his companion starting off so gaily, he pricked up his ears and followed him as fast as ever he could.

"Your plan was a capital one, uncle," said Mervyn, as he and Bunny jumped off their donkeys and prepared themselves to climb over the stile and begin their walk up the mount together.

"I suppose you feel as fresh as a couple of daisies, and not at all shaken?" said Frank Collins. "Come along and we'll have a race to the very top;" and away he ran nimbly up the side of the hill.

Bunny and Mervyn struggled bravely after him, and they went so fast that they soon left Mr. Dashwood behind them, for he declared that he was too old to run, and that he would follow them at his leisure.

The grass was very slippery after the rain, and the mount was very steep, and so, although the children went as fast as their little legs could carry them, yet they could not keep up with their young friend, who soon appeared a long way above them, waving a handkerchief, and cheering and shouting at the top of his voice. But at last they all reached the highest part of the mount, and, puffing and panting after their fearful exertions, they seated themselves upon a bench and gazed about them in delight.

"Isn't it jolly up here, Mr. Dashwood?" said Frank. "I think it would be worth climbing ever so much higher to see such a sight, don't you?"

"Yes, indeed I do," answered Mr. Dashwood; "and the air is very fine; it feels so fresh and strong. That is the old castle away over there, I suppose."

"Yes; and doesn't the old part of the town, with its queer red brick houses and narrow streets, look pretty? And look at the bay in front of it, with its ships and barges. Doesn't it all look lovely in the sunlight?"

"Yes, Frank, it does look pretty," cried Mervyn; "and isn't the sea a beautiful blue colour?"

"And don't our donkeys look funny little gray fellows, away down there on the road?" cried Bunny. "Oh, dear! they do look far away."

"Bunny would rather look at her donkey than all the beauties of the country," said Mr. Dashwood with a smile, as he took his little girl upon his knee. "But these youngsters must not be defrauded of their cakes and lemonade, Frank. Would you mind going into that wonderful shop to see if you can get some?"

"Oh! they have lots of good things in there, I know," answered Frank. "I hope you will be able to eat a good supply, Bunny?"

"Yes, I feel able to eat several cakes," cried Bunny; "thank you, dear papa, for thinking of them. I do love buns and lemonade. Don't you, Mervyn?"

"Yes, Bunny, very much," replied her cousin.

"I am afraid I shall get scolded for letting you have them," said Mr. Dashwood, as Frank appeared, carrying an armful of cakes and buns, and followed by a man with glasses and bottles of lemonade.

"If you eat all these you won't be able to take anything at tea, and then Miss Kerr will be so dreadfully angry."

"Oh! never mind, papa, dear," cried Bunny; "cakes and lemonade are just as good as tea, but I will eat as much as ever I can when I go home, and then no one will scold you."

"That's a good, kind little woman," said her father laughing; "but finish up those cakes now as fast as you can, for I want to get back to the club for an hour before dinner."

"I will just put this in my pocket for the donkey-boy, papa," said the little girl, holding up a bun which she could not manage to eat; "he was very good, and made the donkeys go so well."

"I think we will go round by the road, Frank," said Mr. Dashwood, rising from the bench; "it is not quite so steep as the mount, and is very little longer."

"Very well; I daresay it will be the best way to return; it will be a variety anyway," said Frank. "Mervyn, will you walk with me? I want to talk to you about India and all our friends there."

"Yes, yes," said the little boy, "that is the very thing I should like."

"But our donkeys -- oh! are we not going home on our donkeys?" cried Bunny.

"Of course we are, you little grumbler," said her father. "We are only going to walk round by the road to them instead of tumbling pell-mell down the hill again. Come along with me, and let these two boys talk over their affairs together."

Then, taking his little girl by the hand, Mr. Dashwood walked quickly away with her down the hilly road. Frank and Mervyn followed them slowly arm-in-arm, and the elder boy, with a look of yearning love in his eyes, asked his small friend many anxious questions about the dear father and mother whom he had not seen for such a long time.




Chapter XI.

Was It Cruel?


One lovely afternoon towards the end of September Mrs. Dashwood and Miss Kerr sat together on the lawn in front of the house. They were stitching away at some pretty clothes, that were evidently intended for a large wax doll, with golden ringlets and blue eyes, that lay on a table that stood between them on the grass.

Mrs. Dashwood looked pale and delicate still, but there was a well-pleased smile upon her sweet face as she sat enjoying the sea breezes. She was comfortably propped up with pillows in a large wicker chair, and her thin white fingers were busily engaged on her dainty work. The fresh country air had done her great service, and she was full of the hope that she should soon return quite strong and well to town.

Bunny lay curled up in another big chair, and although she knew very well that the pretty doll was intended for her, she looked very cross and did not seem to notice what was going on about her.

"Why don't you go and play, Bunny?" said Miss Kerr looking up from her work. "I do not like to see you tumbling about there with such a cross look on your face. Go and get a book -- or will you have a needle and thread and try to do some sewing?"

"No, thank you," answered Bunny, "I hate books and I can't sew."

"But you might learn, dear," said her mother gently. "It is a great pleasure to be able to sew, Bunny. I quite enjoy doing my piece of work after being obliged to lie on the sofa for such a long time."

"I don't want to learn to sew," cried Bunny. "I want to have a game. I am tired sitting here, mama. Oh, I do wish Mervyn and Frank would be quick and come back."

"Well, my dear Bunny, they will soon be here," said Miss Kerr. "They promised to be back at three and it wants a quarter to three now, so you won't have very long to wait."

"Oh! I'm so glad!" cried Bunny; "I've spent such a nasty dull day without them."

"Well, really now!" said her mother laughing; "that's a kind thing to say. I thought my little girl liked being with me."

"Oh! yes, mama, so I do," answered Bunny quickly; "but Mervyn has been away such a long time, and I do want him to come back and have a good game with me. He stayed to lunch with Frank up there at the hotel, and Miss Kerr wouldn't let me go, and oh, dear! I have been so lonely all day."

"Poor little girl!" said her mother, "but Miss Kerr was quite right not to let you go, Bunny; Frank will have quite enough to do to manage Mervyn. You are very hard to keep in order, for you are very wild and -- "

"Oh! I'm not a bit wild now, mama; I'm as quiet as a lamb -- I am indeed."

"Bunny, Bunny, where are you, I say? -- where are you?" called Mervyn, running up the garden walk and across the lawn.

"Here I am, Mervyn, and oh! I am so glad you have come back," and the little girl rushed forward eagerly to meet her cousin. "But where is Frank? I thought he was coming back with you."

"Yes, so he is. He will be here in a minute; and he has something for you, Bunny."

"Something for me, Mervyn; oh! what is it?" she cried; "do tell me what it is."

"He'll tell you himself -- he'll tell you himself," answered Mervyn, and going down on the grass, he tumbled heels over head two or three times in succession.

"You tiresome boy," cried his cousin, "do get up and tell me what Frank has for me, and where he got it, and -- "

"Go and ask Frank himself -- there he is," shouted Mervyn, starting quickly to his feet again, as young Collins appeared suddenly at the top of the flight of steps that led from the drawing-room into the garden. His hands were both behind his back, and he laughed merrily when he saw Bunny's face of excitement and curiosity as she ran across the lawn to meet him.

"You dear good Frank, Mervyn says you have something for me," she cried; "do tell me what it is. I do so want to know."

"A bird, Bunny; a young thrush," said Frank gaily, as he drew a small cage from behind his back and held it up to the little girl. "I put him in here because it was the only thing I could find; but I will get you a proper big cage for him to-morrow."

"Oh! never mind the cage; but let me see the bird," cried Bunny.

"He is rather frightened just now, Bun, but I think he will soon sit up and begin to sing; and thrushes do sing beautifully."

"He is a dear little fellow! a perfect darling! But where did you get him, Frank?" asked Bunny in delight, as she danced joyfully round her new treasure. "Did you manage to put salt on his tail?"

"He hasn't got a tail, Bunny," answered Frank, laughing; "he is so young that he hasn't got one yet. I caught him quite easily in the hotel garden."

"Mama, Miss Kerr, look at the lovely bird Frank has brought me," cried Bunny, running back to her mother's chair.

"A bird, Frank?" said Mrs. Dashwood, looking into the cage in surprise. "What a pity it was to catch him and put him in prison, poor little creature; he looks dreadfully frightened."

"In prison, mama!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, it's a lovely cage; and see, he has water, and hard-boiled egg, and bread sopped in water, and -- "

"Yes, dear, I see all those things, but still he is in prison, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood gently, "and I think it would have been much kinder to have left him to fly about the woods and sing his sweet songs in happy freedom."

"I am afraid he will never sing again," said Miss Kerr as Frank placed the cage on the table beside her; "he looks as if he were going to die, I think; just see how he has gathered himself up into a ball, and his eyes are shut."

"Oh! I hope he won't die," cried Frank; "I am sorry I caught him, Mrs. Dashwood. Shall I let him fly away again?"

"No, you sha'n't, Frank; he is my bird, and you must not let him fly away," cried Bunny; "I want to keep him."

"But, Bunny, your mama thinks he would be glad to get away, so I would rather let him go. Do say I may send him off."

"No, no, Frank, you sha'n't; I want him; he's mine now," answered the little girl in an angry voice; "I will have him and keep him;" and making a dive across the table she seized the cage and ran away with it down the garden.

"Bunny! Bunny! come back this minute," cried her mother and Miss Kerr together.

"I'll soon bring her back!" exclaimed Frank, and off he went after the runaway.

When Bunny heard footsteps behind her she turned her head to see who it was that was following her, and as she ran along without looking where she was going, her foot came against a stone, and down she went, cage and all, upon the gravelled path.

"Oh, you cruel big boy!" she cried, bursting into tears. "Why did you come after me and make me fall in that way? I'll never speak to you again -- never;" and, gathering herself up from the ground, she began to rub her knees, and brush the dust and sand off her frock.

"Now, don't be silly, Bunny," said Frank, as he picked up the cage. "You are not a bit hurt -- but, look here! I believe you have killed the poor bird."

"Oh! no, Frank, dear! oh! I didn't do that!" sobbed the little girl, coming forward and looking wistfully into the cage.

"Yes, I am afraid he is dead. He was very much frightened before," said Frank sadly, "and the shock of the fall, and all the water and things falling on him have killed him. I am so sorry. I wish, now, I had left him to sing happily in the garden, Mrs. Dashwood," he said, going back to where the ladies sat together, carrying the poor dead thrush in his hand. "You were quite right; it was a great pity to take the poor bird and put him in a cage. I will never catch a young bird again -- never."

"Poor little creature! I thought it would not live long," said Miss Kerr; "but, Bunny, you were very naughty to run away with it in that way; I am sure the fall helped to kill the thrush."

"I didn't mean to kill it!" cried Bunny in a choking voice. "Oh! mama, I am so sorry!" and she flung herself on the ground beside her mother's chair, and buried her face in her lap.

"Never mind, Bunny, dear," whispered Mervyn softly, as he stole up and put his arm round her neck. "Don't cry, dear; I am sure it would have died very soon anyway. Wouldn't it, Miss Kerr?"

"Yes, dear, I think it would," said the governess gently. "But what are you going to do with the thrush, Frank?"

"Oh! I suppose I must bury it," answered Frank; "I wish I had a pretty box to put it in."

"I have one, I have one," cried Bunny, jumping quickly to her feet, and running off towards the house, mopping up her tears as she went along. "I've got a dear little one that will just do, Frank."

"We must have a solemn funeral," said young Collins. "Who will write an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?"

"An epee -- what, Frank?" asked Mervyn, with a puzzled look on his little face. "What do you mean?"

"An epitaph, you little simple Indian; do you not know what that means?"

"No," said Mervyn gravely, "I don't think people in India ever have such things."

"Don't they indeed! Bunny, what is an epitaph?" asked Frank, laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little girl's hand.

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Bunny; "I never heard of such a thing. What is it yourself?"

"Well, you are a clever pair! Why, it's something written on a tombstone," cried Frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them aloud. "Listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends: -- 

"Beneath there lies a little thrush, Who should have sung on many a bush."

"Capital!" said Miss Kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. "Why, you are a regular poet!"

"It is very good indeed, Frank," said Mrs. Dashwood with a bright smile. "Now, Mervyn, I hope you know what an epitaph is?"

"Yes, I think so," said Mervyn slowly; "but no one says bush like thrush. It doesn't sound at all right."

"Hallo! young Indian, are you going to find fault with my pronunciation? Isn't it splendid, Miss Bun, bun?"

"I'm not bun, bun, and I think Mervyn is quite right," answered the little girl with a toss of her head. "It sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, I know."

"Of course not, little Miss Wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry," said Frank grandly; "and I can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. But now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;" and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place.

"Put him in my little garden," cried Bunny eagerly. "There are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave."

"Where is your garden, monkey?" said Frank. "I did not know you had such a thing."

"Yes, I have; at least I call it mine," answered Bunny, skipping gaily along. "It's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird. Do bury him there, Frank."

"Very well; what pleases you pleases me," and off they went to Bunny's garden.

Very carefully Frank dug up the earth, and, having placed the bird within the grave, he filled it in neatly, took a lovely geranium from a neighbouring flower-bed, and planted it just over the poor songster's head.

"We must water it," cried Bunny, "or it will not grow," and away she rushed to the tool-house. Here she found the gardener's watering-pot, and, unfortunately for them all, it was more than half-full of water.

"This will make the flowers grow beautifully," she cried; and before the boys had time to speak or stop her hand, she tilted up the heavy pot and sent the water flying all over their feet and legs.

"Oh! Bunny, Bunny! just see what you have done," exclaimed Mervyn, beginning to cry as he felt the cold water soaking in through his stockings and shoes. "Oh, dear! what shall I do?"

"You little mischief!" cried Frank, shaking himself. "What on earth made you do that?"

"Oh! I wanted the flower to grow," said Bunny, bursting into tears, "and I did not mean to wet you and Mervyn at all; and look at my own pinafore and frock. Oh, dear! what will Sophie say?"

"Sophie will say you are a naughty, wicked little creature," cried the maid, darting out suddenly from behind a tree. "Come in this minute and get your things changed. Monsieur Mervyn, go to the nursery at once."

"I won't go! I won't go a bit!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot angrily. "The sun will dry me in a minute, and I won't go with you; so there!"

"Come along, Bunny, like a good girl," said Mervyn, "let us run fast and see who will get up to the nursery first," and away he went up the path as fast as he could.

"I won't go, Sophie. I want to stay with Frank," cried Bunny once more, as she caught the boy's hand and held on to it tightly.

"You ought to go, dear, indeed you ought," said Frank. "See, Mervyn has gone, and you know you should always do what Sophie tells you."

"No, I won't; she's a nasty thing! and it's twice as nice out here, so I won't go one bit."

"Your mama and Miss Kerr have returned to the house, and you must come in and get changed your dress, mademoiselle."

"I won't! I won't," shrieked Bunny, clinging more closely to Frank, and turning her back upon her nurse in a most impertinent manner.

"We shall see if you do not, you bad, naughty child," cried Sophie in an angry voice, and running forward she seized the little girl in her arms, and carried her off screaming and kicking into the house.




Chapter XII.

The Fireworks.


A little before seven o'clock that evening the children stood at the drawing-room window. All traces of the recent struggle in the garden had been removed, and in the neat little girl in the dainty cream lace and muslin frock, with its fluttering pink ribbons, few persons would have recognized the small fury that Sophie had carried off wriggling and crying to the nursery a few hours before.

But Miss Bunny had already forgotten that such a scene had ever taken place, and was making very merry over a big blue-bottle fly that she and Mervyn were doing their best to catch as it walked up and down the window-pane.

Frank Collins sat at the piano playing some very lively tunes, and from time to time Bunny would pause in her pursuit of the fly and dance lightly over the floor in time to the music.

"Papa, papa," she cried, as Mr. Dashwood entered the room with his wife upon his arm, "doesn't Frank make lovely tunes?"

"I don't know, dear," answered her father. "Frank does not seem anxious to let me hear his music, for he has stopped short the moment I appeared."

"I am afraid Mrs. Dashwood would not care for my music," answered Frank modestly. "I only play from ear."

"Oh, Frank, how can you say such a thing!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, mama, he plays just like Miss Kerr does. He plays away up in the treble with two hands, and then he plays pum, pum, pum away down in the bass; oh, it is most beautiful! Do play again, Frank."

"No, dear, not now," said Frank. "I'll play for you another time, but don't ask me now;" and he hopped the little girl up on his knee.

"Well, then, ask -- you know what," whispered Bunny mysteriously. "You know you said you would -- you promised."

"Oh, yes, of course; I very nearly forgot," said Frank, "and I suppose Sophie will soon be carrying you off to bed, it's nearly half-past seven."

"Yes, she will, unless you ask that, and papa and mama say, Yes."

"Mrs. Dashwood," said Frank, "it's a gala night, as they call it, on the Spa, and there are to be fireworks, so will you let these little people stay up for them? Please do."

"What! to go out in the night air and into the crowd?" asked Mrs. Dashwood in a horrified voice. "My dear Frank, I could not think of allowing such a thing. It is quite impossible!"

"Of course it is, Mrs. Dashwood," answered Frank. "But I did not mean them to go out at all, I -- "

"Oh, no, dear mama," cried Bunny eagerly, "Frank does not want us to go out, but to sit up and see them from Miss Kerr's window, that is all."

"Bunny, come here, dear, I want to have a talk with you," said her mother gravely, and guessing that she was going to receive a scolding for her naughty conduct in the garden, the child stole slowly over the floor, and at last stood in rather a shamefaced manner beside her mother's chair.

"Do you think, Bunny, that a little girl who screamed and kicked as you did when Sophie took you in out of the garden, deserves to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks?"

"No, mama," answered Bunny in a low voice, and two large tears trickled down her cheeks and fell on her mother's hand.

"Auntie, dear, don't scold poor Bunny, for she is very sorry she was naughty, and she begged Sophie's pardon before we came down."

"Well, I am glad to hear that, Mervyn," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and I hope Bunny is sorry; but I don't think she should be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks, she cannot expect it."

"Why, mama, what is all this about?" said Mr. Dashwood, coming over and putting his arm round his little daughter. "Why are you scolding poor Bunny so much?"

"Because I was naughty, papa," said Bunny, creeping up very close to him. "But I am very sorry, and I promise to be good."

"Oh, well, don't scold her any more, dear," said her papa, stroking the little golden head, "she can't do more than promise to be a good child."

"And do forgive her, and let her stay up to see the fireworks," whispered Mervyn, "it would be such fun!"

"What is that you are saying, Mervyn? What dreadful plot are you hatching over there?" cried Mr. Dashwood, "why, the fireworks don't go off until nine, and your bedtime is at half-past seven, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know it is, uncle, but we're not a bit sleepy, and we never saw any fireworks, and this is the last gala night before we leave Scarborough, and -- "

"My dear Mervyn, what a string of reasons!" cried his uncle laughing; "after such a list, I think we must surely grant your request. That is, if mama will forgive this poor culprit, and allow her to stay up."

"Well, as she is sorry, and as Mervyn says it is the last night, perhaps -- "

"That's right! that's right!" said her husband, "and now let us go in to dinner. This animated discussion has given me quite an appetite."

And as Ashton at this moment threw open the door, and announced that dinner was served, Mr. Dashwood offered his arm to his wife, and led her away to the dining-room.

"What fun! what fun! to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks," cried Bunny, and catching hold of Frank's arm she hurried him off after her papa and mama.

"Now, you must sit quiet, children," said Mrs. Dashwood; "if you make a noise I shall have to send you away to the nursery."

"We'll be as quiet as mice," said Bunny, and pulling Mervyn down on a large woolly mat in the middle window, she began to whisper joyfully about the treat that was in store for them before the evening was over.

The first part of the dinner seemed rather long to the two little ones in their corner, but when at last the dessert was placed on the table, and Bunny was seated at her papa's elbow, and Mervyn between his aunt and his dear friend Frank, they all became so merry together, that the fireworks were for the time completely forgotten.

"Oh, papa, I heard such a funny noise just now," cried Bunny suddenly, "what can it be? Listen, there it is again -- whizz -- whizz -- "

"It's the first rocket, I'm sure!" exclaimed Frank, dropping the nut-crackers, "let us go off to a window somewhere, for I am sure the fireworks are going to begin."

"How jolly!" cried Mervyn. "Aunt, may we run up to Miss Kerr's room?"

"Can't we see them from here?" asked Mr. Dashwood, pulling up the blind and looking out. "What a beautiful dark night it is! Better stay here, chicks, I think. See, there goes another rocket!"

"Oh, that is lovely!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands. "But, papa, dear, we can see them much better from Miss Kerr's room, she has such a nice balcony, and she promised to let us go up to it if mama would allow us."

"Very well, then, away you go," said her father; "but be quick, or you will lose all the fun."

"Be sure and wrap yourselves up, dear children, if you go out into the balcony," said Mrs. Dashwood. "The night air is very sharp."

"Oh, yes, mama, we will make ourselves as warm as toast," cried Bunny gaily. "Come, Frank, do come up to the balcony with us."

"All right, little woman, jump upon my back and we'll run a race with Mervyn."

Very much delighted at such an invitation, Bunny sprang from a chair on to Frank's back, and away they went galloping madly after Mervyn, up the stairs and along the passage to Miss Kerr's room. There they found Sophie waiting for them, heavily laden with cloaks and shawls in which she insisted on wrapping them up till they were nearly smothered, and shrieked wildly for just one little space through which they might manage to breathe.

"Very well, you will all catch your deaths of colds," cried Sophie. "Miss Bunny, you will want the doctor to-morrow, I am quite sure;" and she flounced out of the room and banged the door after her.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish!" cried Frank, laughing, as he released poor Mervyn's face from the thick shawl in which the maid had rolled him up. "She's an awful scold that Sophie."

"But she's jolly kind to us sometimes," said Mervyn stoutly; "and we torment her dreadfully, don't we, Bunny?"

"Yes, we do indeed," answered the little girl; "and she doesn't always scold, Master Frank."

"Goodness me! don't be so indignant," cried Frank. "I meant no offence. I daresay Sophie is a regular angel."

"She's not quite that," said Miss Kerr as she opened the window and let the young people out upon the balcony. "But I am glad to hear the children stand up for her, for, as Mervyn says, they do torment her, and still she is very good-natured and kind to them on the whole."

"Yes, indeed she is," said Mervyn; "but oh! just look at that, isn't it exquisite?"

"Lovely!" cried Frank. "It's a regular shower of golden hail! But I think I like the Roman candles best. Look, Bunny, there's one -- see -- those two stars -- watch how they change colour -- first they're red -- then blue -- then -- "

"Oh, yes, yes," cried Bunny dancing about. "There they go, right away over the sea! What lovely things fireworks are!"

"It is a pity we could not have gone down on the Spa to see the set pieces," said Frank. "I believe they are most beautiful. But then the crowd is something dreadful."

"Do they send the fireworks up from the Spa?" asked Mervyn; "they look just as if they were coming from the road up there in front of the Crown Hotel."

"No, they are sent from a place just over the Spa, up among the trees there, but a long way below the hotel."

"Oh dear! there goes a splendid rocket," cried Mervyn, "and doesn't it make a lovely noise?"

"Oh! I can't bear the noise," said Bunny, putting her fingers in her ears, "it makes me jump."

"Now that is really charming!" said Miss Kerr, as the whole bay with its ships and boats was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant crimson light. "How lovely everything looks in that soft, rich colour!"

"Oh! and I declare you can see Oliver's Mount and the dear little cake shop," cried Bunny. "And, Mervyn, I wonder where our old donkeys are to-night," and she peered away out in the direction of the sands where the poor animals usually spent their days.

"At home in their beds, my dear," said Miss Kerr laughing, "and that's where small people like you should be; it must be near ten o'clock."

"Oh! not yet, not yet," cried the children; "we must stay and see the last of the fireworks!"

"That is the last now, I'm sure," said Frank. "That thick yellow light comes from the grand finale, which we cannot see -- ha! there goes another rocket. Hurrah! the whole thing is at an end."

"Very well, my dears, you must say good-night," said Miss Kerr; "your poor little eyes are positively blinking with sleep, Bunny, dear."

"No, they're not," said the little girl, "but they feel funny and won't go quite straight."

"Are you getting a squint, then?" said Frank. "Come along, old lady, a few hours' sleep will make them go straight enough;" and putting one arm round Bunny and the other round Mervyn, he marched them off to the nursery, where he deposited them one after the other on their little beds.

The children were really quite tired out with excitement, and the fatigue of sitting up to such an unusually late hour; so when Frank left them for the night, they did not utter a word or make a complaint. They said their prayers, were undressed at once, and, laying their weary heads upon their pillows, were soon fast asleep.




Chapter XIII.

Quiet Times.


It is to be hoped that you see some improvement in Bunny's behaviour since you first made her acquaintance, though she was very naughty on the day when the poor thrush was killed.

At all events she had been trying to be good, and when she failed, or forgot her good resolutions she was so willing to confess her faults, and was so truly sorry for them, that Miss Kerr and Mama, and even Sophie, were always ready to forgive her. Miss Kerr had quite won Bunny's heart by her constant love and gentleness, so that the child could not bear to give her pain. This made Bunny more thoughtful, and she soon learned to check her outbreaks of temper and to keep out of mischief.

Mervyn, who was growing tall and strong, was very much in earnest when he had promised to try to be docile and obedient. He did not forget that should he meet his dear mother and father in London they would ask him whether he had kept his word, and he would not have told them a falsehood even if he had been ever so naughty, for he was a truthful boy, and not at all a coward.

Mervyn often helped Bunny to remember her promises too; and it seemed as though after the night when they had seen the display of fireworks they had both made up their minds to go on steadily with their lessons every morning. Miss Kerr was delighted, and Sophie had really very little to do, for all the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening also, they were out on the sands, or on the hills, or seated in the garden. The reason of this was, that as Mr. Dashwood had given them notice that the holiday was coming to an end, they had implored their friend Frank Collins to come often to see them, and as he loved Mervyn and could talk to him about his dear father and mother, and listen to his descriptions of life in Madras and Calcutta, he used to come every day to take the children out.

Of this Mr. Dashwood was very glad, for he was pleased that such a nice manly boy as Frank should give up so much time to these two young ones, and used to laugh at Miss Kerr and tell her that they learnt more from their young tutor Frank Collins than they did from their governess. Miss Kerr often made one of the party when they went out together and she used to like to listen to Frank too. He had been to a large school, and was now only waiting for his parents to return from India before going to another. He had read a great many books, and could remember several stories and accounts of voyages and discoveries.

The children would sit under a tree or inside an old boat on the beach and listen to him as he told them of the adventures of sailors and travellers; or sometimes they went with him for a ramble in the country, and he could show them the different kinds of trees and wild flowers, and point out where the various birds built their nests.

Mervyn was quite surprised one day when a lark sprang suddenly from a field of long grass and went soaring up and up in the clear sunshine till it looked only like a speck, and at last could scarcely be seen, but yet all the time kept trilling and singing its beautiful song.

As it sung it floated away to some distance from the place from which it rose, and then suddenly it seemed to sink from the air and to drop amidst the grass again.

"Wherever has it gone to?" said Bunny; "there are no trees here, and where can its nest be?"

"Its nest is on the ground, in the long grass of the field," said Frank.

"Oh then, it has just dropped into it," cried Mervyn; "couldn't we go and see?"

"You wouldn't find it except you could trace the way to the spot where the bird first rose," said Frank. "Directly the artful fellow heard us coming he sprang out and started his song so that he might lead us away from the spot where the nest is, and now he has dropped in the grass a long way off to lead us still further away."

"Oh do let us go and look for it!" said Bunny.

"I think we'd better not," said Mervyn; "remember the thrush, Bunny, and we might kill some of the little birds."

"Quite right, Mervyn," said Frank Collins; "we should very likely step upon it or frighten the hen bird so much that she would leave the nest. It would be like somebody coming and driving us away from home, you know. When I was as young as you are, I used to rob the nests of their eggs, but I have left off doing so now, and even if you should ever collect eggs you should only take one from a nest and contrive not to frighten the birds. But there are young larks and not eggs in this nest, so we will let them alone to grow strong and fly out into the sunshine and sing under the blue sky, won't we, Bunny?"

You may well believe that the children thought the last part of their holiday was the pleasantest of all; for beside Frank they had found another playmate, a great friend of his.

His name was Captain, and he was a grand, black, curly, Newfoundland dog. Such a fine fellow was seldom to be seen, and he learnt to lie down in a patch of grass on the hill, just at the place where he could watch for Bunny and Mervyn when they went out for their afternoon walk.

He would pretend to be asleep, and when they came quite close to him would spring up and begin to leap about, leading the way to the sands, and barking or rolling over and over till Frank or Mervyn threw a stick as far as ever they could into the sea that he might dash in after it and fetch it out.

Captain was a splendid swimmer, and had once jumped into the sea from the end of a pier after a little girl who had fallen into the water. The child would have been drowned, but Captain seized her by the frock and held her up till a boat could put out and fetch her, and then the brave fellow turned and swam ashore.




Chapter XIV.

Bunny's Improvement. Home Again.


The time had arrived when the holiday at Scarborough was to come to an end. The last evening was spent on the cliff. It was while they were all sitting on the hillside looking out to sea that Frank began to talk to them about "lighthouses," those tall buildings, having a strong lantern at the top, the bright light from which can be seen far out at sea, so that sailors may know to what part of the coast they are going, and may steer their ships in such a direction as to avoid danger, or guide them into a place of safety.

Then Miss Kerr told them a story about a lighthouse, and how a brave and thoughtful little girl was able to save a great ship from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. This lighthouse was at a very dangerous part of the coast, and every day the lamps had to be cleaned and fresh oil put in them, and the great metal "reflectors" that were behind the lamps and threw the light far out to sea had to be burnished.

The little girl was the child of the keeper of the lighthouse, and he often took her with him to stay there. He had a companion, for in lighthouses there are mostly two men; but one day this companion slipped off the ladder up which he had to climb to light the lamps in the great lantern, and broke his leg. At the same time he struck his head and became insensible, and so the father of the little girl was obliged to leave her and to fetch a doctor. He meant to come back very soon, but the doctor was out, and in trying to find him he was away for many hours, and by the time he could get down to his boat a great storm had come on, and the waves were breaking over the shore so that he could not put out to sea again.

Night was coming on, and the poor fellow paced the beach and wondered what was to be done, for it would soon be time for the lamps to be lighted, and there was nobody in the lighthouse but the helpless man and his little girl. The sailors and fishermen all came round, but it would have been a desperate venture to put out a boat in such a storm, and with the great waves roaring and leaping on a long sharp ridge of rocks quite close to where the lighthouse stood, nobody could have expected to reach it alive.

At last, just as the night was coming on, the poor fellow prepared to risk his life rather than leave the ships that might be far off at sea without a guide or a warning; but six strong men dragged a large boat down to the edge of the shore where the waves were lowest, and agreed to share his danger. Their hands were on the boat ready to push her in and then scramble to their places; an old fisherman was in his seat ready to steer, when he suddenly gave a shout and pointed towards the lighthouse.

There from the lantern high above the roaring waves shone the brilliant beams of the lamps, and with a hearty cheer the brave fellows drew the boat back, and shading their eyes with their hands stared as though they had never seen the familiar light before.

All night long they watched, till at break of day the storm abated, the sea grew still, and far far away they could see a great three-masted ship rolling and tossing, with one of her sails blown to rags, but still keeping off the shore. The pilot had seen the lights, and so knowing how to steer had kept her away from the rocky reefs where she might have been dashed to pieces.

It was not till the sun rose high and they were able to go out in their boats that the men on shore could take the doctor to the lighthouse, and then they found the little girl kneeling beside the injured man and feeding him with some cold tea which had been left in the teapot. He had come to his senses, and had tried to crawl to the ladder, when he heard her voice singing softly right up in the lantern. He contrived to drag himself along the floor of the room, and could just see a gleam from one of the lamps coming through the chinks of the wood-work. The child, when she found her father did not return, had grown afraid; but her great fear was that the lamps would not be lighted, and as the place grew dark she made up her mind to try to light them herself. She had seen her father clean the lamps, and had been with him up the ladder, holding his strong hand; and she knew too where the match was kept, for she had been shown everything about the place while she was there on those long days alone with her father till the other man came on duty in the evening. So up she went, softly singing a hymn to herself, and after steadying herself by one of the iron rods that supported the lantern, put the lighted match to the wick, and was so startled to see the great yellow glare that shone from the reflector that she nearly lost her balance. When she reached the bottom of the ladder she found her friend looking at her quite wide awake; but he could do nothing to help her, except by telling her how to manage the light, and also how to move up there in the great glass lantern of the lighthouse, so that she might reach each lamp in turn.

When her father came up the steep stair, followed by a dozen of his comrades, she gave a cry of delight and was in his arms in a moment; and she was soon made such a pet of by the men there that they all wanted her to accept knives, and rings, and pocket combs, and even tobacco-boxes, because they had nothing else to offer her; but she had her father and that was quite enough for her, and as he held her to his breast she could feel his tears fall upon her head, and yet he was as brave as any man who lived upon that coast.

"However could she do it?" said Bunny, who had earnestly listened to this story.

"She forgot all about herself, Bunny, and thought only of other people and of the duty that was straight before her," said Frank gently.

Bunny remained very serious all the rest of the evening; perhaps the story of the child lighting the lamps reminded her of the trick she had played poor old Ashton when she poured water into his wine-glasses.

But as we have seen already, Bunny was improving, and her mama was indeed delighted to notice the change, and quite shared her sorrow that they were so soon to leave for London.

A day or two before they had begun to pack up Mr. Dashwood brought the children glorious news. Frank Collins was to go to London and stay with them till the arrival of his mother, who was on her voyage home and would be in England in a few days. Then he was to go to school, and perhaps Mervyn would some day be sent to the same school, but of course in a lower class.

This last part of it was not very cheering for poor Bunny, and she was ready to cry; but she looked at Miss Kerr's kind gentle face and saw the look of joy in Mervyn's eyes, and so she choked back her tears, and presently when Mervyn said softly, "Of course I can't help being glad, Bunny, but I shall never be anything but sorry to be parted from you;" she was ready to say, "And I shall be awfully sorry, Mervyn dear, but then when the holidays come we shall both know so much more, and -- and -- "

Here poor Bunny broke down and hid her face in her pinafore. But the next day she had recovered her spirits, and she and Mervyn were talking over their future plans, for it would be some months before her cousin would know enough to enter even the lowest form. But one chief reason for their rapid recovery of spirits was that it would be a whole month or more before Frank himself could begin his studies, and there were promises of visits to the Zoological Gardens, the great Palm House at Kew, the old Tower of London, and other places which would remind them of the stories they had heard, and of the books which they had yet to learn to read.

They had all these things to talk about when they found themselves in the train that was to carry them home, and were so full of plans and expectations that they were many miles upon the journey before they remembered that they had not waved a good-bye to their old friend Oliver's Mount, or thought of the sorrow of leaving Scarborough for smoky, noisy, old London.

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The Life Of Our Lord In Simple Language For Little Children

By

Anonymous



In ages past God made the world: the earth, the sea, the hills, the streams, the trees; the fish, birds and beasts; last of all He made Adam, the first man, and Eve his wife, and they lived in the Garden of Eden. They were quite good at first, but tempted by Satan they ate the fruit of a tree God told them not to eat, and that brought sin into the world; they could not live for ever now, they must die; but that their souls might go to heaven, God's own Son said He would come down on earth and die to save them. God said His Son should be born of Abraham's nation, and should be one of the sons of the line of King David, who sang the sweet psalms in praise of God.

Abraham was a good man, so good that God called him His friend; and from him came the people called Jews. David was one of their kings. God always keeps His word, but He makes men wait till it is His time to do as He says; and it was a long, long time after Abraham and David that our Lord came to live among men.

At last God sent His angel Gabriel to a young maiden, named Mary, who lived at a town called Nazareth, to tell her that God loved her, and that she should have God's Son for her own son. Our Lord would be her little babe. When Mary saw the angel she was at first afraid, but he said to her, "Fear not, Mary," and he told her that she must call the child's name Jesus -- that means Saviour -- for He would save the people from their sins. Then Mary must have been glad. She said, "I am God's servant; may His will be done." Mary was to be the wife of her cousin Joseph -- they were both of David's family -- so the angel went and told him too, that Mary should have God's Son for her own, and that he must call the child Jesus.

Joseph and Mary lived at Nazareth. At that time the Jews were ruled over by the Romans, whose king was called Caesar. He wanted to know how many people there were in that land, so he said all the men and women of it must go to their own towns to be counted. Now Mary and Joseph's town was Bethlehem. It was a great way off, but they had to go. It took days and days to get there, for they went slowly, and when at last they came to the town they found the inn full; there was no room for them, and they had to go to a stable to sleep and eat and drink.

And that night God sent Mary her Son. She had no nice cradle to lay the Lord in, but she had some clothes to put on Him, so she wrapped the sweet babe in them, and laid Him in a manger, where the ox and the ass fed.

How good it was of our Lord to be born a poor child for our sakes, was it not? He was the Son of God, but to save men He came down and was a babe in a stable of Bethlehem.

Winter had come, the snow was on the hills near Bethlehem, and some shepherds were keeping watch over their flocks at night for fear the wolves or bears should come and hurt them, when suddenly they saw a great light in the dark sky, and from it a bright angel came down close to them, and they were much afraid. But the angel said, "Fear not, for I bring you good tidings" -- that is, news -- "of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this is how you will know Him: you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger." And then a great many angels came out of the light and sang, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace; good-will to men." The song ended, they went back to heaven, and the shepherds said, "Let us go to Bethlehem, and see this great thing of which the Lord has told us." And they made haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And the shepherds praised God, and told the people all that they had seen and heard. The Son of God had no nice soft cradle as you had; He was laid in a manger from which the ox and ass fed: He chose to be a poor child for our sakes.

Mary gave the name of Jesus to the babe as God had told her, and when He was six weeks old she and Joseph brought Him to God's Temple to present Him to the Lord, and to give two doves to show her thanks for the child God had sent to her. There was an old and good man at that time, to whom God had promised that he should not die till he had seen the Lord's Son; and now God's Holy Spirit told him that the Child was in the Temple; and the old man, Simeon, went there and took the Babe in his arms, and thanked God, and said that now he should die in peace, for he had seen the Saviour. And Simeon blessed Joseph and Mary, but he told her that men would speak ill of her Child. Then a good old woman -- her name was Anna -- came in; she was day and night praying in the Temple, and God let her, too, know that this Child was God's Son, come to save men; and she was glad, and gave God thanks, and told every one that the Christ was come.

The word Christ means anointed -- that is, touched with oil, as kings and priests were -- and the Jews always spoke of the Saviour who was to come as "the Christ," or "King."

Then Mary took the Child back to Bethlehem.

Now there were some Wise Men who lived a long way off, and who knew a great deal about the stars. At that time all the world expected that Christ would come, and these wise men had heard that when He was born they would see a new star. One night they saw a bright one that they did not know, and it shone over the land of the Jews. So they set off at once to go and see the new-born King. It was a long way to go; they rode across the sands on camels, and went on and on to where the star shone. At last they came to Jerusalem, and they asked the people, "Where is He that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen His star in the east, and are come to worship him."

Now at that time the Romans had made a very bad, cruel man, whose name was Herod, King of the Jews. When he heard of the wise men and of what they wanted to know, he was troubled; for he was afraid if the great King was born that he (Herod) would not be King any longer. So he sent for the chief priests and asked them where God had said that the Christ should be born. He did not know himself, for he was not a Jew. And the priests said that Christ should be born in the little town of Bethlehem.

Then Herod sent for the wise men and asked them when they first saw the star; and he sent them to Bethlehem and said: "When you have found the young Child bring me word, that I may come and worship Him too."

But the cruel King meant to kill the Babe if he found him. Then the wise men went to Bethlehem, and to their great joy, the star that they saw in the east went before them till it came and stood over where the young Child was.

Then the wise men went in, and saw the young Child and Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshipped Him, and gave Him rich gifts -- gold and a sweet scent, and myrrh, which is a kind of gum. But God told them, in a dream, not to return to Herod, so they went back to their own land by another way. And when they were gone, the angel of the Lord came to Joseph in a dream, and told him to rise, and take the young Child and His mother and flee into Egypt, for Herod would seek for the Babe to kill Him. Joseph rose at once, though it was night, and took the Child and His mother and made haste to go to Egypt.

King Herod was very angry when he knew that the wise men were gone home, and he sent and had all the babes in Bethlehem killed, from quite babies up to two years old. He thought, thus, that he would be sure to kill the Holy Child, but God did not let him, you know.

When this cruel King died, an angel came and told Joseph to take the Child back again into His own land. And Joseph took Him and Mary, and they went to live at Nazareth, a town on the shore of the Sea of Galilee.

And the Child grew strong and full of wisdom, and the grace of God was on him. And when He was twelve years old, He went up with Mary and Joseph to Jerusalem, to keep the Passover -- this was a feast that God had commanded the Jews to keep, to remind them that He had saved them from death, and set them free when they were slaves in Egypt. They ate a lamb at it, and drank some wine. When the feast was over, Mary and Joseph went on their way home, but Jesus stayed behind in the city. There were so many people going to Galilee that Mary did not miss her son till night; then she went to look for Him, for she thought He must be with some friends; but she could not find Him, and in great fear, she and Joseph went back to the city to seek for Him. They did not find Him for three days, and then they went to the Temple, and there He was in the midst of the priests and learned men, listening to them, and asking them questions. And they were all much surprised at his great sense and wise answers. His mother, also, was amazed; but she said to Him, "Son, why have you done this? your father and I have sought You sorrowing." And He said to them, "How is it that you sought me? Did you not know that I must do My Father's business?" He meant "God's business," but they did not know the meaning of His words. Then He went home with them and obeyed them, and was a good, kind Son; but His mother kept all these things in her heart. Jesus has shown all children how to behave to their parents; to obey them and be kind to them as He was.

Now about fifteen years after this time there came a man in the wild part of the land, by the river Jordan, who cried to the people, "Repent," that is, "Be sorry for your sins and be good," "for the Kingdom of Heaven is near." This man's name was John, and he was the cousin of Jesus. He wore only a rough robe of camel's hair and a belt of leather round his waist; he had never tasted wine; he fed on insects called locusts, and wild honey.

Then all the people of Jerusalem, and in all the places near, came to John, and said how sorry they were for their sins, and he baptized them in the Jordan -- that is, he poured water on their heads as they stood in the stream as a sign that God would wash their sins away -- that is, forgive them. But he told them all that he was not the Christ who was to come. He said he was only a Voice to call them from their bad ways and make them ready for the One that was to come, whose shoes he was not good enough to untie. At last, one day, Jesus came to be baptized, but John, who knew how good He was, said, "No, I need to be baptized by You. Why do You come to me?" But Jesus said, "It was right to do so," and then John obeyed Him and baptized Him. Our Lord had no sins to be forgiven, but He wished to set us an example, always to do right. And as He came up out of the river, the heavens opened, and the Spirit of God, like a dove, came down and rested on Him, and there came a voice from heaven, saying, "This is my beloved Son in Whom I am well pleased." Then John knew that Jesus was God's Son -- the Christ.

After He had been baptized, Our Lord went into the wild country, or wilderness, for forty days, and was tempted by the wicked spirit, called the Devil. To tempt any one is to try and make him wicked; but the devil could not make our Lord say or do a wrong thing, although he tried in every way that he possibly could, and so he left Him.

But Jesus came back to John the Baptist, and as He came near the river, John said to those who stood by him, "Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world." And he told them how he knew that Jesus was the Son of God, by the voice from heaven and the dove coming down on Him. Again, the next day as John stood with two of his disciples -- that means, men who were taught by him -- Jesus came near, and John said, "Behold the Lamb of God." And then the two disciples of John followed Jesus. He turned and saw them, and said, "What seek ye?" They said, "Master, where do You live?" And He said, "Come and see," and He took them to His house, and they stayed with Him all day. Now one of them was called Andrew. He was so sure that Our Lord was Christ, the Son of God, that he went and found his own brother, Simon, and brought him to hear and know this great teacher. A good brother or sister will always try to make his or her own brother know and love Our Lord.

The next day Our Lord told Philip to follow Him. And Philip went to his friend Nathanael, and said to him, "We have found the Lord who is Christ, He is Jesus of Nazareth." Nathanael said, "Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?" for Nazareth was a very bad town. Philip said, "Come and see." He knew that if his friend saw and heard Jesus he would love Him. So he brought Nathanael to Our Lord, and Jesus said, "Here is a very good, true man." Nathanael said, "How do You know me?" Jesus said, "Before Philip called you I saw you when you were under the fig-tree." God can see us always. So then Nathanael knew that Jesus must be the Son of God -- the King -- for only the Son of God could have seen him so far off; and he stayed with Our Lord as the others did.

Now Jesus had five disciples with Him, and He left the shores of the Jordan and went with his friends, John, Andrew, Peter, Philip, and Nathanael, to a town called Cana.

And three days after they came to it, there was to be a wedding in Cana. The mother of Jesus was there, and Our Lord and His disciples were invited to the marriage. Now, you know the Lord Jesus and His mother were poor, and no doubt the people who gave the feast were also poor, for they had not enough wine to last till the end; and when there was not any more the mother of Jesus went to Him and said, "They have no wine." Jesus did not say at once, "I will give them some;" He said, "What have I to do with thee? My time has not yet come." But His mother believed that He would help all the same; she knew how good and kind He was. So she said to the servants, "Do what He tells you."

Now there were some large stone jars or pots in the room used for holding water, and Jesus said to the servants, "Fill the water-pots with water." And they filled them up to the brim. And then Our Lord told them to pour it out and take it to the man who was ruler of the feast; for the Jews used to get a friend to see that things went right at their feasts, and he was called the governor or ruler.

Now Our Lord had changed the water into wine, and when the ruler of the feast had tasted it he sent for the bridegroom, and said to him, "You have kept the good wine till now," for it was very good wine. But the servants knew that it had been water, and they told every one that Jesus had made it wine. This was the first miracle -- that is, wonderful thing -- that Our Lord did before all the people. It was a great miracle; and when His disciples saw it they were sure that He must be the Christ.

Why did our Lord do this wonderful thing? To be kind, and to show men that He was God. There are things men cannot do; but God can do them, and when Jesus did them He showed men that He was God.

Soon after this, Our Lord went up to Jerusalem to keep the Passover. He went to the Temple -- God's house in which He was worshipped; and where every day they killed a lamb and burnt it on the altar. The lamb was offered up that God might forgive the sins of the people. So when John the Baptist said, "Here is the Lamb of God," he meant that Our Lord would die, as the Temple Lamb did, to save men from their sins.

But when our Lord came into the Temple He was very angry. For He saw in it oxen and sheep, doves and pigeons waiting to be sold to people for sacrifice, and tables with heaps of money on them that came from all lands; for the men whose the tables were, changed the gold of far off countries for the Jew's money. Do you not think it was very wrong of men to bring oxen, and lambs, and money to change into God's House? Our Lord was very angry to see it. He made a whip of small cords and drove out the oxen and sheep; and He upset the tables of money, and the seats of those who sold doves, and said, "Take these things away. Do not make my Father's house a place to buy and sell in."

The men whom the Lord drove out were very angry, but they knew that He was quite right, and so they did not strive against Him. But the priests, who ought not to have allowed such things, came to Jesus and said, "Give us some sign, you have a right to do this." They meant, do some miracle.

But our Lord would not do a miracle for them. He said the only sign that should be given them was, that if they killed Him He would rise again in three days. But they did not know what His words meant.

While Jesus was here a very good and wise rich man, named Nicodemus, came to see Him by night. He did not go to see Jesus in the daytime, because he was afraid of the Jews; but Our Lord taught him a great many things. Among others, that God so loved the World that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believed in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent His Son into the World that through Him it might be saved.

Then Jesus left the City, and went about teaching and doing good, healing the sick, making the blind see, and the deaf hear, and so He came to Samaria. Now the Jews hated the people who lived there; and the Samaritans hated the Jews. Our Lord never hated any one. He loved both the good and the bad, and came to save all. Of course God loves good men or good children best; Our Lord loved His Apostle John best of all, but He does good to all men, and lets His sun shine on all alike.

One day Our Lord was very tired; He had been teaching the poor and making the sick well, and He had walked a long way, and He wanted food. So He sat down on the stone edge of an old well in Samaria, while the disciples went to buy food, and while He sat there a woman came from the town with a jug to draw water. And Jesus said to her, "Give me some to drink." But she said, "How is it that you, who are a Jew, ask me, who am a Samaritan, for drink? for the Jews will not have anything to do with the Samaritans." Jesus told her that if she had but known Who it was that asked her for drink, she would have begged Him to give her living water. The woman said, "You have not anything to draw the water in, and the well is deep. How can you get living water? Are you greater than our father, Jacob, who gave us this well?" But Our Lord told her that they who drank the water of that well would be thirsty again; but that if she drank of the water He could give her she should never thirst; it should give her life that would not end.

What did Our Lord mean by living water? He meant God's grace -- that is -- God's help to make us good. The woman did not know what He meant, so she said, "Give me this water that I may not have to come here to draw any more." Then Our Lord told her of her sins; He knew that she was not good; He knew all her past life, and He told her about God, and that He must be worshipped in spirit and in truth. The woman said, "I know that Christ will come soon, and He will tell us all things."

Think how glad she must have been when Our Lord said, "I, that speak unto you, am He."

Just then His disciples came, and they wondered that He talked to a Samaritan woman. She left her water-pot, and went to tell her friends, and to ask them to come and see Jesus. The disciples said to Our Lord, "Master, eat;" they had brought food; but Jesus cared more to do God's work than to eat, though He was hungry.

The woman brought many of the people of the town to Our Lord, and they believed that He was the Christ, and begged that He would stay with them and teach them; and He did stay there for two days. How good our Lord was to stay and teach these poor men, to whom the proud Jews would not even speak. Then Jesus went to Cana again where He had made the water into wine; and a rich man who had a young son very ill came to Him and begged Him to make his child well.

Our Lord wanted to try the man's faith, so He did not say, "Yes, I will," at once. He said, "If you do not see signs and wonders you will not believe." But the man said again, "Sir, do come down or my son will be dead." Our Lord pitied him and said, "Go thy way, thy son liveth."

Jesus could cure the sick boy without seeing him. The rich man had faith; he believed Our Lord's words and went his way, but before he reached his house his servants met him, and said, "Your son is getting well." "When did he begin to get better?" asked the father. "Yesterday, at the seventh hour, the fever left him," they said. Then the father knew that it was at the very same hour that Our Lord spoke that his son was made well. And now Our Lord came to Nazareth where He had been brought up, and He went into the synagogue -- that is the Jews' chapel -- on the seventh day and He stood up to read. The priest gave Him the book. It was that part of the Bible where God told men what Christ would do when He came, how He would teach men, and comfort sad people, and make blind men see. And when Our Lord had read it He gave the book back to the priest, and said, "All this has come true to-day." And He told them that He was the Christ. At first they liked to hear Him preach, for His words and voice were sweet; but when He told them that He was Christ they grew very angry, and said, "Is not this the carpenter's son? He is not Christ;" and they got up and dragged Our Lord out of the town to the edge of the hill on which their city was built, that they might cast Him down headlong and kill Him. But it was not the time Jesus meant to die, so He made them not able to see Him, and He walked through the midst of them and went away.

You see what bad men lived in Nazareth. They drove away the good, gentle Lord, who came to save them from their sins, because they were proud and jealous of Him; and He never again came to teach them. He went down to Capernaum, another town by the Sea of Galilee, and taught there and did many miracles, and it was called His Town.

Our Lord had not His disciples always with Him yet; John and James and Andrew and Peter had gone back to their boats to fish; but now Jesus wished them to be always with Him, so He called them again. I will tell you how. One day when Jesus was on the sea-shore, such crowds of people came to hear Him speak to them that there was not room, and they pressed upon Him. There were two large boats close to the shore; the fishers had gone out of them and were washing their nets; so our Lord went into one of them, which was Peter's, and asked him to push the boat a little way out from the land. Then He sat down and taught the people from the boat. And when He had done speaking, He said to Peter, "Pull out into the deep water and let down your nets to catch some fish." But Peter said, "Master, we have toiled all night and have not caught one fish; but still at Thy word I will let down the net." Peter thought that it would be of no use to do so, but still he would obey the Lord. So he threw the net into the sea, and heaps and heaps of fishes came into it directly, so many that the net broke.

Then Peter called to the other boat, in which were his partners, James and John, to help him, and they came and filled both boats with fish; there were so many that the boats began to sink.

When Simon Peter saw it he fell down at Our Lord's feet, and said, "Go away from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord."

For he was afraid. But Jesus said to him, "Fear not; from this time you shall catch men." What did that mean? Peter knew, and James and John knew; it meant that they must not fish any more, but come and try to draw men to the Lord to make them good. They were quite sure now that Our Lord was the Christ, so when they had brought their boats to the shore, they left them and all they had, and went with Jesus, and did not leave Him any more till the end came.

After Our Lord had been away for a time from Capernaum, He went back there. As soon as the people heard it they came in great numbers to the house Jesus was in, to see and hear Him.

Now the houses in that land are not like ours: they have flat roofs, on which you can walk or sit, and a staircase outside the house leads up to it. Most of the houses -- all the large ones -- have a court in the middle of them. The people crowded into the court of the house where Our Lord was, and He preached to them there. More and more came in till there was no room, not so much as about the door.

Now there was a poor man in the town who was sick of the palsy, so that he could not move; and lay always on a bed. He wished very much to go to Our Lord for help, and his friends who loved him had him carried by four men on a kind of bed to the house where the Lord Jesus was, but they could not come near Him through the crowd. So they carried him up to the roof, and took off enough of the tiles to make room for them to let the bed down by ropes put at each of the four corners, and thus they lowered it down with him on it, right in the front of the Lord. He looked at the sick man, and said, "Son, thy sins be forgiven thee." Jesus knows all we think, and He knew the poor man wished more to be forgiven for his sins than to be made well. But some of the Jews -- lawyers -- who hated Our Lord, thought to themselves, "How wickedly this man speaks. Who can forgive sins but God only?" They did not think the Lord could know their thoughts; but He did know them, and He said, "Why do you think this in your hearts? Is it easier to say to the sick man, Your sins are forgiven, or to say, Arise, take up your bed and walk? But that you may know that (I) the Son of Man have power on earth to forgive sins, I will do so." And then our Lord said to the sick man, who could not move, "Arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house." And the sick man rose up and stood, and took up his bed and walked out before them all. And they were amazed, and praised God, saying, "We never saw anything like it before."

After Our Lord had made the sick man well, He walked down to the shore of the beautiful sea of Galilee. The crowd followed Him, and there in the fresh, sweet air, He went on teaching them. Not far off was a place called the Receipt of Custom. I will tell you for what it was used.

The Romans made the Jews pay them money, and this was called a tax. They put men in some places to receive this tax for them, and these men were called Publicans. They were not good men generally, and the priests and great men hated them; but some of them were just and honest. Levi was; and we may be sure he had heard Our Lord preach and loved Him, for one day, as he was sitting at the place where men paid the tax to him, Our Lord went up to him and said, "Follow Me." Levi must have known who spoke to him, for he at once rose and was ready to give up all his riches and go with Jesus. And he was so glad that the Lord had called him that he gave a feast at his house, and asked all his friends to come to it to meet their Saviour. His friends were most of them Publicans like himself, and not all good men; but Jesus and His disciples sat down and ate with them.

Now some of the Jews hated Our Lord; these were the Scribes and Pharisees. The Scribes were men who wrote out the laws -- there were no printed books in those days -- so they were thought wise; the Pharisees were a set of men who pretended to serve God better than any other people, and made a show of praying, saying their prayers in the streets to be seen of men; but they were not really good. These men came now, and said to Jesus, "How can You sit down to eat with publicans and sinners?" Jesus said, "Men who are well do not want a doctor, but those who are sick do. I am not come to call good men to be sorry for their sins, but bad men." The Pharisees did not know that they and all men were sinners, and that all must be saved by Jesus.

Now I must tell you that Levi had two names, as you have. His first name was Matthew, and a long time after, he wrote the story of Our Lord's life. It is called the Gospel -- that means good news -- of St. Matthew, and it is in the Bible.

Now just as the feast was ending there came a ruler and he threw himself down at Jesus' feet, and said, "My daughter is dying, but come and lay Your hands on her and she shall live." This ruler's name was Jairus; he had great faith. And Jesus rose up at once and went with him, and so did His disciples. And as they went along the road a poor woman who had been ill for years and had spent all her money to pay doctors, who did her no good, crept softly up behind Our Lord and just touched the hem of His robe, for she said, "If I may but touch His robe I shall be well." There was a great mob of people at the time and they pressed up against Jesus, but He stopped, and said, "Who touched Me?" Then Peter and the rest said, "Master, all the people press on You; why do You ask 'who touched Me?'" And Jesus said, "Some one has touched Me." Then the woman came and knelt down, and said, "I did," and Jesus was pleased with her faith and told her to go in peace, and she was quite cured. Then they went on to Jairus' house. The little girl was dead; but Jesus took the father and mother and Peter, James, and John with Him and went in where she lay and took her little hand, and said, "Maid, arise." And the little girl came to life and got up, and Jesus told them to give her something to eat.

How glad her father and mother must have been to have their dear child again, alive and well! How they must have thanked and blessed Our Lord! All her friends would always believe in Him now; and do you not think the little girl -- she was only twelve years old -- must have loved the Lord Jesus very much, and tried to be good to please Him.

When Jesus left the house where He had raised the child from the dead, two blind men followed Him crying, "Thou Son of David, have mercy on us." When they called the Lord the Son of David, they meant that they believed He was the Christ. And they followed Him into the house. And Jesus said to them, "Do you believe I can make you see?" They said, "Yes, Lord." Then he touched their eyes and said, "As your faith is so be it unto you." And their eyes were opened and they could see. They had told the truth, they did believe in Jesus; if they had said they did untruly they would not have been cured. Our Lord told them not to let any one know it; but when they were gone they told about it everywhere.

When Jesus went out again they brought to Him a dumb man; Our Lord ordered him to speak and he did so. Indeed no poor sick man came to Him in vain. He made lepers well, and cured a man with dropsy; and made a crooked woman straight. He made the dumb speak, the deaf hear, the blind see, the cripple walk. We cannot in this little book tell you half the kind, good, and wonderful things Our Lord did while He was on earth.

And He sent His apostles also to teach the people, and made them able to heal the sick and to do other miracles. One day the disciples were angry because one who was not a disciple cured a man in Christ's Name, but Our Lord said, "Forbid him not, for even he who gives you a cup of water in My Name, shall not lose his reward."

About this time there was a feast of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. Now there was at Jerusalem by the sheep-market a pool of water which was called Bethesda, that means House of Mercy. Round it were five porches or doorways, and in these lay a great many poor sick men.

There was something wonderful about the pool. At times in the year the water bubbled up -- the Jews said an angel made it do so. The first person who stepped into the pool as it bubbled was cured at once. So many sick men waited for the chance. One man was there who had been crippled for thirty-eight years. The Lord Jesus walked down one day to this pool, and when He saw the poor man and heard how long he had been thus, He said to him, "Will you be made well?" The helpless man thought Our Lord meant, "Will you not go into the pool," for he answered, "Sir, I have no man who will put me in when the pool is bubbling, and while I try to get to it another man steps down before me." It was, as you know, only the first who stepped in after the water was troubled that was cured. Then Jesus said, "Take up your bed and walk."

And the man who could not move at all at once rose, took up his bed -- a rug most likely -- and walked.

Now it was the Sabbath day, and you know how strict the Jews were about it. They said at once to the man who was cured, "Why do you carry your bed on the Sabbath day? it is forbidden by the law."

The man said, "He that made me well said to me, 'Take up your bed and walk.'"

When they asked him, "What man was it who told you to do so?" But the man did not know, because Jesus had gone away with the crowd.

Afterwards Jesus found him in the Temple and said to him, "You are well now; do not sin again lest a worse thing come on you."

The man must have been a sinner, and Jesus told him to take care to be a better man, or God might punish him with a worse illness, but he was so ungrateful that, though he must have known the Jews would be angry with Our Lord for making him well on the Sabbath day, he went at once to them and told them that it was Jesus who had made him well.

The priests were very angry, but Jesus said to them, "My Father works on the Sabbath and so do I." Then they wanted to kill Him, because he had not only done a miracle on the Sabbath, but said that God was His Father, making Himself equal with God.

And so, you know, He was; but these wicked Jews would not believe it; they were jealous of Him because the people loved Him, and angry because He told them how wicked they were.

Our Lord told His disciples one day this pretty parable. The Kingdom of Heaven is like treasure -- that is, something precious like gold or gems -- hid in a field, and a man who knows about it, and wishes to get it, sells all that he has and buys the field; the treasure is then his and he digs it up. In that country much gold had been hidden in the ground by men who fled from their enemies, and never came back to dig it up again, and there were many who sought for it.

This parable means that the kingdom of God, the love of Christ, and His help to make us good are so precious that we should give up anything for them, and try as hard as we can to gain them.

Our Lord and His disciples were poor, and sometimes wanted food. One Sabbath day they were walking through the corn-fields, and the disciples were hungry, so they picked some ears of corn, rubbed them in their hands, and ate the wheat.

The Jews might eat corn in the fields on week-days, but the Pharisees had made many hard and silly rules about the Sabbath day. God had said that they must keep the seventh day holy; but He meant it to be a rest from work and a day for men to pray to Him, not a day such as they made it.

The Pharisees said that no fire might be lighted on the Sabbath day, no food cooked, not one thing might be done; they might only walk a little way on that day; and doctors might not cure or help the sick. So it was a day when men, and children too, were not happy, as God meant them to be.

Now, when the Pharisees saw the disciples eat the corn, they said, "Why do you do that which is not right on the Sabbath day?" Our Lord answered, and told them that there was no harm in His disciples eating the corn, for men must eat on the Sabbath day, and that we might do needful things on it. Then He went into the synagogue, and He saw there a man with a withered hand. And the Jews said to Christ, "Is it right to make men well on the Sabbath day?" And Jesus said, "Yes, it is; for if a sheep fell into a pit on the Sabbath day you would take it out, and a man ought to be helped more than a sheep." And He told the poor man to stretch out his hand; he did so, and found that Jesus had made it well, and just like the other hand. And the Pharisees were so angry because He had told men that they were wrong, that they began to talk about killing Him. But Jesus went away when He knew it; and a great crowd of people followed Him, and He made all the sick ones well.

One day, when He saw how many there were following Him, He wished to teach them, and, that they might hear Him well, He went up on a mount close by, and sat down. The Jews always sat down to preach. And when He was seated, His disciples came to Him, and the words He then spoke are called the Sermon on the Mount. You will read it when you are older; it is too hard for you now, but we may tell you a few things out of it. Jesus told them that God would bless those who were humble -- that is, not proud -- and the meek and gentle. He said that God would comfort those who were sad; that He would bless those who were kind; that the pure in heart should see God, and that those who made up quarrels should be called God's children. He told them that they need not "take thought" about how they should get food and clothes. "See," He said, "the birds of the air: God feeds them; He will also feed you; and look at the lilies: they toil not, neither do they spin, yet the grandest king in all his glory was not arrayed -- that is, dressed -- like one of them. Seek to please God, and He will take care of you." Then He taught them to say the prayer "Our Father," just as you do now at your mother's knee.

When Jesus had ended the Sermon on the Mount, He came down, and a great many people followed Him; and there came a leper, and knelt down to Him, and said, "Lord, if You will, You can make me clean."

A leper was a man whose flesh was eaten away by disease; sometimes the fingers and feet of the leper would fall off. No one could cure him, and men might catch the complaint, so the lepers were kept in a place by themselves; and if they went into the town, they had to cry as they went, "Unclean! unclean!" We are sure that, when this leper came to Christ, all the people got out of his way, and would not touch the poor man. But Our Lord put out His kind hand and touched him, and said, "I will; be thou clean;" and in a moment the leper was quite well; and Our Lord told him to go to the priest and offer a gift of thanks to God. No one but God can cure a leper; but Jesus is God, and He could.

Now, when Our Lord had come to Capernaum, there came a Roman, the captain of a hundred men, and begged Him to make his servant well, for he was very ill with the palsy. Our Lord said at once, "I will come and heal him." But the Roman captain said, "Lord, I am not good enough for You to come to my house, but speak the word only, and my servant will be well." You see, this Roman had even more faith than the rich man, whose son was ill. "For," the Roman went on, "if I tell my servants to do anything, they do it; and You, who rule all things, need only speak to be obeyed." And Jesus wondered at the Roman's words, and said, "Verily, I have not found such great faith, no, not in Israel," and He said to the centurion, "Go your way; and as you have believed so be it done unto you." And the man went home, and found his servant well.

Then Jesus went to Peter's house, and made his wife's mother well of a fever, and healed many more sick, and made the blind see and the deaf hear. We cannot, in this little book, tell you half of the good and kind things Our Lord did.

Jesus sometimes told His disciples lovely tales that meant something more than just the story, so they were called Parables. One of these was that the Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant who wanted to buy good pearls. You know what pearls are, do you not? They are pure white shining beads that men find in the shell of the oyster. To get them the fishers have to go down to the bottom of the sea; so, of course, they sell the pearls very dear. Now, when the pearl-fishers had found a very large pearl of great price, they took it to the merchant; it would cost a great deal, but he knew it was worth even more; so he sold all he had and bought it. Now this story means that God's Kingdom is such a beautiful place, and that it is so good for us to serve Christ here, that we should give up all that we most care for to gain the love of God.

One day, Our Lord, with His disciples and a great crowd who followed Him, came near a little town called Nain. And just as He drew near the gate of the city a dead young man was brought out to be buried. His mother was walking by the side of the bier and crying very much, for her husband was dead, and she had no other son. And when Our Lord saw her He had pity on her, and said, "Weep not," and He came and touched the bier, and the men who were carrying it stood still. And Jesus said, "Young man, I say unto thee, Arise!" And the dead man came to life and sat up and began to speak, and the Lord gave him to his mother. And there came a great fear on all who saw it, and they said, "God has visited His people."

Another parable Jesus told them was of a sower who went out to sow seed. And as he cast the seeds about some of them fell by the wayside; and the birds came and ate them up; some fell on stony places where they had not much earth to grow in, and they sprang up fast, because they were not deep in the ground; but when the sun came out, it burned them up quite dry, for they had no root; and some fell among thorns, and the thorns sprang up and choked them -- that is, did not leave them room to grow. But some fell on good ground, and grew up and brought forth much fruit.

The Apostles did not quite know what hidden meaning there was in this Parable, so Jesus told them.

The seed meant the Word of God; the sower, a servant of God who had to teach the Word. The seed that fell by the wayside meant that the words had not been cared for by those who heard them, and the Wicked Spirit then made them forget all they had heard. That which fell on stony places and had no depth of earth, meant those who at first are glad to hear of God's love, and seem as if they would be His children; but their goodness has "no root," and so a little trouble makes them give up trying. We must all ask God to keep us Christ's children. The seed that fell among thorns meant that sometimes when men have been taught about God, they let the love of money and the cares of life and its pleasures fill their minds so that they have no time or thought to give to God, or to read and pray. Those seeds that fell on good ground meant the children or men who listen to God's Word, and read it, and pray to Him for help, and try to obey it. These grow better and better, and God will love and help them.

Our Lord was often very tired when He had been making sick people well and teaching them by these lovely stories; and then He would go up a mountain alone and pray to His Father in Heaven, or cross the sea to some other place, for He had hardly time to eat or sleep. One day He was very tired and the sun had set, so He said to His disciples, "Let us cross to the other side." Then they sent away the crowd of people and took Jesus in the ship, and put out to sea, and there were with them many other little ships.

And there arose a great wind; the waves were high and beat into the boat, so that it was full of water and going to sink; but Our Lord was fast asleep, with his head on a pillow, in the stern of the ship. The disciples were much afraid, and they woke him, saying, "Lord, do you not care that we perish?" Then Jesus rose and stood up and spoke to the wind and waves, and said, "Peace" -- that is, Hush! -- "be still." And the wind stopped blowing, and the waves grew still, and there was a great calm. Then the disciples said to each other, "What kind of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey Him?" They ought to have known, for they had seen Him raise the dead. You know, do you not? He was the Son of God.

Our Lord chose twelve of the men who followed Him to be his apostles, and He sent seventy of His disciples out to teach, and gave them power to make sick people well. The apostles also, were sent, but after a time they came back to Our Lord, and told Him all that they had done and taught. And He said to them, "Come ye apart into a desert place and rest awhile," for there were many coming and going, and they had not even time to eat. And they went by ship with Him to a desert place near a city called Bethsaida. But when the people found out where He had gone, they came in crowds after Him. Our Lord was very kind to them. He went to this desert place to rest, but He did not care for rest or food, if He could do good, so He did not say, "Why did you come here?" but He went up on a mount and told them about God, and made all the sick ones well. And when the day began to wear away, the twelve apostles came to Him, and said, "Send this great crowd away that they may go to the towns near and get food, for this is a desert place." Then Jesus said to Philip, "Where shall we get bread that these may eat?" And this He said to try him, for He Himself knew what He would do. And Philip said, "A great deal of bread would not be enough to give each of them a little piece." Then Andrew said, "There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two small fishes, but what are they among so many?" And Jesus said, "Make the men sit down." And they sat down on the grass, fifty in one place, and there were five thousand men there. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when He had given thanks He broke them, and gave the pieces to His disciples, and they gave them to the people; and He gave them of the fishes as much as they would, and they all ate and left many pieces. Then Our Lord told the Apostles to gather the pieces up so that nothing might be lost; for Jesus does not like people to waste things, and they picked up enough pieces to fill twelve baskets with the bread that was left. Was not this a very great miracle? The people who saw it said at once, that Our Lord was the Christ that was to come, and they wanted to make Him a King; and when He would not be one, they thought they would take Him by force and crown Him; but Jesus sent His disciples away and went into a mountain all by Himself and prayed to His Father. This miracle made the people believe in our Lord more than any other. They thought that He Who could feed them when they were hungry, must be the promised Saviour; and they had been taught by the priests that when Christ came He would be a king, that He would free them from the Romans and make them rich and great. That was a great mistake. The Christ was coming to set them free from their sins, and bring them to His Heavenly Kingdom, not only to do them good on earth.

And when the sun had set the disciples were on the sea, and it was now dark, and Jesus was not come to them. The wind blew, and the great waves rose. How they must have wished Our Lord had been there to hush the storm. But Jesus saw them, and in the middle of the night He went to them; He had no boat so He walked on the sea. Can men walk on the sea? No; but Our Lord could, because He was God. When the disciples saw Him, they were afraid, and cried out. But Jesus spoke to them at once, and said, "Fear not, it is I." And Peter said, "Lord, if it is You tell me to come to You on the sea." And Jesus said, "Come." Peter stepped out of the boat and walked on the water to go to Jesus, but when he saw the great waves, he was afraid and began to sink; and he cried out, "Lord, save me." Then Jesus at once put out His hand, and caught him, and said, "O why have you so little faith!" And when they had both got into the boat, the wind left off blowing, and the ship was at the place they were going to at once. Then those in the ship came and knelt down to Jesus, and said, "Of a truth, Thou art the Son of God."

One day, Our Lord was with His apostles near the place where the Jews' land joined that of the people who did not know about God. And a poor woman of that country followed Him, and cried after Him, "Have mercy on me, O Lord, Thou Son of David, for my daughter is very ill." But He did not answer her; and so she kept crying to Him till the apostles said, "Send her away, for she crieth after us." They wanted Our Lord to cure her child, so that she might go away. But Jesus said, "I am not sent to any but the Jews."

Then the woman came and kneeled down to Him, and said, "Lord, help me." And Jesus said, "It is not right to take the children's bread and cast it to the dogs." Did not Our Lord seem unkind? But He was not; He was only trying the woman's faith. But she was very humble; she said, "That is true, Lord, but the dogs eat of the crumbs that fall from their master's table." Then Jesus said, "O woman, great is thy faith, be it unto thee even as thou wilt;" and her daughter was made well that very hour.

This woman was at first of the Greek religion; that is, she had worshipped and prayed to idols of stone, whom she called Jove and Apollo and Diana. But she had heard of the God of the Jews, and we think had given up her false gods and believed in Him; for she knew of the expected Christ, and that he would be of David's family. Then her dear child was ill, and she went to Jesus for help. Very great was her faith, as Our Lord said.

This was the second miracle Our Lord did for people who were not Jews, but who had learned to believe in God.

Our Lord was often spoken to as He went on His way by people who thought they would like to be His disciples, but had not faith enough in the end to give up the things they loved to go with Him. Once a man said to Him, "I will follow You wherever You go." And Jesus said, "Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but I, the Son of Man, have not where to lay My head." For the Lord Jesus was very poor; He had no home then on earth. He stayed, we read, sometimes in Peter's house, and with other friends of whom we shall tell you by-and-by. We do not know if the man who spoke still wished to follow Christ; we fear he did not, or we should have heard he did.

Another day as He was going on His way, a young man ran up to Him, kneeled down, and said, "Good Master, what good thing shall I do that I may have eternal life?" And Jesus said, "Why do you ask Me concerning that which is good?[A] One there is who is good; but, if you would enter into life keep God's Commandments." The young man asked "Which?" Jesus said, "Thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false witness; honour thy father and mother; thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." The young man said, "I have kept all these; what is wanting in me?" And Our Lord looking on him loved him, for he was very good; but he had one great fault, he loved money, and Jesus said, "If you would be perfect, go and sell what you have and give to the poor, and you shall have treasure in Heaven; and come, and follow Me."

But when the young man heard this he went away sorrowful, for he had great riches, and he did not like to part with them and go about poor with Our Lord's disciples. We are sure that Jesus was sorry for him, and we hope he came back afterwards, but we do not know. Poor young man! he was so good that we think perhaps in the end he did.

Our Blessed Lord went through every city and village telling them the glad tidings of the Kingdom of God, and the twelve apostles were with Him. There were some women with them also whom Christ had made well. One was called Mary Magdalene, who had been cured of a sad disease, and Joanna, the wife of Herod's steward, and Susannah, and many others, who brought Our Lord and His apostles food, and did all they could to serve Him.

Jesus had many friends as well as cruel enemies.

There were some good people who lived at Bethany, a pretty little village near Jerusalem. They were two sisters and a brother, called Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. When Our Lord was at Jerusalem, He often went to see them; and they were very glad to have Him in their house. Martha bustled about to get a feast for Him and His apostles one day when He came there; but Mary sat at his feet listening to His words. Then Martha thought her sister ought to help her, so she came, and said, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Bid her help me." But Jesus said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are careful and troubled about many things; there is only one thing needful; and Mary has chosen that good part that shall not be taken away from her."

Jesus was not angry with Martha; He only told her not to be so full of care about earthly things, but to care most for listening to His words. We cannot hear Christ's voice now, but we can hear and read His words still. Do you know where they are found? In the Bible.

Our Lord prayed a great deal. Sometimes He prayed all night long; He loved to pray to His Father in Heaven. And one day He told a pretty story to His disciples to teach them how to pray.

Two men went into the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, the other a publican. The Pharisee stood and prayed, and said, "God, I thank Thee that I am not as bad as other men, or even as this publican; I obey Thy law." The publican stood a great way off and would not lift up so much as his eyes unto Heaven, but struck his breast with his hand to show he was sorry, and said, "God be merciful to me a sinner."

The Pharisee boasted how good he was; the publican only asked God to forgive him. Which of the two prayed best? Our Lord said the publican did; for God will not hear the prayers of the proud, but listens to those of the humble.

The Lord Jesus has told us that God will give us what we ask for in prayer if we do not pray for wrong things. He says, "Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you." The meaning is, If you ask God's help, He will give it; if you seek to find out what is His will, you will find it; if you beg God to make you understand His word, He will let you; for Our Lord said, "If a son ask his father for bread, will he give him a stone, or, if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?" -- that is, a snake. No; you know he will not. Since, then, even men who are not good will be kind to their children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good things to them who ask Him! The Lord loves to hear the prayer of a little child. You may pray when you like; at your mothers knee, or in the day if you feel you want God's help. He will hear you if you say in your mind, "Make me a good child, for Christ's sake."

One day a lawyer stood up from among the crowd who listened to Our Lord and asked Jesus a question. He did it to try the Lord and see if He would say something that the priests might think wrong. He said, "Master, what shall I do to gain eternal life" -- that is, life in Heaven? And Jesus said, "What is written in the law?" And the lawyer said, "The law tells me that I must love the Lord my God with all my heart, and with all my soul, and with all my strength, and my neighbour as myself." Our Lord said, "You have answered right; do this and live." But the lawyer, not yet satisfied, asked, "Who is my neighbour?" And Our Lord answered by telling him a pretty story.

A man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho: it was a wild, lonely road over the hills; and he met some thieves who robbed him, took off his clothes, wounded him, and left him for dead by the road-side. And by chance a priest came by that way but he did not help the poor man; he crossed over to the other side of the way and went on. Then, a Levite, one of the men who served the priests in the Temple, came that way; he stopped and looked at the poor man, and then left him and crossed to the other side of the road.

Next, a Samaritan came along -- you remember, do you not, that the Jews hated the Samaritans? -- but this man, when he saw the poor wounded Jew lying in the road, had pity on him. And he went to him and bound up his wounds, putting oil and wine to them, as people used then to do; and he lifted him off the hard ground and put him on his own beast and brought him to an inn and took care of him. And the next day, when he had to go away, he called the host -- that is, the man who kept the inn -- and gave him two pence -- which were worth more than a shilling -- and said, "Take care of the poor man, and whatever you spend I will repay you when I come again."

"Which of these three men do you think was neighbour to the man who fell among thieves?" asked Our Lord. And the lawyer could not help answering, "He that had mercy on him."

Then Jesus said to him, "Go and do the same."

One day Our Lord told His disciples of what would happen soon, how He must go up to Jerusalem and die for them and for all the world; and that made them very sad.

About eight days after, He took Peter and James and John with Him and went up a high mountain to pray. It was late, and the disciples were tired, and while Jesus prayed they fell asleep. But a great light woke them, and then they saw a wonderful thing. Our Lord's face shone like the sun, and His robe was white and glittering as the light; and two men stood by Him in shining white robes; and the apostles knew that they were Moses and Elijah. Moses had been dead very, very long, and Elijah had been taken up to Heaven alive; but now, like two bright angels, they talked with Our Lord. What did they talk about? Of how Jesus would go up to Jerusalem and die to save men. The disciples could not quite tell what it meant, and Peter said, "Lord, it is good for us to be here. Let us make here three tents for Thee and Moses and Elijah," not knowing what he said; but, as he spoke, a bright cloud came over them, and they were taken into it, and a voice came out of the cloud and said, "This is My Beloved Son; hear Him." And when the voice was past, Jesus was alone. It was He who was God's Dear Son.

Soon after this the disciples began to talk together about which of them should be greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven. And Jesus called a little child to Him, and when He had taken him in His arms, He said to them, "Whoever will receive one of such children in My name receiveth Me, and whosoever shall receive Me receiveth not Me but Him that sent Me." And He told the apostles that they must be as gentle and humble as little children if they would be great in Heaven, for there the humble would be the first, and the proud the last.

Our Lord loved little children very much. Soon after this, some mothers brought their children and infants to Jesus that He might touch and bless them; but the apostles told them to go away and not to trouble the Lord. When Jesus knew it He was very angry, and said, "Suffer little children to come unto Me, and do not forbid them, for of such is the Kingdom of God." And He took the little ones in His arms, put His hands upon them, and blessed them. How good and kind Jesus was! Little children ought to love Him with all their heart, and be very good to please Him.

Our Lord came, you know, to bear the punishment of our sins; and He told some pretty parables to the Pharisees to try and make them understand why He talked so much to bad men. It was because His great love made Him wish to save them. He told them that if they had a great many sheep and one was lost, the shepherd would leave all the others and go to find the lost one; and when he had found it he would bring it back with great joy.

And He said: "If a woman has ten pieces of silver and she loses one she will light a candle and sweep the house and look carefully for it. And when she has found it she will call her friends, and say, Be glad with me; I have found the piece that I had lost, so" -- went on Our Lord -- "there is joy in Heaven with the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."

Once Our Lord told His disciples a parable of a fig-tree. Fig-trees grow by the side of the road in that land, and people might pick the figs. But this fig-tree grew in a man's garden; and for three years it had borne no figs. Then the master called his gardener and said to him, "For three years I have come to find figs on this tree and there are none; cut it down; it is of no use." But the gardener said, "Lord, let it stay this year, I will dig round it and manure it, and if next year it bears fruit, well; but if not, then you shall cut it down."

This parable meant that Christ is always asking God, His Father, to let us have time to be sorry for our sins before we die. It meant, too, that He asked God to give the Jews time to be sorry before He destroyed their city and sent them out of their own land.

Then He told them this other story: "Once, there was a man who had two sons. The younger of the two said to him one day, 'Father, give me now the share of your money you mean me to have.' And the kind father divided his money between the sons as the greedy one asked. As soon as the younger son had his share he left his father's house and went to a far off land, and there he spent his money in eating and drinking with bad people. And when he had spent all he had, great want came on that land; there was very little food, and bread was very dear. Now this sinful lad had no money left, so he was obliged to go and be a servant to a man of that country, who sent him into his fields to feed pigs; and he had so little food and was so hungry that he would have liked to eat the husks the pigs ate, and no man gave any food to him. Then he felt how sinful he had been, and he said, 'My father's servants have more bread to eat than they want, while I shall die of hunger. I will go back to my father, and say to him, "Father, I have sinned against God and against you, and am not fit to be called your son; make me your servant."' And he arose and went to his father; and when he was yet a great way off his father saw him -- a poor, ragged man -- and he ran to meet him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and against thee, I am not good enough to be called thy son; let me be one of thy servants.' But his father quite forgave him, and told the servants to bring the best robe and put it on him, and to put shoes on his feet, and a ring on his hand, and to cook the fat calf that they might eat; and they were merry.

"Now, when the elder son, who was in the fields, heard the sound of music and dancing, and was told what the feast was for, he was angry, and would not go in; his father came out and begged that he would. But the son said, 'I have been a good son, but you did not give me a kid that I might make a feast for my friends; yet, now your wicked son is come who has spent all on bad living, you have had the calf killed for him.' It was wrong of this son to be jealous, was it not? He ought to have been glad that his brother had come home again. But his father said, 'Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours; but it was right to be glad now, for your brother who was dead is alive again, was lost, and is found.'"

Jesus meant to teach us by this story that God will forgive us and love us as soon as we are sorry for being naughty. People who keep on being naughty are said in God's Book to be dead and lost -- and so they are -- till they are sorry and do better.

Now it was winter-time, and a feast was being kept in Jerusalem. Our Lord went to it, and walked in the Temple in Solomon's Porch. Then the Jews came round about Him, and said, "How long do You mean to keep us in doubt" -- to be in doubt is not to be sure of a thing -- "If You are Christ, tell us plainly?"

Jesus said, "I have told you, and you would not believe Me. The works I do show that I am the Christ, but you will not believe. Ye are not My sheep. My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me, and I give unto them eternal life, and no man can take them out of My Father's hand. I and My Father are one."

The Jews knew that Our Lord meant to say that He was God, for He was God's Son, and they were so angry that they took up stones to throw at Him and sought to take Him, but it was not yet time for Jesus to die for us all, so He passed from them and went away to the other side of the river Jordan, to the place where John baptized, and many believed on Him there. John the Baptist was dead, another cruel Herod had had his head cut off.

It was while Our Lord was here that a man was sent to Him by Martha and Mary to say that Lazarus, their brother, whom the Lord loved, was ill. The sisters thought Jesus would be sure to come and make His dear friend well. But, though Our Lord loved these good people, He did not go at once. He waited for two days, and then He said to His disciples, "Let us go into Judea again." But the disciples said, "Master, the Jews of late tried to kill You; why will You go there again?" Then Jesus said, "Our friend Lazarus is asleep; I go that I may awake him." They did not know what Jesus meant, so they said, "If he is asleep he will get well." Then Our Lord told them that Lazarus was dead, and said that He must now go to him. The apostle Thomas said to the others, "Let us go, too, that we may die with Him." For they thought the Jews would be sure to kill Jesus if He went near Jerusalem; and Martha and Mary lived very near it. Lazarus had been buried four days when they arrived at Bethany.

As soon as Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet him, and said to Him, "Lord, if You had been here my brother would not have died; but I know that even now if You ask God anything He will give it You." Jesus said, "Thy brother shall rise again." "Yes; I know," said Martha, "he will rise at the last day." But Jesus told her that He could give life to the dead. Then He asked for Mary. She was sitting with a great many friends who had come to comfort her in her grief, but Martha made haste to tell her that Our Lord was come; and Mary went out to the Lord and said, as Martha had, "Lord, if You had been here he would not have died." Then Jesus said, "Where have you laid him?" The Jews had also come out now, and they said, "Come and see." They were all weeping, and Our Lord had such pity for their grief, that He too shed tears. Now the grave was a place in a rock and a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, "Take away the stone." And when they had taken it away, Our Lord said some words to God in heaven, and then He cried out with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come forth." And the dead man came out alive, though he had lain four days in the grave. How glad Mary and Martha must have been! A great many of the Jews who were there, when they saw this wonderful thing, believed that Jesus was the Son of God; but some of them went to the Pharisees and told them what Jesus had done. And they were angry, and said, "What shall we do? for if we let this man alone all will believe in Him, and the Romans will come and take away our place and nation." They meant that the Romans would take them and sell them for slaves, as was sometimes done in those days. Then the high priest said, "One man must die for the people." He did not know how true his words were, for Jesus meant to die to save all men. But the Lord did not let them kill Him yet, He went to another place with his disciples.

However, as soon as the time of the Passover drew near, He went up to Jerusalem, and then to Martha's house, where Lazarus was; and Simon, who had been a leper, made a supper for Him, and Martha waited on Him; but Lazarus sat at the table. Then Mary took a pound of very sweet-scented ointment, that cost a great deal of money, and she put it on the feet of Jesus and wiped His feet with her hair, and the scent went all over the house.

Now Jesus had one bad man among His apostles. His name was Judas. He kept the bag in which Our Lord and the disciples put their money, and he used to steal from it. He was vexed when he saw Mary use the sweet ointment; he could have sold it, he thought, and stolen the money if she had given it to Our Lord, and not used it, so he said, "That is a waste, the ointment could have been sold for a great deal and the money given to the poor." But Jesus said, "Let her alone; the poor you have always with you, but Me ye have not always. She has done it for My burial."

There were a great many Jews at this feast, they came to see Lazarus who was raised from the dead, as well as Jesus; and many of them believed in the Lord.

The priests then thought that they had better kill Lazarus as well as Our Lord, and that very night Judas came to them, and offered to help them take Jesus if they would pay him for it. And they gave him some silver money for doing it -- as much as four of our sovereigns -- just as much as people paid for a slave.

Now the next day, when the people who had gone up to Jerusalem for the feast, heard that Our Lord was coming, they went out to meet Him, with branches of palm-trees in their hands, crying, "Blessed is the King that cometh in the name of the Lord." Jesus had sent for a young ass and was riding on it, and the people, to show how they loved him, and that they would have Him for their King, spread their garments on the ground for the ass to tread on.

And when Our Lord was come near the city, and saw it, He wept over it; He was very sorry that it was so wicked, and He knew that God would destroy it.

They went on into Jerusalem, and the people wondered, and said "Who is this?" And the crowd answered, "Jesus of Nazareth!"

Then, Our Lord went into the Temple, and found there the tables of money and the oxen and sheep as He had before, and He drove them out again. The children, with palms in their hands, had followed Him into the Temple, and sang, with their sweet voices "Hosanna (that is, praise) to the Son of David;" and when the priests heard them they were angry, and said, "Do You hear what these children say?" And Our Lord said, "Yes; have you never heard that out of the mouth of babes and little infants God has perfect praise?"

Then Jesus left them and went back to Martha's house, where He slept.

For five days more, Our Lord came every morning to Jerusalem, and went back in the evening to the house of Lazarus to sleep. And He taught His apostles many things, and talked with the Pharisees and priests in the Temple. One day, when His disciples showed Him what a grand place the Temple was, He told them that not one stone would be left on another. And He said that one day He would come again to judge the world.

One day, He saw a very poor woman -- she was a widow -- drop two mites -- that is, less than a farthing -- into the box that was placed for men to give money to the Temple. And Jesus said to His disciples, "This poor widow has cast in more than they all, for the rich men could spare all they gave, but she has given to God all the living she had."

You see, God does not mind how small the gift is that we offer to Him, if it is all we can do; He loves the gift of the poor.

One day some of the wicked people who wanted to find fault with Him, came and asked Our Lord if it was right to pay the tax to the Romans. Jesus said, "Show me a penny;" and when they brought it He said, "Whose likeness is on it and what name?" They said, "Caesar's." Then said Jesus, "Give to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's."

It was of no use to teach these men; they would not believe though they heard how wisely Jesus spoke and saw the wonderful works He did. Some of the chief rulers believed on Him, but they were afraid of the Pharisees and would not say that they did; for the Bible tells us they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God.

It was on one of the first days of this week, that some Greeks came to the Apostle Philip and said, "Sir, we wish to see Jesus." Philip told Andrew, and they went together to tell Our Lord. Jesus said that the hour was come that He should be glorified, and He spoke to the Greeks, and told them that if any man served Him, God would honour him; and ended His words by saying, "Father, glorify Thy Name," and there came a voice from heaven, saying, "I have both glorified it and will glorify it again." Some of the people who stood by said that it thundered; but others -- perhaps the Greeks, who were nearer -- said that an angel spoke to Him. Our Lord told them that the voice came not for Him but for their sakes. It was meant to make them believe in Jesus, and these good Greeks must have gone away sure now that He was indeed the expected Christ.

Now, Our Lord had told the apostles to get Him a room in which He would eat the Passover with them, and, when they were there, Our Lord took a towel and poured some water into a basin and began to wash His disciples' feet, and wipe them with the towel. But, when He came to Peter, Peter said, "Lord, Thou shalt not wash my feet."

He thought it was not fit that Our Lord should do as a servant would.

But Jesus said, "If I do not wash you, you have no part in Me." Then Peter let Him do it. Why did Our Lord wash His apostles' feet? To show us that we must not be too proud to do anything for one another.

Then Our Lord sat down to supper, and He was troubled, and said, "One of you will give Me up to the priests." And the disciples looked at one another and wondered which of them would be so wicked. Peter made signs to John, who was close to Our Lord, to ask Him; and John did. And Jesus said, "The one to whom I shall give a sop when I have dipped it." And He dipped a piece of bread in some sauce and gave it to Judas, and said to him, "What you are going to do, do quickly." Then, Judas, who knew what Our Lord meant, went out; but the others did not know; they thought Our Lord sent him to give something to the poor.

We shall not tell you all Our Lord did and said at this Last Supper; it would be too hard for you to understand; but we will tell you that He grew sad and told His apostles that they would all leave Him that night. Peter said, "Lord, I will go with Thee to prison or to death." Our Lord answered, "I tell you, Peter, before the cock crows you will three times say you do not know Me."

When the supper was ended and they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives; and on the way the Lord talked to them, and told them to love one another.

Now, on that Mount, there was a garden called Gethsemane; Our Lord went into it, and with Him He took Peter and James and John, and told them to watch while He prayed. They were tired, and only kept awake a little while; but they heard Our Lord pray. He was very sorrowful, for He knew He must die, and He was sad because men were so wicked; but He said to God, "Not My will, but Thine be done;" and His Father sent an angel from Heaven to comfort Him. Twice Jesus went to His apostles and found them asleep. It must have seemed very unkind of them; but Our Lord was not angry. He said they could not help it, they were so tired. But the third time He came to them He told them to rise, for Judas was coming with the priests to take Him.

And just then the priests came with soldiers and lamps, for it was night, and Judas was with them. He said, "I will show you which is Jesus; I will kiss Him." So he went up to Our Lord, and said, "Hail, Master," and kissed Him. Jesus said, "Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss." Then He said to the soldiers, "Whom seek ye?" They said, "Jesus of Nazareth." Our Lord said, "I am He," and they fell on their faces before Him; they felt how great He was. But they soon got up, and when Our Lord said again, "Whom seek ye?" and they answered, "Jesus," He said, "I am He; but let My disciples go." Now Peter had a sword, and he was so angry that he drew it and cut off the ear of one of the high priest's servants.

But Our Lord told him to put up his sword, and touched the ear of the wounded man and made it well at once. Was not Jesus good and kind to heal the man who came to take Him? Then all His disciples forsook Him and fled; and the soldiers led Him to the High Priest's house, where all the wicked priests and scribes were sitting up waiting for Him. John and Peter were soon sorry that they had left Our Lord, and went after Jesus. John had a friend in the High Priest's house who let him go in; and then John went and brought Peter in. The priests were very cruel to Our Lord; they told falsehoods about Him. But when they asked Him if He was the Christ, and He said, "I am, and you will see Me one day sitting on the right hand of God, and coming in the clouds with the Holy Angels," they were so angry that they tore their clothes, and said, "He ought to die." And then they began to ill-treat Our Lord, and threw a cloth over His face and beat Him with the palms of their hands, and said, "Tell us who struck You!"

Now Peter sat in the part of the great hall that was lower down than that where Our Lord was, and he warmed himself by the fire; and a maid came up, and said to him, "You are one of the men who were with Jesus;" but he said, "I do not know Him." Then another servant said to him, "You are one of His disciples;" but Peter said, "Man, I am not." An hour went by, and then another said, "This fellow was with Jesus." And Peter said he was not, and began to use bad words. Just then the cock crowed; and Our Lord turned and looked at Peter. It must have been such a sad look! and it reminded him of what Our Lord had said, "Before the cock crow thou shalt deny Me three times." And he was so much ashamed and so very sorry that he went out and wept bitterly.

Now, when Judas saw that Our Lord would be put to death, he repented, and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests, and said, "I have sinned, for I have given up to you an innocent man." The wicked priests answered, "What is that to us? See thou to that." And Judas cast down the pieces of silver and went and hanged himself. Very bad men sometimes cannot bear to live, when they feel how wicked they have been; but it only adds to their sins to kill themselves; for God has said men may not do so.

When daylight came, the great crowd of the priests and scribes and their friends led Our Lord from the High Priest's house to that of Pilate, the Roman governor, to have Him judged; for the Romans did not allow the Jews to put any one to death. Pilate was in his hall where he judged people. He came out and asked, "What has this Man done?" "He teaches men wrong," said they; "He tells them not to pay the tax to Caesar, and says that He is Christ, a King." Then, Pilate went back to the judgment hall and had Christ brought before him, and said, "Are You a King?" Our Lord told him that He was; but not a king of this world; His Kingdom was a heavenly one. Then Pilate went out to the people, and said, "I find no fault in this man." But they were more angry, and cried, "He teaches the people wrongly, from Galilee to this place." When Pilate found that Jesus came from Galilee, he sent Him to Herod to be judged, for Herod was ruler over that part of the land. And when Herod saw Our Lord, he was glad, for he hoped to see some miracle done by Him; and he questioned Jesus with many words; but the Lord would not even speak to the cruel man who had killed John the Baptist. Then Herod grew angry, and he and his soldiers mocked the Lord, and put on Him a purple robe such as kings wear, and sent Him back to Pilate. The priests and scribes then said all manner of false things about Jesus; but He did not speak or answer at all. Then Pilate's wife sent to tell him not to have anything to do with that just man, as she had had a terrible dream about Him. And again Pilate tried to save Him. The Romans set free any prisoner that the Jews asked for at the Passover; so Pilate said to them, "I will have Jesus beaten and then set Him free." But the priests told the people to say, "No; set Barabbas free." Now, Barabbas was a robber.

Then Pilate said, "What, then, shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?" and they said, "Crucify Him!" -- that is, "Nail Him to a cross." But Pilate still tried to save Jesus; he told his soldiers to beat Our Lord with great knotted ropes; and then the men made a crown of sharp thorns and pressed it on His head, so that the blood ran down; and they put a reed in His hand, and the purple robe on again, and cried, "Hail, King of the Jews!" and kneeled down to Him, mocking Him. Pilate, thinking that the cruel Jews would be quiet and let Him go if they saw Him thus, took Him out, and said to them, "Behold the Man!" But they only cried more and more, "Crucify Him!" Pilate said, "Take ye Him and crucify Him, for I find no fault in Him." They answered, "We have a law, and by our law He ought to die, because He says He is the Son of God."

When Pilate heard that, he was much afraid; he took Our Lord back into the hall, and asked Him, "Whence do you come?" But Jesus did not answer him. Pilate said, "Why do you not answer me? Do you not know that I can crucify you, or let you go free?" But Jesus said that Pilate's power was given from above, and that the Jews had the greater sin. Then Pilate tried very hard to save the Lord, but the Jews cried out again, "If you let this Man go, you are not Caesar's friend."

And Pilate was much afraid of Caesar, who was a cruel man. Then the Jews began to make a great disturbance; but Pilate took water, and washed his hands before them, and said, "I am innocent of the blood of this just Man; see ye to it." Was this true? No. Pilate ought to have rather died himself than let a good man be killed. But fear often makes men wicked. Be ashamed to be a coward.

Then the soldiers took the robe off Christ, and put His own clothes on Him, and led Him away to crucify Him. At first they made Him carry the great cross on which He was to be nailed; but He fainted under the weight and fell, and then they made a man they met carry it for Him.

They nailed the dear Lord's hands and feet to the cross; but first they wanted Him to drink some wine and myrrh that He might not feel the pain so much, but He would not drink it. Now, the mother of Jesus stood by the cross with his favourite apostle, John. How sad it was for her to see her dear Son in such pain! But Jesus still thought of her. He looked at John, and said, "Woman, behold thy son;" and to John He said, "Behold thy mother;" and from that hour John was a good son to the mother of his Lord.

Then Our Lord prayed to God for the cruel Jews. He said, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do" -- that is, they did not know that He was God's Son. There were two thieves crucified with Christ, one on each side. One of them was wicked; the other was sorry for his sin, and asked Jesus to forgive him. The Lord told him, "To-day you shall be with Me in Paradise" -- the happy place, you know. Then a great darkness came on like night, and there was a hush -- the cruel Jews had been mocking Our Lord; now, they were frightened. The darkness lasted for three hours; then light came back. Our Lord said, "I thirst." And the soldiers dipped a sponge in vinegar, and put it on a reed and held it to His lips. When He had tasted it, He said, "It is finished!" and bowed His head and died. Then the earth and the city shook, and the Roman Captain, close by, said, "This Man really was the Son of God."

The Jews asked Pilate to take Our Lord and the others down from the crosses, because the next day was their Sabbath. So he sent to see if they were dead. Jesus was, but, to make sure, one of the soldiers stabbed His side with a spear. The thieves were not dead; so their legs were broken, that when taken down they might not get away, and die sooner.

Then a rich man, named Joseph, begged Pilate to let him bury Our Lord, and Pilate said he might. So Joseph, and Nicodemus, who came to Jesus by night, wrapped Him in white linen and put Him in a grave that Joseph had made for himself in a garden, and a great stone was put for a door to it. The Jews begged Pilate to set a guard upon the tomb for fear the disciples should take the Lord away; for they remembered that He had said He would rise again. So Pilate sent a great many soldiers to watch. But at day-dawn an angel of the Lord came down from Heaven: his face was bright as the lightning, and his robe as white as snow; and the earth shook very much as he came down. He rolled away the stone that shut the tomb, and sat on it. The guards were nearly dead with fear, and made haste away.

Now, the women who loved the Lord were coming to put sweet spices on Him, even while it was dark. But when they came, they saw that the stone was rolled away, and that the grave was empty; so Mary Magdalene ran off at once to tell Peter and John of it. The other women went and looked into the tomb, and there they saw two bright angels, and they were afraid. But the angels said, "Do not be afraid. We know you are looking for Jesus; He is not here; He is risen. Go and tell Peter and the disciples that He is risen." And they made haste to take the message.

And while they were going, some of the watch came into the city and told the chief priests all that had been done; how an angel had come down and rolled away the stone from the tomb. The priests were afraid, and called the elders together to ask their advice; it was that they should give a great deal of money to the soldiers and tell them to say that the disciples came in the night, and stole Our Lord's body away while they were asleep, and this wicked thing they did. They paid the Roman soldiers to tell a falsehood, and said that they would take care that Pilate should not punish them for sleeping on their watch; for which they might be put to death.

Then Peter and John came with Mary Magdalene, and looked into the tomb, but it was empty -- only the linen lay folded up on one spot. They were very much surprised, but by-and-by they went home. Mary did not; she stood crying by the tomb. Then she looked into the grave, and she also saw the two angels. They said to her, "Why do you weep?" She said, "Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him." She turned back as she spoke, and Jesus stood close by her, but she did not know Him. He said, "Why do you weep?" Mary was crying so much she could not see His face, and she thought He was the gardener, so she said, "Sir, if you have taken my Lord away, tell me where you have laid Him, and I will take Him away." Jesus said, "Mary!" When she heard His voice and her name, she knew who He was, and kneeled down to Him. He told her to go and tell "His brothers" -- the disciples -- that He had come out of the grave and would soon go up to Heaven.

Then the Lord Jesus went and spoke to Peter, because the kind Saviour knew how sad he was.

Two disciples that day were walking to a place eight miles from Jerusalem. They were very sad, talking about Our Lord, when He came up and walked with them; but He did not let them know who He was. He asked them why they were sad, and they told Him it was because Jesus was dead. Then He made them understand that Jesus died that they might go to Heaven, and they were quite glad of what He said. They begged Him to go in with them to supper, and He went in; and when He took bread and blessed it they knew Him at once. But He passed away, they could not tell how, so they made haste to go back to Jerusalem to tell the Apostles. They found them all, except Thomas, in one room, with the doors shut, but before they could tell their tale, the men said, "Our Lord has risen from the dead, and has been seen by Peter." Then the two told how He had walked with them; and while they spoke Jesus stood in the midst of them, and said, "Peace be to you;" and He showed them the holes of the nails in His hands and feet. Then they knew that it was the Lord. They told Thomas of it, but he was so sad he could not believe them. "You must make a mistake," he said; "I will not believe Our Lord is alive again unless I can put my hand in His side, where the spear went in, and my fingers in the holes of the nails."

The next first day of the week -- Sunday -- they were all in the room, Thomas too, when Our Lord came into the midst of them, and said to Thomas, "Put out your hand and feel my side, and put your fingers in the nail-holes." Then Thomas kneeled down and said, "My Lord and my God." Jesus said, "Thomas, because you have seen Me you believe; blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have believed."

Our Lord stayed forty days on earth, and often came and talked to His disciples; once He came to five hundred all in one place. But some of the apostles went back to their boats. There were together Peter, James and John, Thomas, Nathanael, and two other disciples. They went out to fish; but all night they did not catch one, and when day broke Jesus stood on the shore. They did not know Him, and He asked if they had any fish. They said, "No;" and then He told them to cast their net on the right side of the ship. They did so, and now the net nearly broke with the weight of the fish. Then John said, "It is the Lord," and Peter at once swam ashore to Jesus. The others came in the boat dragging the net full of fish. And when they came to the shore they saw a fire of coals and fish laid on it, and bread. And Jesus told them to bring some of their own fish; there were a hundred and fifty great ones in the net, but it did not break. Then Jesus said, "Come and dine;" and He gave them fish and bread. When they had dined, the Lord said to Peter, "Do you love Me more than these?" Peter said, "Yes, Lord; You know that I love You." Then Christ said, "Feed My lambs." Again He asked Peter, "Do you love Me?" "Yes, Lord," said Peter. Then said Jesus, "Feed My sheep." A third time He asked Peter, "Do you love Me?" Peter was grieved because Jesus asked him three times; he thought Our Lord remembered that he had three times said he did not know Him, and he said, "Lord, You know all things; You know that I love You." Then Jesus said, "Feed My sheep." Who are Christ's lambs? Little children, whom Jesus loves; to feed the sheep and lambs means to teach them.

Then Jesus said to Peter, "When you were young you walked where you would; but when you are old you shall stretch forth your hands, and another shall gird you and carry you where you do not wish to go." Jesus thus foretold Peter's death; who, when old, was crucified. Peter asked Our Lord what John would do -- you remember that John and Peter were great friends -- and Jesus gently reproved him for asking, by saying, "If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?"

Our Lord also told His disciples to go all over the world and tell people about Him, and baptize them; and then He took them out to the Mount of Olives, and, while He was blessing them, He was taken up, and a cloud hid Him from their sight; but they stood a long time looking up after their Lord, till two angels came to them, and said, "Why do you stand looking up into Heaven? This same Jesus who is taken up from you into Heaven will come again in the same way as you have seen Him go up." Then the disciples were very glad, and they went back to Jerusalem.

Has not the story of Our dear Lord made you love Him? We hope so; and if you love Him you will be a good child to please Him, for He sees you now from where He sits at God's right hand, whence He will come by-and-by and -- if you obey Him -- will take you to live with Him in Heaven.

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A Great Emergency And Other Tales

By

Juliana Horatia Ewing



A Great Emergency.

Chapter I.

Rupert's Lectures -- The Old Yellow Leather Book.


We were very happy -- I, Rupert, Henrietta, and Baby Cecil. The only thing we found fault with in our lives was that there were so few events in them.

It was particularly provoking, because we were so well prepared for events -- any events. Rupert prepared us. He had found a fat old book in the garret, bound in yellow leather, at the end of which were "Directions how to act with presence of mind in any emergency;" and he gave lectures out of this in the kitchen garden.

Rupert was twelve years old. He was the eldest. Then came Henrietta, then I, and last of all Baby Cecil, who was only four. The day I was nine years old, Rupert came into the nursery, holding up his handsome head with the dignified air which became him so well, that I had more than once tried to put it on myself before the nursery looking-glass, and said to me, "You are quite old enough now, Charlie, to learn what to do whatever happens; so every half-holiday, when I am not playing cricket, I'll teach you presence of mind near the cucumber frame, if you're punctual. I've put up a bench."

I thanked him warmly, and the next day he put his head into the nursery at three o'clock in the afternoon, and said -- "The lecture."

I jumped up, and so did Henrietta.

"It's not for girls," said Rupert; "women are not expected to do things when there's danger."

"We take care of them" said I, wondering if my mouth looked like Rupert's when I spoke, and whether my manner impressed Henrietta as much as his impressed me. She sat down again and only said, "I stayed in all Friday afternoon, and worked in bed on Saturday morning to finish your net."

"Come along," said Rupert. "You know I'm very much obliged to you for the net; it's a splendid one."

"I'll bring a camp-stool if there's not room on the bench," said Henrietta cheerfully.

"People never take camp-stools to lectures," said Rupert, and when we got to the cucumber frame we found that the old plank, which he had raised on inverted flower-pots, would have held a much larger audience than he had invited. Opposite to it was a rhubarb-pot, with the round top of a barrel resting on it. On this stood a glass of water. A delightful idea thrilled through me, suggested by an imperfect remembrance of a lecture on chemistry which I had attended.

"Will there be experiments?" I whispered.

"I think not," Henrietta replied. "There are glasses of water at the missionary meetings, and there are no experiments."

Meanwhile Rupert had been turning over the leaves of the yellow leather book. To say the truth, I think he was rather nervous; but if we have a virtue among us it is that of courage; and after dropping the book twice, and drinking all the water at a draught, he found his place, and began.

"How to act in an emergency."

"What's an emergency?" I asked. I was very proud of being taught by Rupert, and anxious to understand everything as we went along.

"You shouldn't interrupt," said Rupert, frowning. I am inclined now to think that he could not answer my question off-hand; for though he looked cross then, after referring to the book he answered me: "It's a fire, or drowning, or an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort." After which explanation, he hurried on. If what he said next came out of his own head, or whether he had learned it by heart, I never knew.

"There is no stronger sign of good-breeding than presence of mind in an -- "

" -- apoplectic fit," I suggested. I was giving the keenest attention, and Rupert had hesitated, the wind having blown over a leaf too many of the yellow leather book.

"An emergency," he shouted, when he had found his place. "Now we'll have one each time. The one for to-day is -- How to act in a case of drowning."

To speak the strict truth, I would rather not have thought about drowning. I had my own private horror over a neighbouring mill-dam, and I had once been very much frightened by a spring-tide at the sea; but cowardice is not an indulgence for one of my race, so I screwed up my lips and pricked my ears to learn my duty in the unpleasant emergency of drowning.

"It doesn't mean being drowned yourself," Rupert continued, "but what to do when another person has been drowned."

The emergency was undoubtedly easier, and I gave a cheerful attention as Rupert began to question us.

"Supposing a man had been drowned in the canal, and was brought ashore, and you were the only people there, what would you do with him?"

I was completely nonplussed. "I felt quite sure I could do nothing with him, he would be so heavy; but I felt equally certain that this was not the answer which Rupert expected, so I left the question to Henrietta's readier wit. She knitted her thick eyebrows for some minutes, partly with perplexity, and partly because of the sunshine reflected from the cucumber frame, and then said,

"We should bury him in a vault; Charlie and I couldn't dig a grave deep enough."

I admired Henrietta's foresight, but Rupert was furious.

"How silly you are!" he exclaimed, knocking over the top of the rhubarb-pot table and the empty glass in his wrath. "Of course I don't mean a dead man. I mean what would you do to bring a partly drowned man to life again?"

"That wasn't what you said," cried Henrietta, tossing her head.

"I let you come to my lecture," grumbled Rupert bitterly, as he stooped to set his table right, "and this is the way you behave!"

"I'm very sorry, Rupert dear!" said Henrietta. "Indeed, I only mean to do my best, and I do like your lecture so very much!"

"So do I," I cried, "very, very much!" And by a simultaneous impulse Henrietta and I both clapped our hands vehemently. This restored Rupert's self-complacency, and he bowed and continued the lecture. From this we learned that the drowned man should be turned over on his face to let the canal water run out of his mouth and ears, and that his wet clothes should be got off, and he should be made dry and warm as quickly as possible, and placed in a comfortable position, with the head and shoulders slightly raised. All this seemed quite feasible to us. Henrietta had dressed and undressed lots of dolls, and I pictured myself filling a hot-water bottle at the kitchen boiler with an air of responsibility that should scare all lighter-minded folk. But the directions for "restoring breathing" troubled our sincere desire to learn; and this even though Henrietta practised for weeks afterwards upon me. I represented the drowned man, and she drew my arms above my head for "inspiration," and counted "one, two;" and doubled them and drove them back for "expiration;" but it tickled, and I laughed, and we could not feel at all sure that it would have made the drowned man breathe again.

Meanwhile Rupert went on with the course of lectures, and taught us how to behave in the event of a fire in the house, an epidemic in the neighbourhood, a bite from a mad dog, a chase by a mad bull, broken limbs, runaway horses, a chimney on fire, or a young lady burning to death. The lectures were not only delightful in themselves, but they furnished us with a whole set of new games, for Henrietta and I zealously practised every emergency as far as the nature of things would allow. Covering our faces with wet cloths to keep off the smoke, we crept on our hands and knees to rescue a fancy cripple from an imaginary burning house, because of the current of air which Rupert told us was to be found near the floor. We fastened Baby Cecil's left leg to his right by pocket-handkerchiefs at the ankle, and above and below the knee, pretending that it was broken, and must be kept steady till we could convey him to the doctor. But for some unexplained reason Baby Cecil took offence at this game, and I do not think he could have howled and roared louder under the worst of real compound fractures. We had done it so skilfully, that we were greatly disgusted by his unaccommodating spirit, and his obstinate refusal to be put into the litter we had made out of Henrietta's stilts and a railway rug. We put the Scotch terrier in instead; but when one end of the litter gave way and he fell out, we were not sorry that the emergency was a fancy one, and that no broken limbs were really dependent upon our well-meant efforts.

There was one thing about Rupert's lectures which disappointed me. His emergencies were all things that happened in the daytime. Now I should not have liked the others to know that I was ever afraid of anything; but, really and truly, I was sometimes a little frightened -- not of breaking my leg, or a house on fire, or an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort, but -- of things in the dark. Every half-holiday I hoped there would be something about what to do with robbers or ghosts, but there never was. I do not think there can have been any emergencies of that kind in the yellow leather book.

On the whole, I fancy Rupert found us satisfactory pupils, for he never did give up the lectures in a huff, though he sometimes threatened to do so, when I asked stupid questions, or Henrietta argued a point.



Chapter II.

Henrietta -- A Family Chronicle -- The School Mimic -- My First Fight.


Henrietta often argued points, which made Rupert very angry. He said that even if she were in the right, that had nothing to do with it, for girls oughtn't to dispute or discuss. And then Henrietta argued that point too.

Rupert and Henrietta often squabbled, and always about the same sort of thing. I am sure he would have been very kind to her if she would have agreed with him, and done what he wanted. He often told me that the gentlemen of our family had always been courteous to women, and I think he would have done anything for Henrietta if it had not been that she would do everything for herself.

When we wanted to vex her very much, we used to call her "Monkey," because we knew she liked to be like a boy. She persuaded Mother to let her have her boots made like ours, because she said the roads were so rough and muddy (which they are). And we found two of her books with her name written in, and she had put "Henry," and Rupert wrote Etta after it, and "Monkey" after that. So she tore the leaves out. Her hair was always coming out of curl. It was very dark, and when it fell into her eyes she used to give her head a peculiar shake and toss, so that half of it fell the wrong way, and there was a parting at the side, like our partings. Nothing made Rupert angrier than this.

Henrietta was very good at inventing things. Once she invented a charade quite like a story. Rupert was very much pleased with it, because he was to act the hero, who was to be a young cavalier of a very old family -- our family. He was to arrive at an inn; Henrietta made it the real old inn in the middle of the town, and I was the innkeeper, with Henrietta's pillow to make me fat, and one of Nurse's clean aprons. Then he was to ask to spend a night in the old Castle, and Henrietta made that the real Castle, which was about nine miles off, and which belonged to our cousin, though he never spoke to us. And a ghost was to appear. The ghost of the ancestor in the miniature in Mother's bedroom. Henrietta did the ghost in a white sheet; and with her hair combed, and burnt-cork moustache, she looked so exactly like the picture that Rupert started when she came in, and stared; and Mother said he had acted splendidly.

Henrietta was wonderfully like the picture. Much more like than Rupert ever was, which rather vexed him, because that ancestor was one of the very bravest, and his name was Rupert. He was rather vexed, too, when she rode the pony bare-backed which had kicked him off. But I think the pony was fonder of Henrietta, which perhaps made it easier for her to manage it. She used to feed it with bits of bread. It got them out of her pocket.

One of the things Henrietta could not do as well as Rupert was cricket. Rupert was one of the best players in the school. Henrietta used to want to play with us at home, and she and I did play for a bit, before breakfast, in the drying ground; but Rupert said, if I encouraged her in being unladylike, he would not let me come to the school matches. He said I might take my choice, and play either with girls or boys, but not with both. But I thought it would be very mean to leave Henrietta in the lurch. So I told her I would stick by her, as Rupert had not actually forbidden me. He had given me my choice, and he always kept his word. But she would not let me. She pretended that she did not mind; but I know she did, for I could see afterwards that she had been crying. However, she would not play, and Mother said she had much rather she did not, as she was so afraid of her getting hit by the ball. So that settled it, and I was very glad not to have to give up going to the school matches.

The school we went to was the old town grammar school. It was a very famous one; but it was not so expensive as big public schools are, and I believe this was why we lived in this town after my father's death, for Mother was not at all rich.

The grammar school was very large, and there were all sorts of boys there -- some of gentlemen, and tradesmen, and farmers. Some of the boys were so very dirty, and had such horrid habits out of school, that when Rupert was thirteen, and I was ten, he called a council at the beginning of the half, and a lot of the boys formed a committee, and drew up the code of honour, and we all subscribed to it.

The code of honour was to forbid a lot of things that had been very common in the school. Lying, cheating over bargains, telling tales, bragging, bad language, and what the code called "conduct unbecoming schoolfellows and gentlemen." There were a lot of rules in it, too, about clean nails, and shirts, and collars and socks, and things of that sort. If any boy refused to agree to it, he had to fight with Thomas Johnson.

There could not have been a better person than Rupert to make a code of honour. We have always been taught that honour was the watch-word of our family -- dearer than anything that could be gained or lost, very much dearer than mere life. The motto of our arms came from an ancestor who lost the favour of the King by refusing to do something against his conscience for which he would have been rewarded. It is "Honour before honours."

I can just remember the man, with iron-grey hair and gold spectacles, who came to our house after my father's death. I think he was a lawyer. He took lots of snuff, so that Henrietta sneezed when he kissed her, which made her very angry. He put Rupert and me in front of him, to see which of us was most like my father, and I can recall the big pinch of snuff he took, and the sound of his voice saying "Be like your father, boys! He was as good as he was gallant. And there never lived a more honourable gentleman."

Every one said the same. We were very proud of it, and always boasted about our father to the new nursemaids, or any other suitable hearer. I was a good deal annoyed by one little maid, who when I told her, over our nursery tea, that my father had been the most honourable of men, began to cry about her father, who was dead too, and said he was "just the same; for in the one and twenty years he kept a public-house, he never put so much as a pinch of salt into the beer, nor even a gill of water, unless it was in the evening at fair-time, when the only way to keep the men from fighting was to give them their liquor so that it could not do them much harm." I was very much offended by the comparison of my father, who was an officer and a gentleman of rank, with her father, who was a village publican; but I should like to say, that I think now that I was wrong and Jane was right. If her father gave up profit for principle, he was like my father, and like the ancestor we get the motto from, and like every other honourable man, of any rank or any trade.

Every time I boasted in the nursery of my father being so honourable, I always finished my saying, that that was why he had the word Honourable before his name, as men in old times used to be called "the Good" or "the Lion Heart." The nursemaids quite believed it, and I believed it myself, till the first week I went to school.

It makes me hot all over to remember what I suffered that week, and for long, afterwards. But I think it cured me of bragging, which is a mean ungentlemanly habit, and of telling everybody everything about myself and my relations, which is very weak-minded.

The second day I was there, one of the boys came up to me and said, with a mock ceremony and politeness which unfortunately took me in, "If I am not mistaken, sir, that esteemed lady, your mother, is an Honourable?"

He was nearly five years older than I; his name was Weston; he had a thin cadaverous face, a very large nose, and a very melancholy expression. I found out afterwards that he was commonly called "the clown," and was considered by boys who had been to the London theatres to surpass the best professional comic actors when he chose to put forth his powers. I did not know this then. I thought him a little formal, but particularly courteous in his manner, and not wishing to be behindhand in politeness, I replied, with as much of his style as I could assume, "Certainly, sir. But that is because my father was an Honourable. My father, sir, was the most honourable of men."

A slight spasm appeared to pass over Weston's face, and then he continued the conversation in a sadder tone than the subject seemed to require, but I supposed that this was due to his recalling that my father was dead.

I confess that it did not need many leading inquiries to draw from me such a narrative of my father's valour and high principle, as well as the noble sentiments and conspicuous bravery which have marked our family from Saxon times, as I was well accustomed to pour forth for the edification of our nursemaids. I had not proceeded far, when my new friend said, "Won't you walk in and take a seat?" It was recreation time, and the other boys were all out in the playground. I had no special friend as yet; Rupert had stuck to me all the first day, and had now left me to find my own level. I had lingered near the door as we came out, and there Weston had joined me. He now led me back into the deserted school-room, and we sat down together on an old black oak locker, at the bottom of the room.

How well I remember the scene! The dirty floor, the empty benches, the torn books sprinkled upon the battered desks, the dusty sunshine streaming in, the white-faced clock on the wall opposite, over which the hands moved with almost incredible rapidity. But when does time ever fly so fast as with people who are talking about themselves or their relations?

Once the mathematical master passed through the room. He glanced at us curiously, but Weston's face was inscrutable, and I -- tracing some surprise that I should have secured so old and so fine-mannered a boy for a friend -- held up my head, and went on with my narrative, as fluently as I could, to show that I had parts which justified Weston in his preference.

Tick, tack! went the clock. Click, clack! went my tongue. I fear that quite half-an-hour must have passed, when a big boy, with an open face, blue eyes, and closely curling fair hair, burst in. On seeing us he exclaimed, "Hulloh!" and then stopped, I suspect in obedience to Weston's eyes, which met his in a brief but expressive gaze. Then Weston turned to me.

"Allow me," said he, "to introduce Mr. Thomas Johnson. He bears a very high character in this school, and it will afford him the keenest satisfaction to hear an authentic account of such a man as your esteemed father, whose character should be held up for the imitation of young gentlemen in every establishment for the education of youth."

I blushed with pride and somewhat with nervousness as Mr. Thomas Johnson seated himself on the locker on the other side of me and begged (with less elegance of expression than my first friend) that I would "go ahead."

I did so. But a very few minutes exhausted the patience of my new hearer. When he had kicked a loose splinter of wood satisfactorily off the leg of one of the desks he began to look at the clock, which quickened my pace from my remoter ancestors to what the colonel of the regiment in which my father was an ensign had said of him. I completed my narrative at last with the lawyer's remark, and added, "and everybody says the same. And that is why my father had 'The Honourable' before his name, just as -- " &c., &c.

I had no sooner uttered these words than Johnson started from his seat, and, covering his face with a spotted silk pocket-handkerchief, rushed precipitately from the school-room. For one brief instant I fancied I heard him choking with laughter, but when I turned to Weston he got up too, with a look of deep concern. "Mr. Johnson is taken very unwell, I fear," said he. "It is a peculiar kind of spasm to which he is subject. Excuse me!"

He hurried anxiously after his friend, and I was left alone in the school-room, into which the other boys shortly began to pour.

"Have you been all alone, old fellow?" said Rupert kindly; "I hoped you had picked up a chum."

"So I have," was my proud reply; "two chums."

"I hope they're decent fellows," said Rupert. (He had a most pestilent trick of perpetually playing monitor, to the wet-blanketing of all good fellowship.)

"You know best," said I pertly; "it's Weston and Johnson. We've been together a long time."

"Weston?" cried Rupert. "I hope to goodness, Charlie, you've not been playing the fool?"

"You can ask them," said I, and tossing my head I went to my proper place.

For the rest of school-time I wore a lofty and Rupert an anxious demeanour. Secure on the level of a higher friendship, I was mean enough to snub the friendly advances of one or two of the younger boys.

When we went home at night, I found my mother much more ready than Rupert to believe that my merits had gained for me the regard of two of the upper boys. I was exultingly happy. Not a qualm disturbed the waking dreams in which (after I was in bed) I retold my family tale at even greater length than before, except that I remembered one or two incidents, which in the excitement of the hour I had forgotten when in school.

I was rather sorry, too, that, bound by the strictest of injunctions from Rupert and my own promise, I had not been able, ever so casually, to make my new friends aware that among my other advantages was that of being first cousin to a peer, the very one who lived at the Castle. The Castle was a show place, and I knew that many of my schoolfellows were glad enough to take their friends and go themselves to be shown by the housekeeper the pictures of my ancestors. On this point they certainly had an advantage over me. I had not seen the pictures. Our cousin never called on us, and never asked us to the Castle, and of course we could not go to our father's old home like common holiday-making townspeople.

I would rather not say very much about the next day. It must seem almost incredible that I could have failed to see that Weston and Johnson were making fun of me; and I confess that it was not for want of warnings that I had made a fool of myself.

I had looked forward to going to school with about equal measures of delight and dread; my pride and ambition longed for this first step in life, but Rupert had filled me with a wholesome awe of its stringent etiquette, its withering ridicule, and unsparing severities. However, in his anxiety to make me modest and circumspect, I think he rather over-painted the picture, and when I got through the first day without being bullied, and made such creditable friends on the second, I began to think that Rupert's experience of school life must be due to some lack of those social and conversational powers with which I seemed to be better endowed. And then Weston's acting would have deceived a wiser head than mine. And the nursemaids had always listened so willingly!

As it happened, Rupert was unwell next day and could not go to school. He was obviously afraid of my going alone, but I had no fears. My self-satisfaction was not undone till playtime. Then not a boy dispersed to games. They all gathered round Weston in the playground, and with a confident air I also made my way to his side. As he turned his face to me I was undeceived.

Weston was accustomed -- at such times as suited his caprice and his resources -- to give exhibitions of his genius for mimicry to the rest of the boys. I had heard from Rupert of these entertainments, which were much admired by the school. They commonly consisted of funny dialogues between various worthies of the place well known to everybody, which made Weston's audience able to judge of the accuracy of his imitations. From the head-master to the idiot who blew the organ bellows in church, every inhabitant of the place who was gifted with any recognizable peculiarity was personated at one time or another by the wit of our school. The favourite imitation of all was supposed to be one of the Dialogues of Plato, "omitted by some strange over-sight in, the edition which graces the library of our learned and respected doctor," Weston would say with profound gravity. The Dialogue was between Dr. Jessop and Silly Billy -- the idiot already referred to -- and the apposite Latin quotations of the head-master and his pompous English, with the inapposite replies of the organ-blower, given in the local dialect and Billy's own peculiar jabber, were supposed to form a masterpiece of mimicry.

Little did I think that my family chronicle was to supply Weston with a new field for his talents!

In the midst of my shame, I could hardly help admiring the clever way in which he had remembered all the details, and twisted them into a comic ballad, which he had composed overnight, and which he now recited with a mock heroic air and voice, which made every point tell, and kept the boys in convulsions of laughter. Not a smile crossed his long, lantern-jawed face; but Mr. Thomas Johnson made no effort this time to hide a severe fit of his peculiar spasms in his spotted handkerchief.

Sometimes -- at night -- in the very bottom of my own heart, when the darkness seemed thick with horrors, and when I could not make up my mind whether to keep my ears strained to catch the first sound of anything dreadful, or to pull the blankets over my head and run the risk of missing it, -- in such moments, I say, I have had a passing private doubt whether I had inherited my share of the family instinct of courage at a crisis.

It was therefore a relief to me to feel that in this moment of despair, when I was only waiting till the boys, being no longer amused by Weston, should turn to amuse themselves with me, my first and strongest feeling was a sense of relief that Rupert was not at school, and that I could bear the fruits of my own folly on my own shoulders. To be spared his hectoring and lecturing, his hurt pride, his reproaches, and rage with me, and a probable fight with Weston, in which he must have been seriously hurt and I should have been blamed -- this was some comfort.

I had got my lesson well by heart. Fifty thousand preachers in fifty thousand pulpits could never have taught me so effectually as Weston's ballad, and the laughter of his audience, that there is less difference than one would like to believe between the vanity of bragging of one's self and the vanity of bragging of one's relations. Also that it is not dignified or discreet to take new acquaintance into your entire confidence and that even if one is blessed with friends of such quick sympathy that they really enjoy hearing about people they have never seen, it is well not to abuse the privilege, and now and then to allow them an "innings" at describing their remarkable parents, brothers, sisters, and remoter relatives.

I realized all this fully as I stood, with burning cheeks and downcast eyes, at the very elbow of my tormentor. But I am glad to know that I would not have run away even if I could. My resolution grew stubborner with every peal of laughter to bear whatever might come with pluck and good temper. I had been a fool, but I would show that I was not a coward.

I was very glad that Rupert's influenza kept him at home for a few days. I told him briefly that I had been bullied, but that it was my own fault, and I would rather say no more about it. I begged him to promise that he would not take up my quarrel in any way, but leave me to fight it out for myself, which he did. When he came back I think he regretted his promise. Happily he never heard all the ballad, but the odd verses which the boys sang about the place put him into a fury. It was a long time before he forgave me, and I doubt if he ever quite forgave Weston.

I held out as well as I could. I made no complaint, and kept my temper. I must say that Henrietta behaved uncommonly well to me at this time.

"After all, you know, Charlie," she said, "you've not done anything really wrong or dishonourable." This was true, and it comforted me.

Except Henrietta, I really had not a friend; for Rupert was angry with me, and the holding up at school only made me feel worse at home.

At last the joke began to die out, and I was getting on very well, but for one boy, a heavy-looking fellow with a pasty face, who was always creeping after me, and asking me to tell him about my father. "Johnson Minor," we called him. He was a younger brother of Thomas Johnson, the champion of the code of honour.

He was older than I, but he was below me in class, and though he was bigger, he was not a very great deal bigger; and if there is any truth in the stories I have so often told, our family has been used to fight against odds for many generations.

I thought about this a good deal, and measured Johnson Minor with my eye. At last I got Henrietta to wrestle and box with me for practice.

She was always willing to do anything Tomboyish, indeed she was generally willing to do anything one wanted, and her biceps were as hard as mine, for I pinched them to see. We got two pairs of gloves, much too big for us, and stuffed cotton wool in to make them like boxing-gloves, as we used to stuff out the buff-coloured waistcoat when we acted old gentlemen in it. But it did not do much good; for I did not like to hurt Henrietta when I got a chance, and I do not think she liked to hurt me. So I took to dumb-belling every morning in my night-shirt; and at last I determined I would have it out with Johnson Minor, once for all.

One afternoon, when the boys had been very friendly with me, and were going to have me in the paper chase on Saturday, he came up in the old way and began asking me about my father, quite gravely, like a sort of poor imitation of Weston. So I turned round and said, "Whatever my father was -- he's dead. Your father's alive, Johnson, and if you weren't a coward, you wouldn't go on bullying a fellow who hasn't got one."

"I'm a coward, am I, Master Honourable?" said Johnson, turning scarlet, and at the word Honourable I thought he had broken my nose. I never felt such pain in my life, but it was the only pain I felt on the occasion; afterwards I was much too much excited, I am sorry that I cannot remember very clearly about it, which I should have liked to do, as it was my first fight.

There was no time to fight properly. I was obliged to do the best I could. I made a sort of rough plan in my head, that I would cling to Johnson as long as I was able, and hit him whenever I got a chance. I did not quite know when he was hitting me from when I was hitting him; but I know that I held on, and that the ground seemed to be always hitting us both.

How long we had been struggling and cuffing and hitting (less scientifically but more effectually than when Henrietta and I flourished our stuffed driving gloves, with strict and constant reference to the woodcuts in a sixpenny Boxer's Guide) before I got slightly stunned, I do not know; when I came round I was lying in Weston's arms, and Johnson Minor was weeping bitterly (as he believed) over my corpse. I fear Weston had not allayed his remorse.

My great anxiety was to shake hands with Johnson. I never felt more friendly towards any one.

He met me in the handsomest way. He apologized for speaking of my father -- "since you don't like it," he added, with an appearance of sincerity which puzzled me at the time, and which I did not understand till afterwards -- and I apologized for calling him a coward. We were always good friends, and our fight made an end of the particular chaff which had caused it.

It reconciled Rupert to me too, which was my greatest gain.

Rupert is quite right. There is nothing like being prepared for emergencies. I suppose, as I was stunned, that Johnson got the best of it; but judging from his appearance as we washed ourselves at the school pump, I was now quite prepared for the emergency of having to defend myself against any boy not twice my own size.



Chapter III.

School Cricket -- Lemon-Kali -- The Boys' Bridge -- An Unexpected Emergency.


Rupert and I were now the best of good friends again. I cared more for his favour than for the goodwill of any one else, and kept as much with him as I could.

I played cricket with him in the school matches. At least I did not bat or bowl, but I and some of the junior fellows "fielded out," and when Rupert was waiting for the ball, I would have given my life to catch quickly and throw deftly. I used to think no one ever looked so handsome as he did in his orange-coloured shirt, white flannel trousers, and the cap which Henrietta made him. He and I had spent all our savings on that new shirt, for Mother would not get him a new one. She did not like cricket, or anything at which people could hurt themselves. But Johnson Major had get a new sky-blue shirt and cap, and we did not like Rupert to be outdone by him, for Johnson's father is only a canal-carrier.

But the shirt emptied our pockets, and made the old cap look worse than ever. Then Henrietta, without saying a word to us, bought some orange flannel, and picked the old cap to pieces, and cut out a new one by it, and made it all herself, with a button, and a stiff peak and everything, and it really did perfectly, and looked very well in the sunshine over Rupert's brown face and glossy black hair.

There always was sunshine when we played cricket. The hotter it was the better we liked it. We had a bottle of lemon-kali powder on the ground, and I used to have to make a fizzing-cup in a tin mug for the other boys. I got the water from the canal.

Lemon-kali is delicious on a very hot day -- so refreshing! But I sometimes fancied I felt a little sick afterwards, if I had had a great deal. And Bustard (who was always called Bustard-Plaster, because he was the doctor's son) said it was the dragons out of the canal water lashing their tails inside us. He had seen them under his father's microscope.

The field where we played was on the banks of the canal, the opposite side to the town. I believe it was school property. At any rate we had the right of playing there.

We had to go nearly a quarter of a mile out of the way before there was a bridge, and it was very vexatious to toil a quarter of a mile down on one side and a quarter of a mile up on the other to get at a meadow which lay directly opposite to the school. Weston wrote a letter about it to the weekly paper asking the town to build us a bridge. He wrote splendid letters, and this was one of his very best. He said that if the town council laughed at the notion of building a bridge for boys, they must remember that the Boys of to-day were the Men of to-morrow (which we all thought a grand sentence, though MacDonald, a very accurate-minded fellow, said it would really be some years before most of us were grown up). Then Weston called us the Rising Generation, and showed that, in all probability, the Prime Minister, Lord Chancellor, and Primate of the years to come now played "all unconscious of their future fame" in the classic fields that lay beyond the water, and promised that in the hours of our coming greatness we would look back with gratitude to the munificence of our native city. He put lots of Latin in, and ended with some Latin verses of his own, in which he made the Goddess of the Stream plead for us as her sons. By the stream he meant the canal, for we had no river, which of course Weston couldn't help.

How we watched for the next week's paper! But it wasn't in. They never did put his things in, which mortified him sadly. His greatest ambition was to get something of his own invention printed. Johnson said he believed it was because Weston always put something personal in the things he wrote. He was very sarcastic, and couldn't help making fun of people.

It was all the kinder of Weston to do his best about the bridge, because he was not much of a cricketer himself. He said he was too short-sighted, and that it suited him better to poke in the hedges for beetles. He had a splendid collection of insects. Bustard used to say that he poked with his nose, as if he were an insect himself, and it was a proboscis but he said too that his father said it was a pleasure to see Weston make a section of anything, and prepare objects for the microscope. His fingers were as clever as his tongue.

It was not long after Rupert got his new shirt and cap that a very sad thing happened.

We were playing cricket one day as usual. It was very hot, and I was mixing some lemon-kali at the canal, and holding up the mug to tempt Weston over, who was on the other side with his proboscis among the water-plants collecting larvae. Rupert was batting, and a new fellow, who bowled much more swiftly than we were accustomed to, had the ball. I was straining my ears to catch what Weston was shouting to me between his hands, when I saw him start and point to the cricketers, and turning round I saw Rupert lying on the ground.

The ball had hit him on the knee and knocked him down. He struggled up, and tried to stand; but whilst he was saying it was nothing, and scolding the other fellows for not going on, he fell down again fainting from pain.

"The leg's broken, depend upon it," said Bustard-Plaster; "shall I run for my father?"

I thanked him earnestly, for I did not like to leave Rupert myself. But Johnson Major, who was kicking off his cricketing-shoes, said, "It'll take an hour to get round. I'll go. Get him some water, and keep his cap on. The sun is blazing." And before we could speak he was in the canal and swimming across.

I went back to the bank for my mug, in which the lemon-kali was fizzing itself out, and with this I got some water for Rupert, and at last he opened his eyes. As I was getting the water I saw Weston, unmooring a boat which was fastened a little farther up. He was evidently coming to help us to get Rupert across the canal.

Bustard's words rang in my ears. Perhaps Rupert's leg was broken. Bustard was a doctor's son, and ought to know. And I have often thought it must be a very difficult thing to know, for people's legs don't break right off when they break. My first feeling had been utter bewilderment and misery, but I collected my senses with the reflection that if I lost my presence of mind in the first real emergency that happened to me, my attendance at Rupert's lectures had been a mockery, and I must be the first fool and coward of my family. And if I failed in the emergency of a broken leg, how could I ever hope to conduct myself with credit over a case of drowning? I did feel thankful that Rupert's welfare did not depend on our pulling his arms up and down in a particular way; but as Weston was just coming ashore, I took out my pocket-handkerchief, and kneeling down by Rupert said, with as good an air as I could assume, "We must tie the broken leg to the other at the -- "

"Don't touch it, you young fool!" shrieked Rupert. And though directly afterwards he begged my pardon for speaking sharply, he would not hear of my touching his leg. So they got him into the boat the best way they could, and Weston sat by him to hold him up, and the boy who had been bowling pulled them across. I wasn't big enough to do either, so I had to run round by the bridge.

I fancy it must be easier to act with presence of mind if the emergency has happened to somebody who has not been used to order you about as much as Rupert was used to order me.



Chapter IV.

A Doubtful Blessing -- A Family Failing -- Old Battles -- The Canal-Carrier's Home.


When we found that Rupert's leg was not broken, and that it was only a severe blow on his knee, we were all delighted. But when weeks and months went by and he was still lame and very pale and always tired, we began to count for how long past, if the leg had been broken, it would have been set, and poor Rupert quite well. And when Johnny Bustard said that legs and arms were often stronger after being broken than before (if they were properly set, as his father could do them), we felt that if Gregory would bowl for people's shins he had better break them at once, and let Mr. Bustard make a good job of them.

The first part of the time Rupert made light of his accident, and wanted to go back to school, and was very irritable and impatient. But as the year went on he left off talking about its being all nonsense, and though he suffered a great deal he never complained. I used quite to miss his lecturing me, but he did not even squabble with Henrietta now.

This reminds me of a great fault of mine -- I am afraid it was a family failing, though it is a very mean one -- I was jealous. If I was "particular friends" with any one, I liked to have him all to myself; when Rupert was "out" with me because of the Weston affair, I was "particular friends" with Henrietta. I did not exactly give her up when Rupert and I were all right again, but when she complained one day (I think she was jealous too!) I said, "I'm particular friends with you as a sister still; but you know Rupert and I are both boys."

I did love Rupert very dearly, and I would have given up anything and everything to serve him and wait upon him now that he was laid up; but I would rather have had him all to myself, whereas Henrietta was now his particular friend. It is because I know how meanly I felt about it that I should like to say how good she was. My Mother was very delicate, and she had a horror of accidents; but Henrietta stood at Mr. Bustard's elbow all the time he was examining Rupert's knee, and after that she always did the fomentations and things. At first Rupert said she hurt him, and would have Nurse to do it; but Nurse hurt him so much more, that then he would not let anybody but Henrietta touch it. And he never called her Monkey now, and I could see how she tried to please him. One day she came down to breakfast with her hair all done up in the way that was in fashion then, like a grown-up young lady, and I think Rupert was pleased, though she looked rather funny and very red. And so Henrietta nursed him altogether, and used to read battles to him as he lay on the sofa, and Rupert made plans of the battles on cardboard, and moved bits of pith out of the elder-tree about for the troops, and showed Henrietta how if he had had the moving of them really, and had done it quite differently to the way the generals did, the other side would have won instead of being beaten.

And Mother used to say, "That's just the way your poor father used to go on! As if it wasn't enough to have to run the risk of being killed or wounded once or twice yourself, without bothering your head about battles you've nothing to do with."

And when he did the battle in which my father fell, and planted the battery against which he led his men for the last time, and where he was struck under the arm, with which he was waving his sword over his head, Rupert turned whiter than ever, and said, "Good Heavens, Henrietta! Father limped up to that battery! He led his men for two hours, after he was wounded in the leg, before he fell -- and here I sit and grumble at a knock from a cricket-ball!"

Just then Mr. Bustard came in, and when he shook Rupert's hand he kept his fingers on it, and shook his own head; and he said there was "an abnormal condition of the pulse," in such awful tones, that I was afraid it was something that Rupert would die of. But Henrietta understood better, and she would not let Rupert do that battle any more.

Rupert's friends were very kind to him when he was ill, but the kindest of all was Thomas Johnson.

Johnson's grandfather was a canal-carrier, and made a good deal of money, and Johnson's father got the money and went on with the business. We had a great discussion once in the nursery as to whether Johnson's father was a gentleman, and Rupert ran down-stairs, and into the drawing-room, shouting, "Now, Mother! is a carrier a gentleman?"

And Mother, who was lying on the sofa, said, "Of course not. What silly things you children do ask! Why can't you amuse yourselves in the nursery? It is very hard you should come and disturb me for such a nonsensical question."

Rupert was always good to Mother, and he shut the drawing-room door very gently. Then he came rushing up to the nursery to say that Mother said "Of course not." But Henrietta said, "What did you ask her?" And when Rupert told her she said, "Of course Mother thought you meant one of those men who have carts to carry things, with a hood on the top and a dog underneath."

Johnson's father and grandfather were not carriers of that kind. They owned a lot of canal-boats, and one or two big barges, which took all kinds of things all the way to London.

Mr. Johnson used to say, "In my father's time men of business lived near their work both in London and the country. That's why my house is close to the wharf. I am not ashamed of my trade, and the place is very comfortable, so I shall stick to it. Tom may move into the town and give the old house to the foreman when I am gone, if he likes to play the fine gentleman."

Tom would be very foolish if he did. It is the dearest old house one could wish for. It was built of red brick, but the ivy has covered it so thickly that it is clipped round the old-fashioned windows like a hedge. The gardens are simply perfect. In summer you can pick as many flowers and eat as much fruit as you like, and if that is not the use and beauty of a garden, I do not know what is.

Johnson's father was very proud of him, and let him have anything he liked, and in the midsummer holidays Johnson used to bring his father's trap and take Rupert out for drives, and Mrs. Johnson used to put meat pies and strawberries in a basket under the seat, so that it was a kind of picnic, for the old horse had belonged to Mr. Bustard, and was a capital one for standing still.

It was partly because of the Johnsons being so kind to Rupert that Johnson Minor and I became chums at school, and partly because the fight had made us friendly, and I had no Rupert now, and was rather jealous of his taking completely to Henrietta, and most of all, I fancy, because Johnson Minor was determined to be friends with me. He was a very odd fellow. There was nothing he liked so much as wonderful stories about people, and I never heard such wonderful stories as he told himself. When we became friends he told me that he had never meant to bully me when he asked about my father; he really did want to hear about his battles and so forth.

But the utmost I could tell him about my father was nothing to the tales he told me about his grandfather, the navy captain.



Chapter V.

The Navy Captain -- Seven Parrots In A Fuchsia Tree -- The Harbour Lion And The Silver Chain -- The Legless Giants -- Down Below -- Johnson's Wharf.


The Johnsons were very fond of their father, he was such a good, kind man; but I think they would have been glad if he had had a profession instead of being a canal-carrier, and I am sure it pleased them to think that Mrs. Johnson's father had been a navy captain, and that his portrait -- uniform and all -- hung over the horsehair sofa in the dining-room, near the window where the yellow roses used to come in.

If I could get the room to myself, I used to kneel on the sofa, on one of the bolsters, and gaze at the faded little picture till I lost my balance on the slippery horsehair from the intensity of my interest in the hero of Johnson Minor's tales. Every time, I think, I expected to see some change in the expression of the captain's red face, adapting it better to what, by his grandson's account, his character must have been. It seemed so odd he should look so wooden after having seen so much.

The captain had been a native of South Devon.

"Raleigh, Drake, my grandfather, and lots of other great sailors were born in Devonshire," Johnson said. He certainly did brag; but he spoke so slowly and quietly, that it did not sound as like bragging as it would have done if he had talked faster, I think.

The captain had lived at Dartmouth, and of this place Johnson gave me such descriptions, that to this day the name of Dartmouth has a romantic sound in my ears, though I know now that all the marvels were Johnson's own invention, and barely founded upon the real quaintness of the place, of which he must have heard from his mother. It became the highest object of my ambition to see the captain's native city. That there must be people -- shopkeepers, for instance, and a man to keep the post office -- who lived there all along, was a fact that I could not realize sufficiently to envy them.

Johnson -- or Fred, as I used to call him by this time -- only exaggerated the truth about the shrubs that grow in the greenhouse atmosphere of South Devon, when he talked of the captain's fuchsia trees being as big as the old willows by the canal wharf; but the parrots must have been a complete invention. He said the captain had seven. Two green, two crimson, two blue, and one violet with an orange-coloured beak and grey lining to his wings; and that they built nests in the fuchsia trees of sandal-wood shavings, and lined them with the captain's silk pocket-handkerchiefs. He said that though the parrots stole the captain's handkerchiefs, they were all very much attached to him; but they quarrelled among themselves, and swore at each other in seven dialects of the West Coast of Africa.

Mrs. Johnson herself once showed me a little print of Dartmouth harbour, and told me it was supposed that in old times an iron chain was stretched from rock to rock across its mouth as a means of defence. And that afternoon Fred told me a splendid story about the chain, and how it was made of silver, and that each link was worth twenty pounds, and how at the end where it was fastened with a padlock every night at sunset, to keep out the French, a lion sat on the ledge of rock at the harbour's mouth, with the key tied round his neck by a sea-green ribbon. He had to have a new ribbon on the first Sunday in every month, Fred said, because his mane dirtied them so fast. A story which Fred had of his grandfather's single-handed encounter with this lion on one occasion, when the gallant captain would let a brig in distress into the harbour after sunset, and the lion would not let him have the key, raised my opinion of his courage and his humanity to the highest point. But what he did at home was nothing to the exploits which Fred recounted of him in foreign lands.

I fancy Fred must have read some real accounts of South America, the tropical forests, the wonderful birds and flowers, and the ruins of those buried cities which have no history; and that on these real marvels he built up his own romances of the Great Stone City, where the captain encountered an awful race of giants with no legs, who carved stones into ornaments with clasp-knives, as the Swiss cut out pretty things in wood, and cracked the cocoa-nuts with their fingers. I am sure he invented flowers as he went along when he was telling me about the forests. He used to look round the garden (which would have satisfied any one who had not seen or heard of what the captain had come across) and say in his slow way, "The blue chalice flower was about the shape of that magnolia, only twice as big, and just the colour of the gentians in the border, and it had a great white tassel hanging out like the cactus in the parlour window, and all the leaves were yellow underneath; and it smelt like rosemary."

If the captain's experiences in other countries outshone what had befallen him in his native land, both these paled before the wonders he had seen, and the emergencies he had been placed in at sea. Fred told me that his grandfather had a diving-bell of his own on board his own ship, and the things he saw when he went down in it must have made his remembrances of the South American forests appear tame by comparison.

Once, in the middle of the Pacific, the captain dropped down in his bell into the midst of a society of sea people who had no hair, but the backs of their heads were shaped like sou'-wester hats. The front rim formed one eyebrow for both eyes, and they could move the peak behind as beavers move their tails, and it helped them to go up and down in the water. They were not exactly mermaids, Fred said, they had no particular tail, it all ended in a kind of fringe of seaweed, which swept after them when they moved, like the train of a lady's dress. The captain was so delighted with them that he stayed below much longer than usual; but in an unlucky moment some of the sea people let the water into the diving-bell, and the captain was nearly drowned. He did become senseless, but when his body floated, it was picked up and restored to life by the first mate, who had been cruising, with tears in his eyes, over the spot in the ship's boat for seven days without taking anything to eat. -- "He was a Dartmouth man, too," said Fred Johnson.

"He evidently knew what to do in the emergency of drowning," thought I.

I feel as if any one who hears of Fred's stories must think he was a liar. But he really was not. Mr. Johnson was very strict with the boys in some ways, though he was so good-natured, and Fred had been taught to think a lie to get himself out of a scrape or anything of that sort quite as wrong as we should have thought it. But he liked telling things. I believe he made them up and amused himself with them in his own head if he had no one to listen. He used to say, "Come and sit in the kitchen garden this afternoon, and I'll tell you." And whether he meant me to think them true or not, I certainly did believe in his stories.

One thing always struck me as very odd about Fred Johnson. He was very fond of fruit, and when we sat on the wall and ate the white currants with pounded sugar in a mug between us, I believe he always ate more than I did, though he was "telling" all the time, and I had nothing to do but to listen and eat.

He certainly talked very slowly, in a dreary, monotonous sort of voice, which suited his dull, pasty face better than it suited the subject of his exciting narratives. But I think it seemed to make one all the more impatient to hear what was coming. A very favourite place of ours for "telling" was the wharf (Johnson's wharf, as it was called), where the canal boats came and went, and loaded and unloaded. We made a "coastguard station" among some old timber in the corner, and here we used to sit and watch for the boats.

When a real barge came we generally went over it, for the men knew Fred, and were very good-natured. The barges seemed more like ships than the canal boats did. They had masts, and could sail when they got into the river. Sometimes we went down into the cabin, and peeped into the little berths with sliding shutter fronts, and the lockers, which were like a fixed seat running round two sides of the cabin, with lids opening and showing places to put away things in. I was not famous in the nursery for keeping my things very tidy, but I fancied I could stow my clothes away to perfection in a locker, and almost cook my own dinner with the bargeman's little stove.

And every time a barge was loaded up, and the bargemaster took his post at the rudder, whilst the old horse strained himself to start -- and when the heavy boat swung slowly down the canal and passed out of sight, I felt more and more sorry to be left behind upon the wharf.



Chapter VI.

S. Philip And S. James -- The Monkey-Barge And The Dog -- War, Plague, And Fire -- The Dulness Of Everyday Life.


There were two churches in our town. Not that the town was so very large or the churches so very small as to make this needful. On the contrary, the town was of modest size, with no traces of having ever been much bigger, and the churches were very large and very handsome. That is, they were fine outside, and might have been very imposing within but for the painted galleries which blocked up the arches above and the tall pews which dwarfed the majestic rows of pillars below. They were not more than a quarter of a mile apart. One was dedicated to S. Philip and the other to S. James, and they were commonly called "the brother churches." In the tower of each hung a peal of eight bells.

One clergyman served both the brother churches, and the services were at S. Philip one week and at S. James the next. We were so accustomed to this that it never struck us as odd. What did seem odd, and perhaps a little dull, was that people in other places should have to go to the same church week after week.

There was only one day in the year on which both the peals of bells were heard, the Feast of SS. Philip and James, which is also May Day. Then there was morning prayer at S. Philip and evening prayer at S. James, and the bells rang changes and cannons, and went on ringing by turns all the evening, the bell-ringers being escorted from one church to another with May garlands and a sort of triumphal procession. The churches were decorated, and flags put out on the towers, and everybody in the congregation was expected to carry a nosegay.

Rupert and I and Henrietta and Baby Cecil and the servants always enjoyed this thoroughly, and thought the churches delightfully sweet; but my Mother said the smell of the cottage nosegays and the noise of the bells made her feel very ill, which was a pity.

Fred Johnson once told me some wonderful stories about the brother churches. We had gone over the canal to a field not far from the cricketing field, but it was a sort of water-meadow, and lower down, and opposite to the churches, which made us think of them. We had gone there partly to get yellow flags to try and grow them in tubs as Johnson's father did water-lilies, and partly to watch for a canal-boat or "monkey-barge," which was expected up with coal. Fred knew the old man, and we hoped to go home as part of the cargo if the old man's dog would let us; but he was a rough terrier, with an exaggerated conscience, and strongly objected to anything coming on board the boat which was not in the bill of lading. He could not even reconcile himself to the fact that people not connected with barges took the liberty of walking on the canal banks.

"He've been a-going up and down with me these fifteen year," said the old man, "and he barks at 'em still." He barked so fiercely at us that Fred would not go on board, to my great annoyance, for I never feel afraid of dogs, and was quite sure I could see a disposition to wag about the stumpy tail of the terrier in spite of his "bowfs."

I may have been wrong, but once or twice I fancied that Fred shirked adventures which seemed nothing to me; and I felt this to be very odd, because I am not as brave as I should like to be, and Fred is grandson to the navy captain.

I think Fred wanted to make me forget the canal-boat, which I followed with regretful eyes, for he began talking about the churches.

"It must be splendid to hear all sixteen bells going at once," said he.

"They never do," said I, unmollified.

"They do -- sometimes," said Fred slowly, and so impressively that I was constrained to ask "When?"

"In great emergencies," was Fred's reply, which startled me. But we had only lived in the place for part of our lives, and Fred's family belonged to it, so he must know better than I.

"Is it to call the doctor?" I asked, thinking of drowning, and broken bones, and apoplectic fits.

"It's to call everybody," said Fred; "that is in time of war, when the town is in danger. And when the Great Plague was here, S. Philip and S. James both tolled all day long with their bells muffled. But when there's a fire they ring backwards, as witches say prayers, you know."

War and the plague had not been here for a very long time, and there had been no fire in the town in my remembrance; but Fred said that awful calamities of the kind had happened within the memory of man, when the town was still built in great part of wood, and that one night, during a high gale, the whole place, except a few houses, had been destroyed by fire. After this the streets were rebuilt of stone and bricks.

These new tales which Fred told me, of places I knew, had a terrible interest peculiarly their own. For the captain's dangers were over for good now, but war, plague, and fire in the town might come again.

I thought of them by day, and dreamed of them by night. Once I remember being awakened, as I fancied, by the clanging of the two peals in discordant unison, and as I opened my eyes a bright light on the wall convinced me that the town was on fire. Fred's vivid descriptions rushed to my mind, and I looked out expecting to see S. Philip and S. James standing up like dark rocks in a sea of dancing flames, their bells ringing backwards, "as witches say prayers." It was only when I saw both the towers standing grey and quiet above the grey and quiet town, and when I found that the light upon the wall came from the street lamp below, that my head seemed to grow clearer, and I knew that no bells were ringing, and that those I fancied I heard were only the prolonged echoes of a bad dream.

I was very glad that it was so, and I did not exactly wish for war or the plague to come back; and yet the more I heard of Fred's tales the more restless I grew, because the days were so dull, and because we never went anywhere, and nothing ever happened.



Chapter VII.

We Resolve To Run Away -- Scruples -- Baby Cecil -- I Prepare -- I Run Away.


I think it was Fred's telling me tales of the navy captain's boyhood which put it into our heads that the only way for people at our age, and in our position, to begin a life of adventure is to run away.

The captain had run away. He ran away from school. But then the school was one which it made your hair stand on end to hear of. The master must have been a monster of tyranny, the boys little prodigies of wickedness and misery, and the food such as would have been rejected by respectably reared pigs.

It put his grandson and me at a disadvantage that we had no excuses of the kind for running away from the grammar school. Dr. Jessop was a little pompous, but he was sometimes positively kind. There was not even a cruel usher. I was no dunce, nor was Fred-though he was below me in class -- so that we had not even a grievance in connection with our lessons. This made me feel as if there would be something mean and almost dishonourable in running away from school. "I think it would not be fair to the Doctor," said I; "it would look as if he had driven us to it, and he hasn't. We had better wait till the holidays."

Fred seemed more willing to wait than I had expected; but he planned what we were to do when we did go as vigorously as ever.

It was not without qualms that I thought of running away from home. My mother would certainly be greatly alarmed; but then she was greatly alarmed by so many things to which she afterwards became reconciled! My conscience reproached me more about Rupert and Henrietta. Not one of us had longed for "events" and exploits so earnestly as my sister; and who but Rupert had prepared me for emergencies, not perhaps such as the captain had had to cope with, but of the kinds recognized by the yellow leather book? We had been very happy together -- Rupert, Henrietta, Baby Cecil, and I -- and we had felt in common the one defect of our lives that there were no events in them; and now I was going to begin a life of adventure, to run away and seek my fortune, without even telling them what I was going to do.

On the other hand, that old mean twinge of jealousy was one of my strongest impulses to adventure-seeking, and it urged me to perform my exploits alone. Some people seem to like dangers and adventures whilst the dangers are going on; Henrietta always seemed to think that the pleasantest part; but I confess that I think one of the best parts must be when they are over and you are enjoying the credit of them. When the captain's adventures stirred me most I looked forward with a thrill of anticipation to my return home -- modest from a justifiable pride in my achievements, and so covered with renown by my deeds of daring that I should play second fiddle in the family no more, and that Rupert and Henrietta would outbid each other for my "particular" friendship, and Baby Cecil dog my heels to hear the stories of my adventures.

The thought of Baby Cecil was the heaviest pang I felt when I was dissatisfied with the idea of running away from home. Baby Cecil was the pet of the house. He had been born after my father's death, and from the day he was born everybody conspired to make much of him. Dandy, the Scotch terrier, would renounce a romping ramble with us to keep watch over Baby Cecil when he was really a baby, and was only carried for a dull airing in the nursemaid's arms. I can quite understand Dandy's feelings; for if when one was just preparing for a paperchase, or anything of that sort, Baby Cecil trotted up and, flinging himself head first into one's arms, after his usual fashion, cried, "Baby Cecil 'ants Charlie to tell him a long, long story -- so much!" it always ended in one's giving up the race or the scramble, and devoting one's self as sedately as Dandy to his service. But I consoled myself with the thought of how Baby Cecil would delight in me, and what stories I should be able to tell him on my return.

The worst of running away now-a-days is that railways and telegrams run faster. I was prepared for any emergency except that of being found and brought home again.

Thinking of this brought to my mind one of Fred's tales of the captain, about how he was pursued by bloodhounds and escaped by getting into water. Water not only retains no scent, it keeps no track. I think perhaps this is one reason why boys so often go to sea when they run away, that no one may be able to follow them. It helped my decision that we would go to sea when we ran away, Fred and I. Besides, there was no other road to strange countries, and no other way of seeing the sea people with the sou'-wester heads.

Fred did not seem to have any scruples about leaving his home, which made me feel how much braver he must be than I. But his head was so full of the plans he made for us, and the lists he drew up of natural products of the earth in various places on which we could live without paying for our living, that he neglected his school-work, and got into scrapes about it. This distressed me very much, for I was working my very best that half on purpose that no one might say that we ran away from our lessons, but that it might be understood that we had gone solely in search of adventure, like sea-captains or any other grown-up travellers.

All Fred's tales now began with the word "suppose." They were not stories of what had happened to his grandfather, but of what might happen to us. The half-holiday that Mr. Johnson's hay was carted we sat behind the farthest haycock all the afternoon with an old atlas on our knees, and Fred "supposed" till my brain whirled to think of all that was coming on us. "Suppose we get on board a vessel bound for Singapore, and hide behind some old casks -- " he would say, coasting strange continents with his stumpy little forefinger, as recklessly as the captain himself; on which of course I asked, "What is Singapore like?" which enabled Fred to close the atlas and lie back among the hay and say whatever he could think of and I could believe.

Meanwhile we saved up our pocket-money and put it in a canvas bag, as being sailor-like. Most of the money was Fred's, but he was very generous about this, and said I was to take care of it as I was more managing than he. And we practised tree-climbing to be ready for the masts, and ate earth-nuts to learn to live upon roots in case we were thrown upon a desert island. Of course we did not give up our proper meals, as we were not obliged to yet, and I sometimes felt rather doubtful about how we should feel living upon nothing but roots for breakfast, dinner, and tea. However, I had observed that whenever the captain was wrecked a barrel of biscuits went ashore soon afterwards, and I hoped it might always be so in wrecks, for biscuits go a long way, especially sailors' biscuits, which are large.

I made a kind of handbook for adventure-seekers, too, in an old exercise book, showing what might be expected and should be prepared for in a career like the captain's. I divided it under certain heads: Hardships, Dangers, Emergencies, Wonders, &c. These were subdivided again thus: Hardships -- I, Hunger; 2, Thirst; 3, Cold; 4, Heat; 5, No Clothes; and so forth. I got all my information from Fred, and I read my lists over and over again to get used to the ideas, and to feel brave. And on the last page I printed in red ink the word "Glory."

And so the half went by and came to an end; and when the old Doctor gave me my three prizes, and spoke of what he hoped I would do next half, my blushes were not solely from modest pride.

The first step of our runaway travels had been decided upon long ago. We were to go by barge to London. "And from London you can go anywhere," Fred said.

The day after the holidays began I saw a canal-boat lading at the wharf, and finding she was bound for London I told Fred of it. But he said we had better wait for a barge, and that there would be one on Thursday. "Or if you don't think you can be ready by then, we can wait for the next," he added. He seemed quite willing to wait, but (remembering that the captain's preparations for his longest voyage had only taken him eighteen and a half minutes by the chronometer, which was afterwards damaged in the diving-bell accident, and which I had seen with my own eyes, in confirmation of the story) I said I should be ready any time at half-an-hour's notice, and Thursday was fixed as the day of our departure.

To facilitate matters it was decided that Fred should invite me to spend Wednesday with him, and to stay all night, for the barge was to start at half-past six o'clock on Thursday morning.

I was very busy on Wednesday. I wrote a letter to my mother in which I hoped I made it quite clear that ambition and not discontent was leading me to run away. I also made a will, dividing my things fairly between Rupert, Henrietta, and Baby Cecil, in case I should be drowned at sea. My knife, my prayer-book, the ball of string belonging to my kite, and my little tool-box I took away with me. I also took the match-box from the writing-table, but I told Mother of it in the letter. The captain used to light his fires by rubbing sticks together, but I had tried it, and thought matches would be much better, at any rate to begin with.

Rupert was lying under the crab-tree, and Henrietta was reading to him, when I went away. Rupert was getting much stronger; he could walk with a stick, and was going back to school next half. I felt a very unreasonable vexation because they seemed quite cheerful. But as I was leaving the garden to go over the fields, Baby Cecil came running after me, with his wooden spade in one hand and a plant of chick weed in the other, crying: "Charlie, dear! Come and tell Baby Cecil a story." I kissed him, and tied his hat on, which had come off as he ran.

"Not now, Baby," I said; "I am going out now, and you are gardening."

"I don't want to garden," he pleaded. "Where are you going? Take me with you."

"I am going to Fred Johnson's," I said bravely.

Baby Cecil was a very good child, though he was so much petted. He gave a sigh of disappointment, but only said very gravely, "Will you promise, onyer-onner, to tell me one when you come back?"

"I promise to tell you lots when I come back, on my honour," was my answer.

I had to skirt the garden-hedge for a yard or two before turning off across the meadow. In a few minutes I heard a voice on the other side. Baby Cecil had run down the inside, and was poking his face through a hole, and kissing both hands to me. There came into my head a wonder whether his face would be much changed next time I saw it. I little guessed when and how that would be. But when he cried, "Come back very soon, Charlie dear," my imperfect valour utterly gave way, and hanging my head I ran, with hot tears pouring over my face, all the way to Johnson's wharf.

When Fred saw my face he offered to give up the idea if I felt faint-hearted about it. Nothing that he could have said would have dried my tears so soon. Every spark of pride in me blazed up to reject the thought of turning craven now. Besides, I longed for a life of adventure most sincerely; and I was soon quite happy again in the excitement of being so near to what I had longed for.



Chapter VIII.

We Go On Board -- The Pie -- An Explosion -- Mr. Rowe The Barge-Master -- The 'White Lion' -- Two Letters -- We Doubt Mr. Rowe's Good Faith.


The dew was still heavy on the grass when Fred and I crossed the drying-ground about five o'clock on Thursday morning, and scrambled through a hedge into our "coastguard" corner on the wharf. We did not want to be seen by the barge-master till we were too far from home to be put ashore.

The freshness of early morning in summer has some quality which seems to go straight to the heart. I felt intensely happy. There lay the barge, the sun shining on the clean deck, and from the dewy edges of the old ropes, and from the barge-master's zinc basin and pail put out to sweeten in the air.

"She won't leave us behind this time!" I cried, turning triumphantly to Fred.

"Take care of the pie," said Fred.

It was a meat-pie which he had taken from the larder this morning; but he had told Mrs. Johnson about it in the letter he had left behind him; and had explained that we took it instead of the breakfast we should otherwise have eaten. We felt that earth-nuts might not be forthcoming on the canal banks, or even on the wharf at Nine Elms when we reached London.

At about a quarter to six Johnson's wharf was quite deserted. The barge-master was having breakfast ashore, and the second man had gone to the stable. "We had better hide ourselves now," I said. So we crept out and went on board. We had chosen our hiding-place before. Not in the cabin, of course, nor among the cargo, where something extra thrown in at the last moment might smother us if it did not lead to our discovery, but in the fore part of the boat, in a sort of well or hold, where odd things belonging to the barge itself were stowed away, and made sheltered nooks into which we could creep out of sight. Here we found a very convenient corner, and squatted down, with the pie at our feet, behind a hamper, a box, a coil of rope, a sack of hay, and a very large ball, crossed four ways with rope, and with a rope-tail, which puzzled me extremely.

"It's like a giant tadpole," I whispered to Fred.

"Don't nudge me," said Fred. "My pockets are full, and it hurts."

My pockets were far from light. The money-bag was heavily laden with change -- small in value but large in coin. The box of matches was with it and the knife. String, nails, my prayer-book, a pencil, some writing-paper, the handbook, and a more useful hammer than the one in my tool-box filled another pocket. Some gooseberries and a piece of cake were in my trousers, and I carried the tool-box in my hands. We each had a change of linen, tied up in a pocket-handkerchief. Fred would allow of nothing else. He said that when our jackets and trousers were worn out we must make new clothes out of an old sail.

Waiting is very dull work. After awhile, however, we heard voices, and the tramp of the horse, and then the barge-master and Mr. Johnson's foreman and other men kept coming and going on deck, and for a quarter of an hour we had as many hairbreadth escapes of discovery as the captain himself could have had in the circumstances. At last somebody threw the barge-master a bag of something (fortunately soft) which he was leaving behind, and which he chucked on to the top of my head. Then the driver called to his horse, and the barge gave a jerk, which threw Fred on to the pie, and in a moment more we were gliding slowly and smoothly down the stream.

When we were fairly off we ventured to peep out a little, and stretch our cramped limbs. There was no one on board but the barge-master, and he was at the other end of the vessel, smoking and minding his rudder. The driver was walking on the towing-path by the old grey horse. The motion of the boat was so smooth that we seemed to be lying still whilst villages and orchards and green banks and osier-beds went slowly by, as though the world were coming to show itself to us, instead of our going out to see the world.

When we passed the town we felt some anxiety for fear we should be stopped; but there was no one on the bank, and though the towers of S. Philip and S. James appeared again and again in lessening size as we looked back, there came at last a bend in the canal, when a high bank of gorse shut out the distance, and we saw them no more.

In about an hour, having had no breakfast, we began to speak seriously of the pie. (I had observed Fred breaking little corners from the crust with an absent air more than once.) Thinking of the first subdivision under the word Hardships in my handbook, I said, "I'm afraid we ought to wait till we are worse hungry."

But Fred said, "Oh no!" And that out adventure-seeking it was quite impossible to save and plan and divide your meals exactly, as you could never tell what might turn up. The captain always said, "Take good luck and bad luck and pot-luck as they come!" So Fred assured me, and we resolved to abide by the captain's rule.

"We may have to weigh out our food with a bullet, like Admiral Bligh, next week," said Fred.

"So we may," said I. And the thought must have given an extra relish to the beefsteak and hard-boiled eggs, for I never tasted anything so good.

Whether the smell of the pie went aft, or whether something else made the barge-master turn round and come forward, I do not know; but when we were encumbered with open clasp-knives, and full mouths, we saw him bearing down upon us, and in a hasty movement of retreat I lost my balance, and went backward with a crash upon a tub of potatoes.

The noise this made was not the worst part of the business. I was tightly wedged amongst the odds and ends, and the money-bag being sharply crushed against the match-box, which was by this time well warmed, the matches exploded in a body, and whilst I was putting as heroic a face as I could on the pain I was enduring in my right funny-bone, Fred cried, "Your jacket's smoking. You're on fire!"

Whether Mr. Rowe, the barge-master, had learnt presence of mind out of a book, I do not know; but before Fred and I could even think of what to do in the emergency, my jacket was off, the matches were overboard, and Mr. Rowe was squeezing the smouldering fire out of my pocket, rather more deliberately than most men brush their hats. Then, after civilly holding the jacket for me to put it on again, he took off his hat, took his handkerchief out of it, and wiped his head, and replacing both, with his eyes upon us, said, more deliberately still, "Well, young gentlemen, this is a nice start!"

It was impossible to resist the feeling of confidence inspired by Mr. Rowe's manner, his shrewd and stolid appearance, and his promptness in an emergency. Besides, we were completely at his mercy. We appealed to it, and told him our plans. We offered him a share of the pie too, which he accepted with conscious condescension. When the dish was empty he brought his handkerchief into use once more, and then said, in a peculiarly oracular manner, "You just look to me, young gentlemen, and I'll put you in the way of every think."

The immediate advantage we took of this offer was to ask about whatever interested us in the landscape constantly passing before our eyes, or the barge-furniture at our feet. The cord-compressed balls were shore-fenders, said Mr. Rowe, and were popped over the side when the barge was likely to grate against the shore, or against another vessel.

"Them's osier-beds. They cuts 'em every year or so for basket-work. Wot's that little bird a-hanging head downwards? It's a titmouse looking for insects, that is. There's scores on 'em in the osier-beds. Aye, aye, the yellow lilies is pretty enough, but there's a lake the other way -- a mile or two beyond your father's, Master Fred -- where there's white water-lilies. They're pretty, if you like! It's a rum thing in spring," continued Mr. Rowe, between puffs of his pipe, "to see them lilies come up from the bottom of the canal; the leaves packed as neat as any parcel, and when they git to the top, they turns down and spreads out on the water as flat as you could spread a cloth upon a table."

As a rule, Mr. Rowe could give us no names for the aquatic plants at which we clutched as we went by, nor for the shells we got out of the mud; but his eye for a water-rat was like a terrier's. It was the only thing which seemed to excite him.

About mid-day we stopped by a village, where Mr. Rowe had business. The horse was to rest and bait here; and the barge-master told us that if we had "a shilling or so about" us, we might dine on excellent bread and cheese at the White Lion, or even go so far as poached eggs and yet more excellent bacon, if our resources allowed of it. We were not sorry to go ashore. There was absolutely no shelter on the deck of the barge from the sunshine, which was glaringly reflected by the water. The inn parlour was low, but it was dark and cool. I felt doubtful about the luxury even of cheese after that beefsteak-pie but Fred smacked his lips and ordered eggs and bacon, and I paid for them out of the canvas-bag.

As we sat together I said, "I wrote a letter to my mother, Fred. Did you write to Mrs. Johnson?"

Fred nodded, and pulled a scrap of dirty paper from his pocket, saying, "That's the letter; but I made a tidy copy of it afterwards."

I have said that Fred was below me in class, though he is older; and he was very bad at spelling. Otherwise the letter did very well, except for smudges.

"Dear Mother,

"Charlie and I are going to run away at least by the time you get this we have run away but never mind for wen weve seen the wurld were cumming back we took the pi wich I hope you wont mind as we had no brekfust and I'll bring back the dish we send our best love and I've no more to tell you to-day from your affectionate son FRED."

I saw Mr. Rowe myself very busy in the bar of the White Lion, with a sheet of paper and an old steel pen, which looked as if the point had been attenuated to that hair-like fineness by sheer age. He started at the sight of me, which caused him to drop a very large blot of ink from the very sharp point of the pen on to his paper. I left him wiping it up with his handkerchief. But it never struck me that he was writing a letter on the same subject as Fred and I had been writing about. He was, however: and Mr. Johnson keeps it tied up with Fred's to this day. The spelling was of about the same order.

"Mr. Johnson. Honerd Sir.

"i rites in duty bound to acqaint you that the young genlemen is with me, looking out for Advenchurs and asking your pardon i wish they may find them as innercent as 2 Babes in the Wood on the London and Lancingford Canal were they come aboard quite unknown to me and blowed theirselves up with lucifers the fust go off and you've no need to trubble yourself sir ill keep my I on them and bring em safe to hand with return cargo and hoping you'll excuse the stamp not expecting to have to rite from the fust stoppige your obedient humble servant

"Samuel Rowe."

As I have said, we did not suspect that Mr. Rowe had betrayed us by post; but in the course of the afternoon Fred said to me, "I'll tell you what, Charlie, I know old Rowe well, and he's up to any trick, and sure to want to keep in with my father. If we don't take care he'll take us back with him. And what fools we shall look then!"

The idea was intolerable; but I warned Fred to carefully avoid betraying that we suspected him. The captain had had worse enemies to outwit, and had kept a pirate in good humour for a much longer voyage by affability and rum. We had no means of clouding Mr. Rowe's particularly sharp wits with grog, but we resolved to be amiable and wary, and when we did get to London to look out for the first opportunity of giving the barge-master the slip.



Chapter IX.

A Coasting Voyage -- Musk Island -- Linnet Flash -- Mr. Rowe An Old Tar -- The Dog-Fancier At Home.


It was a delightful feature of our first voyage -- and one which we could not hope to enjoy so often in voyages to come -- that we were always close to land, and this on both sides. We could touch either coast without difficulty, and as the barge stopped several times during the day to rest the horse, Fred and I had more than one chance of going ashore.

I hope to have many a voyage yet, and to see stranger people and places than I saw then, but I hardly hope ever to enjoy myself so much again. I have long ago found out that Fred's stories of the captain's adventures were not true stories, and as I have read and learned more about the world than I knew at that time, I know now that there are only certain things which one can meet with by land or by sea. But when Fred and I made our first voyage in emulation of his grandfather there was no limit to my expectations, or to what we were prepared to see or experience at every fresh bend of the London and Lancingford Canal.

I remember one of Fred's stories about the captain was of his spending a year and a day on an island called Musk Island, in the Pacific. He had left the ship, Fred said, to do a little exploring alone in his gig. Not knowing at that time that the captain's gig is a boat, I was a good deal puzzled, I remember, to think of Mrs. Johnson's red-faced father crossing the sea in a gig like the one Mr. Bustard used to go his professional "rounds" in. And when Fred spoke of his "pulling himself" I was yet more bewildered by the unavoidable conclusion that they had no horse on board, and that the gallant and ever-ready captain went himself between the shafts. The wonder of his getting to Musk Island in that fashion was, however, eclipsed by the wonders he found when he did get there. Musk-hedges and bowers ten feet high, with flowers as large as bindweed blossoms, and ladies with pale gold hair all dressed in straw-coloured satin, and with such lovely faces that the captain vowed that no power on earth should move him till he had learned enough of the language to propose the health of the Musk Island beauties in a suitable speech after dinner. "And there he would have lived and died, I believe," Fred would say, "if that first mate, who saved his life before, had not rescued him by main force, and taken him back to his ship."

I am reminded of this story when I think of the island in Linnet Lake, for we were so deeply charmed by it that we very nearly broke our voyage, as the captain broke his, to settle on it.

Mr. Rowe called the lake Linnet Flash. Wherever the canal seemed to spread out, and then go on again narrow and like a river, the barge-master called these lakes "flashes" of the canal. There is no other flash on that canal so large or so beautiful as Linnet Lake, and in the middle of the lake lies the island.

It was about three o'clock, the hottest part of a summer's day, and Fred and I, rather faint with the heat, were sitting on a coil of rope holding a clean sheet, which Mr. Rowe had brought up from the cabin to protect our heads and backs from sunstroke. We had refused to take shelter below, and sat watching the fields and hedges, which seemed to palpitate in the heat as they went giddily by, and Mr. Rowe, who stood quite steady, conversing coolly with the driver. The driver had been on board for the last hour, the way being clear, and the old horse quite able to take care of itself and us, and he and the barge-master had pocket-handkerchiefs under their hats like the sou'-wester flaps of the captain's sea-friends. Fred had dropped his end of the sheet to fall asleep, and I was protecting us both, when the driver bawled some directions to the horse in their common language, and the barge-master said, "Here's a bit of shade for you, Master Fred;" and we roused up and found ourselves gliding under the lee of an island covered with trees.

"Oh, do stop here!" we both cried.

"Well, I don't mind," said Mr. Rowe, removing his hat, and mopping himself with his very useful pocket-handkerchief. "Jem, there's a bit of grass there, let her have a mouthful."

"I thought you'd like this," he continued; "there ain't a prettier bit between here and Pyebridge."

It was so lovely, that the same idea seized both Fred and me: Why not settle here, at least for a time? It was an uninhabited island, only waiting to be claimed by some adventurous navigator, and obviously fertile. The prospect of blackberries on the mainland was particularly fine, and how they would ripen in this blazing sun! Birds sang in the trees above; fish leaping after flies broke the still surface of the water with a musical splash below; and beyond a doubt there must be the largest and the sweetest of earth-nuts on the island, easy to get out of the deep beds of untouched leaf-mould. And when Mr. Rowe cried "Look!" and we saw a water-fowl scud across the lake, leaving a sharp trail like a line of light behind her, we felt that we might spend all our savings in getting to the Pacific Ocean, and not find when we got there a place which offered more natural resources to the desert islander.

If the barge-master would have gone ashore on the mainland out of the way, and if we could have got ashore on the island without help, we should not have confided our plans to so doubtful a friend. As it was, we were obliged to tell Mr. Rowe that we proposed to found a settlement in Linnet Lake, and he was completely opposed to the idea.

It was only when he said (with that air of reserved and funded knowledge which gave such unfathomable depth to his irony, and made his sayings so oracular) -- "There's very different places in the world to Linnet Flash" -- that we began to be ashamed of our hasty enthusiasm, and to think that it would be a pity to stop so short in our adventurous career.

So we decided to go on; but the masterly way in which Mr. Rowe spoke of the world made me think he must have seen a good deal of it, and when we had looked our last upon the island, and had crept with lowered mast under an old brick bridge where young ferns hung down from the archway, and when we were once more travelling between flat banks and coppices that gave us no shelter, I said to the barge-master -- "Have you ever been at sea, Mr. Rowe?"

"Seventeen year in the Royal Navy," said Mr. Rowe, with a strong emphasis upon teen, as if he feared we might do him the injustice of thinking he had only served his Queen and country for seven.

For the next two hours Fred and I sat, indifferent alike to the sunshine and the shore, in rapt attention to Mr. Rowe's narrative of his experiences at sea under the flag that has

"Braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze."

I believe Fred enjoyed them simply as stories, but they fanned in my heart that restless fever for which sea-breezes are the only cure. I think Mr. Rowe got excited himself as he recalled old times. And when he began to bawl sea-songs with a voice like an Atlantic gale, and when he vowed in cadence

"A sailor's life is the life for me,"

I felt that it was the life for me also, and expressed myself so strongly to that effect that Mr. Rowe became alarmed for the consequences of his indiscretion, and thenceforward told us sea-stories with the obvious and quite futile intention of disgusting me with what I already looked upon as my profession.

But the barge-master's rapid change of tactics convinced me more and more that we could not safely rely on him to help us in our plans.

About five o'clock he made tea on board, and boiled the water on the little stove in the cabin. I was very anxious to help, and it was I who literally made the tea, whilst Mr. Rowe's steadier hand cut thick slices of bread-and-butter from a large loaf. There was only one cup and saucer. Fred and I shared the cup, and the barge-master took the saucer. By preference, he said, as the tea cooled quicker.

The driver had tea after we returned to the deck and could attend to the horse and boat.

Except the island in Linnet Lake, the most entertaining events of the first day of our voyage were our passing villages or detached houses on the canal banks.

Of the latter by far the most interesting was that of a dog-fancier, from whose residence melodious howls, in the dog-dialect of every tribe deserving to be represented in so choice a company, were wafted up the stream, and met our ears before our eyes beheld the landing-stage of the establishment, where the dog-fancier and some of his dogs were lounging in the cool of the evening, and glad to see the barge.

The fancier knew Mr. Rowe, and refreshed him (and us) with shandy-gaff in horn tumblers. Some of the dogs who did not, barked incessantly at us, wagging their tails at the same time, however, as if they had some doubts of the correctness of their judgment in the matter. One very small, very white, and very fluffy toy-dog, with a dove-coloured ribbon, was -- no doubt -- incurably ill-tempered and inhospitable; but a large brindled bull-dog, trying politely but vainly to hide his teeth and tongue, wagged what the fancier had left him of a tail, and dribbled with the pleasure of making our acquaintance, after the wont of his benevolent and much-maligned family. I have since felt pretty certain that Mr. Rowe gave his friend a sketch of our prospects and intentions in the same spirit in which he had written to Mr. Johnson, and I distinctly overheard the dog-fancier make some reply, in which the words "hoffer a reward" were audible. But the barge-master shook his head at suggestions probably drawn from his friend's professional traditions, though the fancier told him some very good story about the ill-tempered toy-dog, to which he referred with such violent jerks of the head as threatened to throw his fur cap on to that of the brindled gentleman who sat dripping and smiling at his feet.

When Mr. Rowe began to tell him something good in return, and in spite of my utmost endeavours not to hear anything, the words "Linnet Flash" became audible, I blushed to hear the fancier choking over his shandy-gaff with laughter, and I feared at our project for settling on the island.

The interview was now at an end, but as Mr. Rowe stepped briskly on board, the fur cap nodded to the forehatch, where Fred and I were sitting on coiled ropes, and the fancier said very knowingly, "The better the breed the gamier the beast."

He patted the bull-dog as he said it, and the bull-dog kissed his dirty hand.

"Hup to hanythink," were Mr. Rowe's parting words, as he went aft, and the driver called to his horse.

He may have referred to the bull-dog, but I had some doubts about it, even then.



Chapter X.

Locks -- We Think Of Going On The Tramp -- Pyebridge -- We Set Sail.


During our first day's voyage we passed two locks. There was one not very far from home, and Fred and I had more than once been to see a barge pass it, sitting on the bank whilst the boat gradually sank to the level of the water below.

It was great fun being on board whilst the barge went down and down, though I must say we did not feel anything peculiar, we sank so gradually.

"Just fancy if it was a hole in the ship's bottom," said Fred, "and we were settling down with all on board. Some ships do, and are never heard of again."

We amused ourselves as we went along by guessing beforehand on which shore the next house or hamlet would appear. We betted shillings on the result, but neither of us won or lost, for however often the shillings changed hands, they remained in the canvas bag.

Perhaps places look more as if events happened in them if you do not if now them well. I noticed that even our town looked more interesting from the water than I had ever seen it look, so I dare say to strangers it does not appear so dull as it is. All the villages on the canal banks looked interesting. We passed one soon after tea, where the horse rested under some old willows by the towing-path, and we and Mr. Rowe went ashore. Whilst the barge-master delivered a parcel to a friend, Fred and I strolled into a lane which led us past cottages with very gay gardens to the church. The church was not at all like S. Philip or S. James. It was squat, and ivy-covered, and carefully restored; and it stood in a garden where the flowers almost hid the graves. Just outside the lych-gate, four lanes met, and all of them were so shady and inviting, and it was so impossible to say what they might not lead to, that I said to Fred,

"You said the only way to run away besides going to sea was to tramp. It sounds rather low, but we needn't beg, and I think walking would be nice for a change, and I don't believe it would be much slower than the barge, and it would be so much shadier. And we could get off from Old Rowe at once, and hide if we heard anybody coming. I wonder how far it is to London now?"

"Not far, I dare say," said Fred, who was pleased by the idea; "and if we keep on we must get there in time. And we can get things to eat in the hedges, which we can't do on the barge."

At this moment there passed a boy, to whom I said, "Which is the way to London, if you please?" for there were four roads to choose from.

"What d' say?" said the boy.

I repeated my question.

"Dunno," he replied, trying to cram half his hand into his mouth. The captain would have thought him very stupid if he had met him as a native in one of the islands of the Pacific, I am sure; but I followed him, and begged him to try and think if he had not heard of people going to London.

At last his face brightened. He was looking over my head down the lane. "There's a man a-cummin yonder's always a-going to Lunnon," said he. Visions of a companion on our tramp -- also perhaps in search of adventures -- made me look briskly round. "Him with the pipe, as b'longs to the barge," the boy exclaimed.

It was indeed Mr. Rowe come to look for us, and we had to try and seem glad to see him, and to go on board once more.

Towards evening the canal banks became dotted with fishers of all ages and degrees, fishing very patiently, though they did not seem to catch much.

Soon after dark we reached the town of Pyebridge.

When the barge lay-to for the night, and the driver was taking the horse away to the stable, Mr. Rowe confronted us, in his firmest manner, with the question, "And where are you going to sleep, young gentlemen?"

"Where are you going to sleep, Mr. Rowe?" said I, after a thoughtful pause.

"I sleeps below, but the captain's cabin is guv up to no one -- unless it be the Queen," replied the barge-master, humorously but decidedly.

"We should like to sleep on deck," said I.

But Mr. Rowe would not hear of it, on account of various dreadful diseases which he assured us would be contracted by sleeping "in the damps of the water," "the dews of the hair," and "the rays of the moon."

"There's a hotel -- " he began; but I said at once, "We couldn't afford a hotel, but if you know of any very cheap place we should be much obliged."

Mr. Rowe took off his hat and took out his handkerchief, though it was no longer hot. Having cleared his brain, he said he "would see," and he finally led us along one of the pebbled streets of Pyebridge to a small house with a small shop-window for the sale of vegetables, and with a card announcing that there were beds to let. A very little old woman got up from behind a very big old geranium in the window as we entered, and with her Mr. Rowe made our arrangements for the night. We got a clean bed, and had a mug of milk and a slice of bread and treacle apiece for breakfast the next morning, and I paid two shillings. As I thanked the old lady and bade her good day, she called to me to hold out my hat, which she filled with cherries, and then stood at the door and watched us out of sight.

There was a railway station in Pyebridge, and we might easily have escaped from Mr. Rowe, and gone by train to London. But besides the fact that our funds were becoming low, the water had a new attraction for us. We had left the canal behind, and were henceforward on a river. If the wind favoured us we were to sail.

"A canal's nothing to a river," said Mr. Rowe, "same as a river's nothing to the sea," and when Fred had some difficulty in keeping his hat on in the gusty street (mine was in use as a fruit-basket), and the barge-master said it was a "nice fresh morning," I felt that life on Linnet Island would have been tame indeed compared to the hopes and fears of a career which depended on the winds and waves.

And when the boom went up the barge's mast, and the tightly corded roll of dark canvas began to struggle for liberty, and writhe and flap with throttling noises above our heads, and when Mr. Rowe wrestled with it and the driver helped him, and Fred and I tried to, and were all but swept overboard in consequence, whilst the barge-master encouraged himself by strange and savage sounds -- and when the sunshine caught our nut-brown sail just as she spread gallantly to the breeze, our excitement grew till we both cried in one breath,

"This is something like being at sea!"



Chapter XI.

Mr. Rowe On Barge-Women -- The River -- Nine Elms -- A Mysterious Noise -- Rough Quarters -- A Cheap Supper -- John's Berth -- We Make Our Escape -- Out Into The World.


Mr. Rowe is quite right. A canal is nothing to a river.

There was a wide piece of water between us and one of the banks now, and other barges went by us, some sailing, some towing only, and two or three with women at the rudder, and children on the deck.

"I wouldn't have my wife and fam'ly on board for something!" said Mr. Rowe grimly.

"Have you got a family, Mr. Rowe?" I inquired.

"Yes, sir," said the barge-master. "I have, like other folk. But women and children's best ashore."

"Of course they are," said I.

"If you was to turn over in your mind what they might be good for now," he continued, with an unfathomable eye on the mistress of a passing canal-boat, "you'd say washing the decks and keeping the pots clean. And they don't do it as well as a man -- not by half."

"They seem to steer pretty well," said I.

"I've served in very different vessels to what I'm in now," said Mr. Rowe, avoiding a reply, "and I may come as low as a monkey-barge and coal; but I'm blessed if ever I see myself walk on the towing-path and leave the missus in command on board."

At this moment a barge came sailing alongside of us.

"Oh look!" cried Fred, "it's got a white horse painted on the sail."

"That's a lime barge, sir," said Mr. Rowe; "all lime barges is marked that way."

She was homeward bound, and empty, and soon passed us, but we went at a pretty good pace ourselves. The wind kept favourable, a matter in which Fred and I took the deepest interest. We licked our fingers, and held them up to see which side got cooled by the breeze, and whenever this experiment convinced me that it was still behind us, I could not help running back to Fred to say with triumph, "The wind's dead aft," as if he knew nothing about it.

At last this seemed to annoy him, so I went to contain myself by sitting on the potato-tub and watching the shore.

We got into the Thames earlier than usual, thanks to the fair wind.

The world is certainly a very beautiful place. I suppose when I get right out into it, and go to sea, and to other countries, I shall think nothing of England and the Thames, but it was all new and wonderful to Fred and me then. The green slopes and fine trees, and the houses with gardens down to the river, and boats rocking by the steps, the osier islands, which Mr. Rowe called "Aits," and the bridges where the mast had to be lowered, all the craft on the water -- the red-sailed barges with one man on board -- the steamers with crowded decks and gay awnings -- the schooners, yachts, and pleasure boats -- and all the people on shore, the fishers, and the people with water-dogs and sticks, the ladies with fine dresses and parasols, and the ragged boys who cheered us as we went by -- everything we saw and heard delighted us, and the only sore place in my heart was where I longed for Rupert and Henrietta to enjoy it too.

Later on we saw London. It was in the moonlight that we passed Chelsea. Mr. Rowe pointed out the Hospital, in which the pensioners must have been asleep, for not a wooden leg was stirring. In less than half-an-hour afterwards we were at the end of our voyage.

The first thing which struck me about Nine Elms was that they were not to be seen. I had thought of those elms more than once under the burning sun of the first day. I had imagined that we should land at last on some green bank, where the shelter of a majestic grove might tempt Mr. Rowe to sleep, while Fred and I should steal gently away to the neighbouring city, and begin a quite independent search for adventures. But I think I must have mixed up with my expectations a story of one of the captain's escapes -- from a savage chief in a mango-grove.

Our journey's end was not quite what I had thought it would be, but it was novel and interesting enough. We seemed to have thoroughly got to the town. Very old houses with feeble lights in their paper-patched windows made strange reflections on the river. The pier looked dark and dirty even by moonlight, and threw blacker and stranger shadows still.

Mr. Rowe was busy and tired, and -- we thought -- a little inclined to be cross.

"I wonder where we shall sleep!" said Fred, looking timidly up at the dark old houses.

I have said before that I find it hard work to be very brave after dark, but I put a good face on the matter, and said I dared say old Rowe would find us a cheap bedroom.

"London's an awful place for robbers and murders, you know," said Fred.

I was hoping the cold shiver running down my back was due to what the barge-master called "the damps from the water" -- when a wail like the cry of a hurt child made my skin stiffen into goose-prickles. A wilder moan succeeded, and then one of the windows of one of the dark houses was opened, and something thrown out which fell heavily down. Mr. Rowe was just coming on board again, and I found courage in the emergency to gasp out, "What was that?"

"Wot's wot?" said Mr. Rowe testily.

"That noise and the falling thing."

"Somebody throwing, somethin' at a cat," said the barge-master. "Stand aside, sir, if you please."

It was a relief, but when at length Mr. Rowe came up to me with his cap off, in the act of taking out his handkerchief, and said, "I suppose you're no richer than you was yesterday, young gentlemen -- how about a bed?" -- I said, "No -- o. That is, I mean if you can get us a cheap one in a safe -- I mean a respectable place."

"If you leaves a comfortable 'ome, sir," moralized the barge-master, "to go a-looking for adventures in this fashion, you must put up with rough quarters, and wot you can get."

"We'll go anywhere you think right, Mr. Rowe," said I diplomatically.

"I knows a waterman," said Mr. Rowe, "that was in the Royal Navy like myself. He lives near here, and they're decent folk. The place is a poor place, but you'll have to make the best of it, young gentlemen, and a shilling 'll cover the damage. If you wants supper you must pay for it. Give the missis the money, and she'll do the best she can, and bring you the change to a half-farthing."

My courage was now fully restored, but Fred was very much overwhelmed by the roughness of the streets we passed through, the drunken, quarrelling, poverty-struck people, and the grim, dirty old houses.

"We shall be out of it directly," I whispered, and indeed in a few minutes more Mr. Rowe turned up a shabby entry, and led us to one of several lower buildings round a small court. The house he stopped at was cleaner within than without, and the woman was very civil.

"It's a very poor place, sir," said she; "but we always keep a berth, as his father calls it, for our son John."

"But we can't take your son's bed," said I; "we'll sit up here, if you will let us."

"Bless ye, love," said the woman, "John's in foreign parts. He's a sailor, sir, like his father before him; but John's in the merchant service."

Mr. Rowe now bade us good-night. "I'll be round in the morning," said he.

"What o'clock, Mr. Rowe?" I asked; I had a reason for asking.

"There ain't much in the way of return cargo," he replied; "but I've a bit of business to do for your father, Mr. Fred, that'll take me until half-past nine. I'll be here by then, young gentlemen, and show you about a bit."

"It's roughish quarters for you," added the bargemaster, looking round; "but you'll find rougher quarters at sea, Master Charles."

Mr. Howe's moralizings nettled me, and they did no good, for my whole thoughts were now bent on evading his guardianship and getting to sea, but poor Fred was quite overpowered. "I wish we were safe home again," he almost sobbed when I went up to the corner into which he had huddled himself.

"You'll be all right when we're afloat," said I.

"I'm so hungry," he moaned.

I was hungry myself, and decided to order some supper, so when the woman came up and civilly asked if she could do anything for us before we went to bed, I said, "If you please we're rather hungry, but we can't afford anything very expensive. Do you think you can get us anything -- rather cheap -- for supper?"

"A red herring?" she suggested.

"What price are they?" I felt bound to inquire.

"Mrs. Jones has them beautiful and mild at two for a penny. You can get 'em at three a penny, but you wouldn't like 'em, sir."

I felt convinced by the expression of her face that I should not, so I ordered two.

"And a penny loaf?" suggested our landlady, getting her bonnet from behind the door.

"If you please."

"And a bunch of radishes and a pint of fourpenny would be fivepence-half-penny the lot, sir."

"If you please. And, if you please, that will do," said I, drawing a shilling from the bag, for the thought of the herrings made me ravenous, and I wanted her to go. She returned quickly with the bread, and herrings. The "fourpenny" proved to be beer. She gave me sixpence-half-penny in change, which puzzled my calculations.

"You said fourpenny," said I, indicating the beer.

"Yes, sir, but it's a pint," was the reply; and it was only when in after-years I learned that beer at fourpence a quart is known to some people as "fourpenny" that I got that part of the reckoning of the canvas bag straight in my own mind.

The room had an unwholesome smell about it, which the odour from our fried herrings soon pleasantly overpowered. The bread was good, and the beer did us no harm. Fred picked up his spirits again; when Mr. Rowe's old mate came home he found us very cheerful and chatty. Fred asked him about the son who was at sea, but I had some more important questions to put, and I managed so to do, and with a sufficiently careless air.

"I suppose there are lots of ships at London?" said I.

"In the Docks, sir, plenty," said our host.

"And where are the Docks?" I inquired. "Are they far from you?"

"Well, you see, sir, there's a many docks. There's the East India Docks, St. Katharine's Docks, and the Commercial Docks, and Victoria Dock, and lots more."

I pondered. Ships in the East India Dock probably went only to India. St. Katharine conveyed nothing to my mind. I did not fancy Commercial Docks. I felt a loyal inclination towards the Victoria Dock.

"How do people get from here to Victoria Dock now, if they want to?" I asked.

"Well, of course, sir, you can go down the river, or part that way and then by rail from Fenchurch Street."

"Where is Fenchurch Street, Mr. Smith?" said I, becoming a good deal ashamed of my pertinacity.

"In the city, sir," said Mr. Smith.

The city! Now I never heard of any one in any story going out into the world to seek his fortune, and coming to a city, who did not go into it to see what was to be seen. Leaving the king's only daughter and those kinds of things, which belong to story-books, out of the question, I do not believe the captain would have passed a new city without looking into it.

"You go down the river to Fenchurch Street -- in a barge?" I suggested.

"Bless ye, no, sir!" said Mr. Smith, getting the smoke of his pipe down his throat the wrong way with laughing, till I thought his coughing-fit would never allow him to give me the important information I required. "There's boats, sir, plenty on 'em. I could take you myself, and be thankful, and there's steamers calls at the wharf every quarter of an hour or so through the day, from nine in the morning, and takes you to London Bridge for threepence. It ain't many minutes' walk to Fenchurch Street, and the train takes you straight to the Docks."

After this we conversed on general seafaring matters. Mr. Smith was not a very able-bodied man, in consequence of many years' service in unhealthy climates, he said; and he complained of his trade as a "poor one," and very different from what it had been in his father's time, and before new London Bridge was built, which "anybody and anything could get through" now without watermen's assistance. In his present depressed condition he seemed to look back on his seafaring days with pride and tender regret, and when we asked for tales of his adventures he was checked by none of the scruples which withheld Mr. Rowe from encouraging me to be a sailor.

"John's berth" proved to be a truckle-bed in a closet which just held it, and which also held more nasty smells than I could have believed there was room for. Opening the window seemed only to let in fresh ones. When Fred threw himself on his face on the bed, and said, "What a beastly hole!" and cried bitterly, I was afraid he was going to be ill; and when I had said my prayers and persuaded him to say his and come to bed, I thought that if we got safely through the night we would make the return voyage with Mr. Rowe, and for the future leave events and emergencies to those who liked danger and discomfort.

But when we woke with the sun shining on our faces, and through the little window beheld it sparkling on the river below us, and on the distant city, we felt all right again, and stuck to our plans.

"Let's go by the city," said Fred, "I should like to see some of the town."

"If we don't get off before half-past nine we're lost," said I.

We found an unexpected clog in Mr. Smith, who seemed inclined to stick to us and repeat the stories he had told us overnight. At about half-past eight, however, he went off to his boat, saying he supposed we should wait for Mr. Rowe, and when his wife went into a neighbour's house I laid a shilling on the table, and Fred and I slipped out and made our way to the pier.

Mr. Rowe was not there, and a church clock near struck nine. This was echoed from the city more than once, and then we began to look anxiously for the steamer. Five, ten minutes must have passed -- they seemed hours to me -- when I asked a man who was waiting also when the steamer from London Bridge would come.

"She'll be here soon," said he.

"So will old Rowe," whispered Fred.

But the steamer came first, and we went on board; and the paddles began to splash, and our escape was accomplished.

It was a lovely morning, and the tall, dirty old houses looked almost grand in the sunlight as we left Nine Elms. The distant city came nearer and shone brighter, and when the fretted front of the Houses of Parliament went by us like a fairy palace, and towers and blocks of buildings rose solidly one behind another in shining tints of white and grey against the blue summer sky, and when above the noise of our paddle-wheels came the distant roar of the busy streets -- Fred pressed the arm I had pushed through his and said, "We're out in the world at last!"



Chapter XII.

Emergencies And Policemen -- Fenchurch Street Station -- Third Class To Custom House -- A Ship Forest.


Policemen are very useful people. I do not know how we should have got from the London Bridge Pier to the Fenchurch Street Station if it had not been that Fred told me he knew one could ask policemen the way to places. There is nothing to pay, which I was very glad of, as the canvas bag was getting empty.

Once or twice they helped us through emergencies. We had to go from one footpath to another, straight across the street, and the street was so full of carts and cabs and drays and omnibuses, that one could see that it was quite an impossibility. We did it, however, for the policeman made us. I said, "Hadn't we better wait till the crowd has gone?" But the policeman laughed, and said then we had better take lodgings close by and wait at the window. So we did it. Fred said the captain once ran in a little cutter between two big ships that were firing into him, but I do not think that can have been much worse than running between a backing dray, full of rolling barrels, and a hansom cab pulled up and ramping like a rocking-horse at the lowest point of the rockers.

When we were safely on the other pavement we thanked the policeman very much, and then went on, asking our way till we got to Fenchurch Street.

If anything could smell nastier than John's berth in Nine Elms it is Fenchurch Street Station. And I think it is worse in this way; John's berth smelt horrible, but it was warm and weather-tight. You never swallow a drop of pure air in Fenchurch Street Station, and yet you cannot find a corner in which you can get out of the draughts.

With one gale blowing on my right from an open door, and another gale blowing on my left down some steps, and nasty smells blowing from every point of the compass, I stood at a dirty little hole in a dirty wooden wall and took our tickets. I had to stand on tiptoe to make the young man see me.

"What is the cheapest kind of tickets you have, if you please?" I inquired, with the canvas bag in my hand.

"Third class," said the young man, staring very hard at me, which I thought rather rude. "Except working men's tickets, and they're not for this train."

"Two third-class tickets for Victoria Dock, then, if you please," said I.

"Single or return?" said he.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, for I was puzzled.

"Are you coming back to-day?" he inquired.

"Oh dear, no!" said I, for some of the captain's voyages had lasted for years; but the question made me anxious, as I knew nothing of railway rules, and I added, "Does it matter?"

"Not by no means," replied the young man smartly, and he began to whistle, but stopped himself to ask, "Custom House or Tidal Basin?"

I had no alternative but to repeat "I beg your pardon?"

He put his face right through the hole and looked at me. "Will you take your ticket for Custom House or Tidal Basin?" he repeated; "either will do for Victoria Docks."

"Then whichever you please," said I, as politely as I could.

The young man took out two tickets and snapped them impatiently in something; and as a fat woman was squeezing me from behind, I was glad to take what I could get and go back to Fred.

He was taking care of our two bundles and the empty pie-dish.

That pie-dish was a good deal in our way. Fred wanted to get rid of it, and said he was sure his mother would not want us to be bothered with it; but Fred had promised in his letter to bring it back, and he could not break his word. I told him so, but I said as he did not like to be seen with it I would carry it. So I did.

With a strong breeze aft, we were driven up-stairs in the teeth of a gale, and ran before a high wind down a platform where, after annoying one of the railway men very much by not being able to guess which was the train, and having to ask him, we got in among a lot of rough-looking people, who were very civil and kind. A man with a black face and a white jacket said he would tell us when we got to Custom House, and he gave me his seat by the window, that I might look out.

What struck me as rather odd was that everybody in the third-class carriage seemed to have bundles like ours, and yet they couldn't all be running away. One thin woman with a very troublesome baby had three. Perhaps it is because portmanteaus and things of that sort are rather expensive.

Fred was opposite to me. It was a bright sunny morning, a fresh breeze blew, and in the sunlight the backs of endless rows of shabby houses looked more cheerful than usual, though very few of the gardens had anything in them but dirt and cats, and very many of the windows had the week's wash hanging out on strings and poles. The villages we had passed on the canal banks all looked pretty and interesting, but I think that most of the places we saw out of the window of the train would look very ugly on a dull day.

I fancy there were poplar-trees at a place called Poplar, and that I thought it must be called after them; but Fred says No, and we have never been there since, so I cannot be sure about it. If not, I must have dreamt it.

I did fall asleep in the corner, I know, I was so very much tired, and we had had no breakfast, and I sat on the side where the wind blows in, which I think helped to make me sleepy. I was wakened partly by the pie-dish slipping off my lap, and partly by Fred saying in an eager tone,

"Oh, Charlie! LOOK! Are they all ships?"

We stuffed our heads through the window, and my hat was nearly blown away, so the man with the black face and the white jacket gave it to the woman with the troublesome baby to take care of for me, and he held us by our legs for fear we should fall out.

On we flew! There was wind enough in our faces to have filled the barge-sail three times over, and Fred licked his lips and said, "I do believe there's salt in it!"

But what he woke me up to show me drove me nearly wild. When I had seen a couple of big barges lying together with their two bare masts leaning towards each other I used to think how dignified and beautiful they looked. But here were hundreds of masts, standing as thick as tree-trunks in a fir-wood, and they were not bare poles, but lofty and slender, and crossed by innumerable yards, and covered with ropes in orderly profusion, which showed in the sunshine as cobwebs shine out in a field in summer. Gay flags and pennons fluttered in the wind; brown sails, grey sails, and gleaming white sails went up and down; and behind it all the water sparkled and dazzled our eyes like the glittering reflections from a mirror moving in the sun.

As we ran nearer the ropes looked thicker, and we could see the devices on the flags. And suddenly, straining his eyes at the yards of a vessel in the thick of the ship-forest, on which was something black, like a spider with only four legs, Fred cried, "It's a sailor!"

I saw him quite well. And seeing him higher up than on any tree one could ever climb, with the sunny sky above him and the shining water below him, I could only mutter out with envious longing -- "How happy he must be!"



Chapter XIII.

A Dirty Street -- A Bad Boy -- Shipping And Merchandise -- We Stowaway On Board The 'Atalanta' -- A Salt Tear.


The man in the white jacket helped us out, smiling as he did so, so that his teeth shone like ivory in his black face. We took the pie-dish and our bundles, and thanked him very much, and the train went on and took him with it, which we felt sorry for. For when one is out in the world, you know, one sometimes feels rather lonely, and sorry to part with a kind friend.

Everybody else went through a little gate into the street, so we did the same. It was a very dirty street, with houses on one side and the railway on the other. There were cabbages and carrots and old shoes and fishes' heads and oyster-shells and potato-peelings in the street, and a goat was routing among it all with its nose, as if it had lost something and hoped to find it by and by.

Places like this always seemed to depress Fred's courage. Besides which, he was never in good spirits when he had to go long without food, which made me fear he would not bear being cast adrift at sea without provisions as well as his grandfather had done. I was not surprised when he said,

"What a place! And I don't believe one can get anything fit to eat, and I am so hungry!"

I looked at the houses. There was a pork-butcher's shop, and a real butcher's shop, and a slop shop, and a seedy jeweller's shop with second-hand watches, which looked as if nothing would ever make them go, and a small toy and sweetmeat shop, but not a place that looked like breakfast. I had taken Fred's bundle because he was so tired, and I suppose it was because I was staring helplessly about that a dirty boy a good deal bigger than either of us came up and pulled his dirty hair and said,

"Carry your things for you, sir?"

"No, thank you," said I, moving on with the bundles and the pie-dish; but as the boy would walk by me I said,

"We want some breakfast very much, but we haven't much money." And, remembering the cost of our supper, I added, "Could we get anything here for about twopence-half-penny or threepence apiece?"

There was a moment's pause, and then the boy gave a long whistle.

"Vy, I thought you was swells!" said he.

I really do not know whether it was because I did not like to be supposed to be a poor person when it came to the point, or whether it was because of that bad habit of mine of which even Weston's ballad has not quite cured me, of being ready to tell people more about my affairs than it can be interesting for them to hear or discreet for me to communicate, but I replied at once: "We are gentlemen; but we are going in search of adventures, and we don't want to spend more money than we can help till we see what we may want it for when we get to foreign countries."

"You're going to sea, then, hare you?" said the boy, keeping up with us.

"Yes," said I; "but could you tell us where to get something to eat before we go?"

"There's a shop I knows on," said our new friend, "where they sells prime pudding at a penny a slice. The plums goes all through and no mistake. Three slices would be threepence: one for you, one for him, and one for my trouble in showing you the way. Threepence more's a quart of stout, and we drink fair by turns. Shall I take your purse and pay it for you? They might cheat a stranger."

"No, thank you," said I; "but we should like some pudding if you will show us the way."

The slices were small, but then they were very heavy. We had two each. I rejected the notion of porter, and Fred said he was not thirsty; but I turned back again into the shop to ask for a glass of water for myself. The woman gave it me very civilly, looking as she did so with a puzzled manner, first at me and then at my bundles and the pie-dish. As she took back the tumbler she nodded her head towards the dirty boy, who stood in the doorway, and said,

"Is that young chap a companion of yours, my dear?"

"Oh, dear no," said I, "only he showed us the way here."

"Don't have nothing to do with him," she whispered "he's a bad un."

In spite of this warning, however, as there was no policeman to be seen, and the boy would keep up with us, I asked him the way to Victoria Dock.

It was not so easy to get to the ships as I had expected. There were gates to pass through, and they were kept by a porter. He let some people in and turned others back.

"Have you got an order to see the docks?" asked the boy.

I confessed that we had not, but added that we wanted very much to get in.

"My eyes!" said the bad boy, doubling himself in a fit of amusement, "I believe you're both going for stowaways."

"What do you mean by stowaways?" I asked.

"Stowaways is chaps that hides aboard vessels going out of port, to get their passage free gratis for nothing."

"Do a good many manage it?" I asked with an anxious mind.

"There ain't a vessel leaves the docks without one and sometimes more aboard. The captain never looks that way, not by no accident whatsoever. He don't lift no tarpaulins while the ship's in dock. But when she gets to sea the captain gets his eyesight back, and he takes it out of the stowaways for their wittles then. Oh, yes, rather so!" said the bad boy.

There was a crowd at the gates.

"Hold your bundles down on your right side," said the boy, "and go in quickly after any respectable-looking cove you see."

Fred had got his own bundle now, and we followed our guide's directions, and went through the gates after an elderly, well-dressed man. The boy seemed to try to follow us, squeezing very close up to me, but the gatekeeper stopped him. When we were on the other side I saw him bend down and wink backwards at the gatekeeper through his straddled legs. Then he stood derisively on his head. After which he went away as a catherine-wheel, and I saw him no more.

We were among the ships at last! Vessels very different from Mr. Rowe's barge, or even the three-penny steamboat, Lofty and vast, with shining decks of marvellous cleanliness, and giant figure-heads like dismembered Jins out of some Arabian tale. Streamers of many colours high up in the forest of masts, and seamen of many nations on the decks and wharves below, moved idly in the breeze, which was redolent of many kinds of cargo. Indeed, if the choice of our ship had not been our chief care, the docks and warehouses would have fascinated us little less than the shipping. Here were huge bales of cotton packed as thickly as bricks in a brick-field. There were wine-casks innumerable, and in another place the air was aromatic with so large a cargo of coffee that it seemed as if no more could be required in this country for some generations.

It was very entertaining, and Fred was always calling to me to look at something new, but my mind was with the shipping. There was a good deal of anxiety on it too. The sooner we chose our ship and "stowed away" the better. I hesitated between sailing-vessels and steamers. I did not believe that one of the captain's adventures happened on board any ship that could move faster than it could sail. And yet I was much attracted by some grand-looking steamships. Even their huge funnels had a look of power, I thought, among the masts, like old and hollow oaks in a wood of young and slender trees.

One of these was close in dock, and we could see her well. There were some casks on deck, and by them lay a piece of tarpaulin which caught my eye, and recalled what the bad boy had said about captains and stowaways. Near the gangway were standing two men who did not seem to be sailors. They were respectably dressed, one had a book and a pencil, and they looked, I thought, as if they might have authority to ask our business in the docks, so I drew Fred back under shelter of some piled-up boxes.

"When does she sail?" asked the man with the book.

"To-morrow morning, sir," replied the other.

And then they crossed the gangway and went into a warehouse opposite.

It was noon, and being the men's dinner-time, the docks were not very busy. At this moment there was not a soul in sight. I grasped Fred's arm, and hoisted the bundle and pie-dish well under my own.

"That's our ship," I said triumphantly; "come along!"

We crossed the gangway unperceived. "The casks!" I whispered, and we made our way to the corner I had noticed. If Fred's heart beat as chokingly as mine did, we were far too much excited to speak, as we settled ourselves into a corner, not quite as cosy as our hiding-place in the forehold of the barge; and drew the tarpaulin over our heads, resting some of the weight of it on the casks behind, that we might not be smothered.

I have waited for the kitchen kettle to boil when Fred and I wanted to make "hot grog" with raspberry-vinegar and nutmeg at his father's house; I have waited for a bonfire to burn up, when we wanted to roast potatoes; I have waited for it to leave off raining when my mother would not let us go out for fear of catching colds; but I never knew time pass so slowly as when Fred and I were stowaways on board the steam-ship Atalanta.

He was just beginning to complain, when we heard men coming on board. This amused us for a bit, but we were stowed so that we could not see them, and we dared not look out. Neither dared we speak, except when we heard them go a good way off, and then we whispered. So second after second, and minute after minute, and hour after hour went by, and Fred became very restless.

"She's to sail in the morning," I whispered.

"But where are we to get dinner and tea and supper?" asked Fred indignantly. I was tired, and felt cross on my own account.

"You said yourself we might have to weigh out our food with a bullet like Admiral Bligh, next week."

"He must have had something, or he couldn't have weighed it," retorted Fred; "and how do we know if they'll ever give us anything to eat on board this ship?"

"I dare say we can buy food at first, till they find us something to do for our meals," said I.

"How much money is there left?" asked Fred.

I put my hand into my pocket for the canvas bag -- but it was gone!

There could be little doubt that the bad boy had picked my pocket at the gate, but I had a sense of guiltiness about it, for most of the money was Fred's. This catastrophe completely overwhelmed him, and he cried and grumbled till I was nearly at my wits' end. I could not stop him, though heavy steps were coming quite close to us.

"Sh! sh!" muttered I, "if you go on like that they'll certainly find us, and then we shall have managed all this for nothing, and might as well have gone back with old Rowe."

"Which wind and weather permitting, young gentlemen, you will," said a voice just above us, though we did not hear it.

"I wish we could," sobbed Fred, "only there's no money now. But I'm going to get out of this beastly hole any way."

"You're a nice fellow to tell me about your grandfather," said I, in desperate exasperation; "I don't believe you've the pluck for a common sailor, let alone a Great Discoverer."

"You've hit the right nail on the head there, Master Charles," said the voice.

"Fiddlesticks about my grandfather!" said Fred.

In the practical experiences of the last three days my faith in Fred's tales had more than once been rather rudely shaken; but the contemptuous tone in which he disposed of our model, the Great Sea Captain, startled me so severely that I do not think I felt any additional shock of astonishment when strong hands lifted the tarpaulin from our heads, and -- grave amid several grinning faces -- we saw the bargemaster.

How he reproached us, and how Fred begged him to take us home, and how I besought him to let us go to sea, it would be tedious to relate. I have no doubt now that he never swerved from his intention of taking us back, but he preferred to do it by fair means if possible. So he fubbed me off, and took us round the docks to amuse us, and talked of dinner in a way that went to Fred's heart.

But when I found that we were approaching the gates once more, I stopped dead short. As we went about the docks I had replied to the barge-master's remarks as well as I could, but I had never ceased thinking of the desire of my heart, and I resolved to make one passionate appeal to his pity.

"Mr. Rowe," I said, in a choking voice, "please don't take me home! I would give anything in the world to go to sea. Why shouldn't I be a sailor when I want to? Take Fred home if he wants to go, and tell them that I'm all right, and mean to do my duty and come back a credit to them."

Mr. Rowe's face was inscrutable, and I pleaded harder.

"You're an old navy man, you know, Rowe," I said, "and if you recommended me to the captain of one of these ships for a cabin-boy, I'll be bound they'd take me."

"Mr. Charles," said the old man earnestly, "you couldn't go for a cabin-boy, you don't know -- "

"You think I can't rough it," I interrupted impatiently, "but try me, and see. I know what I'm after," I added, consequentially; "and I'll bear what I have to bear, and do what I'm set to do if I can get afloat. I'll be a captain some day, and give orders instead of taking them."

Mr. Rowe drew up to attention and took off his hat. "And wanting an able-bodied seaman in them circumstances, sir, for any voyage you likes to make," said he emphatically, "call for Samuel Rowe." He then wiped the passing enthusiasm from the crown of his head with his handkerchief, and continued -- with the judicious diplomacy for which he was remarkable -- "But of course, sir, it's the Royal Navy you'll begin in, as a midshipman. It's seamanship you wants to learn, not swabbing decks or emptying buckets below whilst others is aloft. Your father's son would be a good deal out of place, sir, as cabin-boy in a common trading vessel."

Mr. Rowe's speech made an impression, and I think he saw that it did.

"Look here, Master Charles," said he, "you've a gentleman's feelings: come home now, and bear me out with your widowed mother and your only sister, sir, and with Master Fred's father, that I'm in duty bound to, and promised to deliver safe and sound as return cargo, wind and weather permitting."

"Oh, come home! come home!" reiterated Fred.

I stood speechless for a minute or two. All around and above me rose the splendid masts, trellised with the rigging that I longed to climb. The refreshing scent of tar mingled with the smells of the various cargoes. The coming and going of men who came and went to and fro the ends of the earth stirred all my pulses to restlessness. And above the noises of their coming and going I heard the lapping of the water of the incoming tide against the dock, which spoke with a voice more powerful than that of Mr. Rowe.

And yet I went with him.

It was not because the canvas bag was empty, not because Fred would not stay with me (for I had begun to think that the captain's grandson was not destined to be the hero of exploits on the ocean), but when Mr. Rowe spoke of my widowed mother and of Henrietta, he touched a sore point on my conscience. I had had an uneasy feeling from the first that there was something rather mean in my desertion of them. Pride, and I hope some less selfish impulse, made me feel that I could never be quite happy -- even on the mainmast top -- if I knew that I had behaved ill to them.

I could not very well speak, but I turned round and began to walk in the direction of the dock gates. Mr. Rowe behaved uncommonly kindly. He said nothing more, but turned as if I had given the word of command, and walked respectfully just behind me. I resolved not to look back, and I did not. I was quite determined too about one thing: Mr. Rowe should never be able to say he had seen me make a fool of myself after I had made up my mind. But in reality I had very hard work to keep from beginning to cry, just when Fred was beginning to leave off.

I screwed up my eyes and kept them dry, however, but as we went through the gate there came in a sailor with a little bundle like ours, and a ship's name on his hat. His hat sat as if a gale were just taking it off, and his sea-blue shirt was blown open by breezes that my back was turned upon. In spite of all I could do one tear got through my eyelashes and ran down, and I caught it on my lips.

It was a very bitter tear, and as salt as the salt, salt sea!



Chapter XIV.

A Glow On The Horizon -- A Fantastic Peal -- What I Saw When The Roof Fell In.


It was the second day of our return voyage. Mr. Rowe had been very kind, and especially so to me. He had told us tales of seafaring life, but they related exclusively to the Royal Navy, and not unfrequently bore with disparagement on the mercantile marine.

Nowhere, perhaps, are grades of rank more strongly marked with professional discipline and personal independence better combined than in the army and navy. But the gulf implied by Mr. Rowe between the youngest midshipman and the highest seaman who was not an officer was, I think, in excess of the fact. As to becoming cabin-boy to a trading vessel in hopes of rising to be a captain, the barge-master contrived to impress me with the idea that I might as well take the situation of boot and knife cleaner in the Royal Kitchen, in hopes of its proving the first step towards ascending the Throne.

We seemed to have seen and done so much since we were on the canal before, that I felt quite sentimental as we glided into Linnet Flash.

"The old place looks just the same, Barge-master," said I with a travelled air.

"So it do, sir," said Mr. Rowe; and he added -- "There's no place like Home."

I hardly know how near we were to the town, but I know that it was getting late, that the dew was heavy on the towing-path, and that among the dark pencilled shadows of the sallows in the water the full moon's reflection lay like a golden shield; when the driver, who was ahead, stepped back and shouted -- "The bells are ringing!"

When we got a little nearer we heard them quite clearly, and just when I was observing a red glow diffuse itself in the cold night sky above the willow hedge on our left, Mr. Rowe said, "There must be a queer kind of echo somewhere, I heard sixteen bells."

And then I saw the driver, whose figure stood out dark against the moonlit moorland on our right, point with his arm to the fast crimsoning sky, and Mr. Rowe left the rudder and came forward, and Fred, who had had his head low down listening, ran towards us from the bows and cried,

"There are sixteen, and they're ringing backwards -- it's a fire!"

The driver mounted the horse, which was put to the trot, and we hurried on. The bells came nearer and nearer with their fantastic clanging, and the sky grew more lurid as they rang. Then there was a bend in the canal, and we caught sight of the two towers of S. Philip and S. James, dark against the glow.

"The whole town is in flames!" cried Fred.

"Not it," said the barge-master; "it's ten to one nothing but a rubbish-heap burning, or the moors on fire beyond the town."

Mr. Rowe rather snubbed Fred, but I think he was curious about the matter. The driver urged his horse, and the good barge Betsy swung along at a pace to which she was little accustomed.

When we came by the cricket-field Mr. Rowe himself said -- "It's in the middle of the town."

Through the deafening noise of the bells I contrived to shout in his ear a request that I might be put ashore, as we were now about on a level with my home. Mr. Rowe ran a plank quickly out and landed me, without time for adieux.

I hastened up to the town. The first street I got into was empty, but it seemed to vibrate to S. Philip's peal. And after that I pushed my way through people, hurrying as I was hurrying, and the nearer I got to home the thicker grew the crowd and the ruddier became the glow. And now, in spite of the bells, I caught other noises. The roar of irresistible fire, -- which has a strange likeness to the roar of irresistible water, -- the loud crackling of the burning wood, and the moving and talking of the crowd, which was so dense that I could hardly get forward.

I contrived to squeeze myself along, however, and as I turned into our street I felt the warmth of the fire, and when I looked at my old home it was a mass of flames.

I tried to get people to make way for me by saying -- "It's my house, please let me through!" But nobody seemed to hear me. And yet there was a pause, which was only filled by that curious sound when a crowd of people gasp or sigh; and if every man had been a rock it could not have been more impossible to move backwards or forwards. It was dark, except for the moonlight, where I stood, but in a moment or two the flames burst from the bedroom windows, and the red light spread farther, and began to light up faces near me. I was just about to appeal to a man I knew, when a roar began which I knew was not that of the fire. It was the roar of human voices. And when it swelled louder, and was caught up as it came along, and then broke into deafening cheers, I was so wild with excitement and anxiety that I began to kick the legs of the man in front of me to make him let me go to the home that was burning before my eyes.

What he would have done in return, I don't know, but at this moment the crowd broke up, and we were pushed, and pressed, and jostled about, and people kept calling to "Make way!" and after tumbling down, and being picked up twice, I found myself in the front row of a kind of lane that had been made through the crowd, down which several men were coming, carrying on their shoulders an arm-chair with people in it.

As they passed me there was a crash, which seemed to shake the street. The roof of our house had fallen in!

As it fell the flames burst upon every side, and in the sudden glare the street became as bright as day, and every little thing about one seemed to spring into sight. Half the crowd was known to me in a moment.

Then I looked at the chair which was being carried along; and by a large chip on one of the legs I knew it was my father's old arm-chair.

And in the chair I saw Rupert in his shirt and trousers, and Henrietta in a petticoat and an out-door jacket, with so white a face that even the firelight seemed to give it no colour, and on her lap was Baby Cecil in his night-gown, with black smut marks on his nose and chin.



Chapter XV.

Henrietta's Diary -- A Great Emergency.


Rupert never was a fellow who could give descriptions of things, and Henrietta was ill for some time after the fire, and Mr. Bustard said she wasn't to talk about it.

But she knew I wanted to know, so one day when she was down-stairs with me in the "Miniature Room" (it was at the Castle) she gave me a manuscript book, and said, "It's my diary, Charlie, so I know you won't look. But I've put in two marks for the beginning and end of the bit about the fire. I wrote it that evening, you know, before Mr. Bustard came, and my head got so bad."

Of course I made her show me exactly where to begin and leave off, and then I read it. This was it.

"It had been a very hot day, and I had got rather a headache and gone to bed. The pain kept me awake a good bit, and when I did get to sleep I think I slept rather lightly. I was partly awakened by noises which seemed to have been going in my head all night till I could bear them no longer, so I woke up, and found that people were shouting outside, and that there was a dreadful smell of burning. I had got on my flannel petticoat when Rupert called me and said, 'Henny dear, the house is on fire! Just put something round you, and come quickly.'

"Just outside the door we met Cook; she said, 'The Lord be thanked! it's you, Miss Henrietta. Come along!'

"Rupert said, 'Where's Mother, Cook?'

"'Missus was took with dreadful fainting fits,' she replied, 'and they've got her over to the Crown. We're all to go there, and everything that can be saved.'

"'Where's Baby,' said I, 'and Jane?'

"'With your Ma, miss, I expect,' Cook said; and as we came out she asked some one, who said, 'I saw Jane at the door of the Crown just now.' I had been half asleep till then, but when we got into the street and saw the smoke coming out of the dining-room window, Rupert and I wanted to stay and try to save something, but one of the men who was there said, 'You and your brother's not strong enough to be of no great use, miss; you're only in the way of the engine. Everybody's doing their best to save your things, and if you'll go to the Crown to your mamma, you'll do the best that could be.'

"The people who were saving our things saved them all alike. They threw them out of the window, and as I had seen the big blue china jar smashed to shivers, I felt a longing to go and show them what to do; but Rupert said, 'The fellow's quite right, Henny,' and he seized me by the hand and dragged me off to the Crown. Jane was in the hall, looking quite wild, and she said to us, 'Where's Master Cecil?' I didn't stop to ask her how it was that she didn't know. I ran out again, and Rupert came after me. I suppose we both looked up at the nursery window when we came near, and there was Baby Cecil standing and screaming for help. Before we got to the door other people had seen him, and two or three men pushed into the house. They came out gasping and puffing without Cecil, and I heard one man say, 'It's too far gone. It wouldn't bear a child's weight, and if you got up you'd never come down again.'

"'God help the poor child!' said the other man, who was the chemist, and had a large family, I know. I looked round and saw by Rupert's face that he had heard. It was like a stone. I don't know how it was, but it seemed to come into my head: 'If Baby Cecil is burnt it will kill Rupert too.' And I began to think; and I thought of the back stairs. There was a pocket-handkerchief in my jacket pocket, and I soaked it in the water on the ground. The town burgesses wouldn't buy a new hose when we got the new steam fire-engine, and when they used the old one it burst in five places, so that everything was swimming, for the water was laid on from the canal. I think my idea must have been written on my face, for though I didn't speak, Rupert seemed to guess at once, and he ran after me, crying, 'Let me go, Henrietta!' but I pretended not to hear.

"When we got to the back of the house the fire was not nearly so bad, and we got in. But though it wasn't exactly on fire where we were, the smoke came rolling down the passage from the front of the house, and by the time we got to the back stairs we could not see or breathe, in spite of wet cloths over our faces, and our eyes smarted with the smoke. Go down on all fours, Henny,' said Rupert. So I did. It was wonderful. When I got down with my face close to the ground there was a bit of quite fresh air, and above this the smoke rolled like a cloud. I could see the castors of the legs of a table in the hall, but no higher up. In this way we saw the foot of the back stairs, and climbed up them on our hands and knees. But in spite of the bit of fresh air near the ground the smoke certainly grew thicker, and it got hotter and hotter, and we could hear the roaring of the flames coming nearer, and the clanging of the bells outside, and I never knew what it was to feel thirst before then! When we were up the first flight, and the smoke was suffocating, I heard Rupert say, 'Oh, Henny, you good girl, shall we ever get down again!' I couldn't speak, my throat was so sore, but I remember thinking, 'It's like going up through the clouds into heaven; and we shall find Baby Cecil there.' But after that it got rather clearer, because the fire was in the lower part of the house then, and when we got to the top we stood up, and found our way to the nursery by hearing Baby Cecil scream.

"The great difficulty was to get him down, for we couldn't carry him and keep close to the ground. So I said, 'You go first on your hands and knees backwards, and tell him to do as you do, and I'll come last, so that he may see me doing the same and imitate me.' Baby was very good about it, and when the heat worried him and he stopped, Rupert said, 'Come on, Baby, or Henny will run over you,' and he scrambled down as good as gold.

"And when we got to the door the people began to shout and to cheer, and I thought they would have torn Baby to bits. It made me very giddy, and so did the clanging of those dreadful bells; and then I noticed that Rupert was limping, and I said, 'Oh, Rupert, have you hurt your knee?' and he said, 'It's nothing, come to the Crown.' But there were two of the young men from Jones's shop there, and they said, 'Don't you walk and hurt your knee, sir; we'll take you.' And they pushed up my father's arm-chair, which had been saved and was outside, and Rupert sat down, I believe, because he could not stand. Then they said, 'There's room for you, miss,' and Rupert told me to come, and I took Baby on my lap; but I felt so ill I thought I should certainly fall out when they lifted us up.

"The way the people cheered made me very giddy; I think I shall always feel sick when I hear hurrahing now.

"Rupert is very good if you're ill. He looked at me and said, 'You're the bravest girl I ever knew, but don't faint if you can help it, or Baby will fall out.'

"I didn't; and I wouldn't have fainted when we got to the Crown if I could have stopped myself by anything I could do."



Chapter XVI.

Mr. Rowe On The Subject -- Our Cousin -- Weston Gets Into Print -- The Harbour's Mouth -- What Lies Beyond.


Mr. Rowe's anxiety to see Rupert and Henrietta, and to "take the liberty of expressing himself" about their having saved Baby Cecil's life was very great, but the interview did not take place for some time. The barge Betsy took two voyages to Nine Elms and home again before Henrietta was down-stairs and allowed to talk about the fire.

Rupert refused to see the barge-master when he called to ask after Henrietta; he was vexed because people made a fuss about the affair, and when Rupert was vexed he was not gracious. When Henrietta got better, however, she said, "We ought to see old Rowe and thank him for his kindness to Charlie;" so the next time he called, we all went into the housekeeper's room to see him.

He was very much pleased and excited, which always seemed to make him inclined to preach. He set forth the noble motives which must have moved Rupert and Henrietta to their heroic conduct in the emergency, so that I felt more proud of them than ever. But Rupert frowned, and said, "Nonsense, Rowe, I'm sure I never thought anything of the kind. I don't believe we either of us thought anything at all."

But Mr. Rowe had not served seventeen years in the Royal Navy to be put down when he expounded a point of valour.

"That's where it is, Master Rupert," said he. "It wouldn't have been you or Miss Henrietta either if you had. 'A man overboard,' says you -- that's enough for one of your family, sir. They never stops to think 'Can I swim?' but in you goes, up the stairs that wouldn't hold the weight of a new-born babby, and right through the raging flames."

"Oh, dear!" cried Henrietta, "that's just what Cook and all kinds of people will say. But it was the front stairs that were on fire. We only went up the back stairs, and they weren't burning at all."

The barge-master smiled in reply. But it was with the affability of superior knowledge, and I feel quite sure that he always told the story (and believed it) according to his impossible version.

It was on the third day after the fire that our cousin called at the Crown. He had never been to see us before, and, as I have said, we had never been to the Castle. But the next day he sent a close carriage for Henrietta and my mother, and a dog-cart for Rupert and me, and brought us up to the Castle. We were there for three months.

It was through him that Rupert went to those baths abroad, which cured his knee completely. And then, because my mother could not afford to do it, he sent him to a grander public school than Dr. Jessop's old grammar school, and Mr. Johnson sent Thomas Johnson there too, for Tom could not bear to be parted from Rupert, and his father never refused him anything.

But what I think was so very kind of our cousin was his helping me. Rupert and Henrietta had been a credit to the family, but I deserved nothing. I had only run away in the mean hope of outshining them, and had made a fool of myself, whilst they had been really great in doing their duty at home. However, he did back me up with Mother about going to sea, and got me on board the training-ship Albion; and my highest hope is to have the chance of bringing my share of renown to my father's name, that his cousin may never regret having helped me to my heart's desire.

Fred Johnson and I are very good friends, but since our barge voyage we have never been quite so intimate. I think the strongest tie between us was his splendid stories of the captain, and I do not believe in them now.

Oddly enough, my chief friend -- of the whole lot -- is Weston. Rupert always said I had a vulgar taste in the choice of friends, so it seems curious that of our old schoolmates Johnson should be his friend and Weston mine. For Johnson's father is only a canal-carrier, and Weston is a fellow of good family.

He is so very clever! And I have such a habit of turning my pockets inside out for everybody to see, that I admire his reticence; and then, though he is so ironical with himself, as well as other people, he has very fine ideas and ambitions and very noble and upright principles -- when you know him well.

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," and the fire that burned down our house got Weston into print at last.

It was not a common letter either, in the "correspondence" part, with small type, and the editor not responsible. It was a leading article, printed big, and it was about the fire and Rupert and Henrietta. Thomas Johnson read it to us, and we did not know who wrote it; but it was true, and in good taste. After the account of the fire came a quotation from Horace,

"Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis."

And Johnson cried -- "That's Weston, depend upon it. He's in the Weekly Spectator at last!"

And then, to my utter amazement, came such a chronicle of the valiant deeds of Rupert's ancestors as Weston could only have got from one source. What had furnished his ready pen with matter for a comic ballad to punish my bragging had filled it also to do honour to Rupert and Henrietta's real bravery, and down to what the colonel of my father's regiment had said of him -- it was all there.

Weston came to see me the other day at Dartmouth, where our training-ship Albion lies, and he was so charmed by the old town with its carved and gabled houses, and its luxuriant gardens rich with pale-blossomed laurels, which no frost dwarfs, and crimson fuchsias gnarled with age, and its hill-embosomed harbour, where the people of all grades and ages, and of both sexes, flit hither and thither in their boats as landlubbers would take an evening stroll -- that I felt somewhat justified in the romantic love I have for the place.

And when we lay in one of the Albion's boats, rocking up and down in that soothing swell which freshens the harbour's mouth, Weston made me tell him all about the lion and the silver chain, and he called me a prig for saying so often that I did not believe in it now. I remember he said, "In this sleepy, damp, delightful Dartmouth, who but a prig could deny the truth of a poetical dream?"

He declared he could see the lion in a cave in the rock, and that the poor beast wanted a new sea-green ribbon.

Weston speaks so much more cleverly than I can, that I could not explain to him then that I am still but too apt to dream! But the harbour's mouth is now only the beginning of my visions, which stretch far over the sea beyond, and over the darker line of that horizon where the ships come and go.

I hope it is not wrong to dream. My father was so modest as well as ambitious, so good as well as so gallant, that I would rather die than disgrace him by empty conceit and unprofitable hopes.

Weston is a very religious fellow, though he does not "cant" at all. When I was going away to Dartmouth, and he saw me off (for we were great friends), one of the last things he said to me was, "I say, don't leave off saying your prayers, you know."

I haven't, and I told him so this last time. I often pray that if ever I am great I may be good too; and sometimes I pray that if I try hard to be good God will let me be great as well.

The most wonderful thing was old Rowe's taking a cheap ticket and coming down to see me last summer. I never can regret my voyage with him in the Betsy, for I did thoroughly enjoy it, though I often think how odd it is that in my vain, jealous wild-goose chase after adventures I missed the chance of distinguishing myself in the only Great Emergency which has yet occurred in our family.



A Very Ill-Tempered Family.

"Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is HE sure to bless?"

Hymn of the Eastern Church.



Chapter I.

A Family Failing.


We are a very ill-tempered family.

I want to say it, and not to unsay it by any explanations, because I think it is good for us to face the fact in the unadorned form in which it probably presents itself to the minds of our friends.

Amongst ourselves we have always admitted it by pieces, as it were, or in negative propositions. We allow that we are firm of disposition; we know that we are straightforward; we show what we feel. We have opinions and principles of our own; we are not so thick-skinned as some good people, nor as cold-blooded as others.

When two of us quarrelled (and Nurse used to say that no two of us ever agreed), the provocation always seemed, to each of us, great enough amply to excuse the passion. But I have reason to think that people seldom exclaimed, "What grievances those poor children are exasperated with!" but that they often said, "What terrible tempers they all have!"

There are five of us: Philip and I are the eldest; we are twins. My name is Isobel, and I never allow it to be shortened into the ugly word Bella nor into the still more hideous word Izzy, by either the servants or the children. My aunt Isobel never would, and neither will I.

"The children" are the other three. They are a good deal younger than Philip and I, so we have always kept them in order. I do not mean that we taught them to behave wonderfully well, but I mean that we made them give way to us elder ones. Among themselves they squabbled dreadfully.

We are a very ill-tempered family.



Chapter II.

Ill-Tempered People And Their Friends -- Narrow Escapes -- The Hatchet-Quarrel.


I do not wish for a moment to defend ill-temper, but I do think that people who suffer from ill-tempered people often talk as if they were the only ones who do suffer in the matter; and as if the ill-tempered people themselves quite enjoyed being in a rage.

And yet how much misery is endured by those who have never got the victory over their own ill-temper! To feel wretched and exasperated by little annoyances which good-humoured people get over with a shrug or a smile; to have things rankle in my mind like a splinter in the flesh, which glide lightly off yours, and leave no mark; to be unable to bear a joke, knowing that one is doubly laughed at because one can't; to have this deadly sore at heart -- "I cannot forgive; I cannot forget," there is no pleasure in these things. The tears of sorrow are not more bitter than the tears of anger, of hurt pride or thwarted will. As to the fit of passion in which one is giddy, blind, and deaf, if there is a relief to the overcharged mind in saying the sharpest things and hitting the heaviest blows one can at the moment, the pleasantness is less than momentary, for almost as we strike we foresee the pains of regret and of humbling ourselves to beg pardon which must ensue. Our friends do not always pity as well as blame us, though they are sorry for those who were possessed by devils long ago.

Good-tempered people, too, who I fancy would find it quite easy not to be provoking, and to be a little patient and forbearing, really seem sometimes to irritate hot-tempered ones on purpose, as if they thought it was good for them to get used to it.

I do not mean that I think ill-tempered people should be constantly yielded to, as Nurse says Mrs. Rampant and the servants have given way to Mr. Rampant till he has got to be quite as unreasonable and nearly as dangerous as most maniacs, and his friends never cross him, for the same reason that they would hot stir up a mad bull.

Perhaps I do not quite know how I would have our friends treat us who are cursed with bad tempers. I think to avoid unnecessary provocation, and to be patient with us in the height of our passion, is wise as well as kind. But no principle should be conceded to us, and rights that we have unjustly attacked should be faithfully defended when we are calm enough to listen. I fancy that where gentle Mrs. Rampant is wrong is that she allows Mr. Rampant to think that what really are concessions to his weakness are concessions to his wisdom. And what is not founded on truth cannot do lasting good. And if, years ago, before he became a sort of gunpowder cask at large, he had been asked if he wished Mrs. Rampant to persuade herself, and Mrs. Rampant, the little Rampants, and the servants to combine to persuade him, that he was right when he was wrong, and wise when he was foolish, and reasonable when he was unjust, I think he would have said No. I do not believe one could deliberately desire to be befooled by one's family for all the best years of one's life. And yet how many people are!

I do not think I am ever likely to be so loved and feared by those I live with as to have my ill-humours made into laws. I hope not. But I am sometimes thankful, on the other hand, that GOD is more forbearing with us than we commonly are with each other, and does not lead us into temptation when we are at our worst and weakest.

Any one who has a bad temper must sometimes look back at the years before he learned self-control, and feel thankful that he is not a murderer, or burdened for life by the weight on his conscience of some calamity of which he was the cause. If the knife which furious Fred threw at his sister before he was out of petticoats had hit the child's eye instead of her forehead, could he ever have looked into the blinded face without a pang? If the blow with which impatient Annie flattered herself she was correcting her younger brother had thrown the naughty little lad out of the boat instead of into the sailor's arms, and he had been drowned -- at ten years old a murderess, how could she endure for life the weight of her unavailing remorse?

I very nearly killed Philip once. It makes me shudder to think of it, and I often wonder I ever could lose my temper again.

We were eight years old, and out in the garden together. We had settled to build a moss-house for my dolls, and had borrowed the hatchet out of the wood-house, without leave, to chop the stakes with. It was entirely my idea, and I had collected all the moss and most of the sticks. It was I, too, who had taken the hatchet. Philip had been very tiresome about not helping me in the hard part; but when I had driven in the sticks by leaning on them with all my weight, and had put in bits of brushwood where the moss fell out and Philip laughed at me, and, in short, when the moss-house was beginning to look quite real, Philip was very anxious to work at it, and wanted the hatchet.

"You wouldn't help me over the hard work," said I, "so I shan't give it you now; I'll make my moss-house myself."

"No, you won't," said Philip.

"Yes, I shall," said I.

"No, you won't," he reiterated; "for I shall pull it down as fast as you build it."

"You'd better not," I threatened.

Just then we were called in to dinner. I hid the hatchet, and Philip said no more; but he got out before me, and when I returned to work I found that the moss-house walls, which had cost me so much labour, were pulled to pieces and scattered about the shrubbery. Philip was not to be seen.

My heart had been so set upon my project that at first I could only feel the overwhelming disappointment. I was not a child who often cried, but I burst into tears.

I was sobbing my hardest when Philip sprang upon me in triumph, and laughing at my distress.

"I kept my promise," said he, tossing his head, "and I'll go on doing it."

I am sure those shocks of fury which seize one like a fit must be a devil possessing one. In an instant my eyes were as dry as the desert in a hot wind, and my head reeling with passion. I ran to the hatchet, and came back brandishing it.

"If you touch one stake or bit of moss of mine again," said I, "I'll throw my hatchet at your head. I can keep promises too."

My intention was only to frighten him. I relied on his not daring to brave such a threat; unhappily he relied on my not daring to carry it out. He took up some of my moss and threw it at me by way of reply.

I flung the hatchet! -- 

My Aunt Isobel has a splendid figure, with such grace and power as one might expect from her strong health and ready mind. I had not seen her at the moment, for I was blind with passion, nor had Philip, for his back was turned towards her. I did not see distinctly how she watched, as one watches for a ball, and caught the hatchet within a yard of Philip's head.

My Aunt Isobel has a temper much like the temper of the rest of the family. When she had caught it in her left hand she turned round and boxed my ears with her right hand till I could see less than ever. (I believe she suffered for that outburst for months afterwards. She was afraid she had damaged my hearing, as that sense is too often damaged or destroyed by the blows of ill-tempered parents, teachers, and nurses.)

Then she turned back and shook Philip as vigorously as she had boxed me. "I saw you, you spiteful, malicious boy!" said my Aunt Isobel.

All the time she was shaking him, Philip was looking at her feet. Something that he saw absorbed his attention so fully that he forgot to cry.

"You're bleeding, Aunt Isobel," said he, when she gave him breath enough to speak.

The truth was this: the nervous force which Aunt Isobel had summoned up to catch the hatchet seemed to cease when it was caught; her arm fell powerless, and the hatchet cut her ankle. That left arm was useless for many months afterwards, to my abiding reproach.

Philip was not hurt, but he might have been killed. Everybody told me so often that it was a warning to me to correct my terrible temper, that I might have revolted against the reiteration if the facts had been less grave. But I never can feel lightly about that hatchet-quarrel. It opened a gulf of possible wickedness and life-long misery, over the brink of which my temper would have dragged me, but for Aunt Isobel's strong arm and keen eye, and over which it might succeed in dragging me any day, unless I could cure myself of my besetting sin.

I never denied it. It was a warning.



Chapter III.

Warnings -- My Aunt Isobel -- Mr. Rampant's Temper, And His Conscience.


I was not the only scarecrow held up before my own mind.

Nurse had a gallery of historical characters, whom she kept as beacons to warn our stormy passions of their fate. The hot-tempered boy who killed his brother when they were at school; the hot-tempered farmer who took his gun to frighten a trespasser, and ended by shooting him; the young lady who destroyed the priceless porcelain in a pet; the hasty young gentleman who kicked his favourite dog and broke its ribs; -- they were all warnings: so was old Mr. Rampant, so was my Aunt Isobel.

Aunt Isobel's story was a whispered tradition of the nursery for many years before she and I were so intimate, in consequence of her goodness and kindness to me, that one day I was bold enough to say to her, "Aunt Isobel, is it true that the reason why you never married is because you and he quarrelled, and you were very angry, and he went away, and he was drowned at sea?"

Child as I was, I do not think I should have been so indelicate as to have asked this question if I had not come to fancy that Nurse made out the story worse than it really was, for my behoof. Aunt Isobel was so cheerful and bright with us! -- and I was not at that time able to believe that any one could mend a broken heart with other people's interests so that the marks should show so little!

My aunt had a very clear skin, but in an instant her face was thick with a heavy blush, and she was silent. I marvelled that these were the only signs of displeasure she allowed herself to betray, for the question was no sooner out of my mouth than I wished it unsaid, and felt how furious she must naturally feel to hear that her sad and sacred story was bandied between servants and children as a nursery-tale with a moral to it.

But oh, Aunt Isobel! Aunt Isobel! you had at this time progressed far along that hard but glorious road of self-conquest which I had hardly found my way to.

"I beg your pardon," I began, before she spoke.

"You ought to," said my aunt -- she never spoke less than decisively -- "I thought you had more tact, Isobel, than to tell any one what servants have said of one's sins or sorrows behind one's back."

"I am very sorry," I repeated with shame; "but the thing is, I didn't believe it was true, you always seem so happy. I am very sorry."

"It is true," said Aunt Isobel. "Child, whilst we are speaking of it -- for the first and the last time -- let it be a warning for you to illustrate a very homely proverb: 'Don't cut off your nose to spite your own face.' Ill-tempered people are always doing it, and I did it to my life-long loss. I was angry with him, and like Jonah I said to myself, 'I do well to be angry.' And though I would die twenty deaths harder than the death he died to see his face for five minutes and be forgiven, I am not weak enough to warp my judgment with my misery. I was in the right, and he was in the wrong. But I forgot how much harder a position it is to be in the wrong than in the right in a quarrel. I did not think of how, instead of making the return path difficult to those who err, we ought to make it easy, as GOD does for us. I gave him no chance of unsaying with grace or credit what he could not fail to regret that he had said. Isobel, you have a clear head and a sharp tongue, as I have. You will understand when I say that I had the satisfaction of proving that I was in the right and he was in the wrong, and that I was firmly, conscientiously determined to make no concessions, no half-way advances, though our Father goes to meet His prodigals. Merciful Heaven! I had the satisfaction of parting myself for all these slow years from the most honest -- the tenderest-hearted -- "

My Aunt Isobel had overrated her strength. After a short and vain struggle in silence she got up and went slowly out of the room, resting her hand for an instant on my little knick-knack table by the door as she went out -- the only time I ever saw her lean upon anything.

*    *    *    *    *

Old Mr. Rampant was another of my "warnings." He -- to whose face no one dared hint that he could ever be in the wrong -- would have been more astonished than Aunt Isobel to learn how plainly -- nay, how contemptuously -- the servants spoke behind his back of his unbridled temper and its results. They knew that the only son was somewhere on the other side of the world, and that little Mrs. Rampant wept tears for him and sent money to him in secret, and they had no difficulty in deciding why: "He'd got his father's temper, and it stood to reason that he and the old gentleman couldn't put up their horses together." The moral was not obscure. From no lack of affection, but for want of self-control, the son was condemned to homelessness and hardships in his youth, and the father was sonless in his old age.

But that was not the point of Nurse's tales about Mr. Rampant which impressed me most, nor even the endless anecdotes of his unreasonable passions which leaked out at his back-door and came up our back-stairs to the nursery. They rather amused us. That assault on the butcher's boy, who brought ribs of beef instead of sirloin, for which he was summoned and fined; his throwing the dinner out of the window, and going to dine at the village inn -- by which the dogs ate the dinner and he had to pay for two dinners, and to buy new plates and dishes.

We laughed at these things, but in my serious moments, especially on the first Sunday of the month, I was haunted by something else which Nurse had told me about old Mr. Rampant.

In our small parish -- a dull village on the edge of a marsh -- the Holy Communion was only celebrated once a month. It was not because he was irreligious that old Mr. Rampant was one of the too numerous non-communicants. "It's his temper, poor gentleman," said Nurse. "He can't answer for himself, and he has that religious feeling he wouldn't like to come unless he was fit. The housekeeper overheard Mrs. Rampant a-begging of him last Christmas. It was no listening either, for he bellowed at her like a bull, and swore dreadful that whatever else he was he wouldn't be profane."

"Couldn't he keep his temper for a week, don't you think?" said I sadly, thinking of my mother's old copy of the Weeks Preparation for the Lord's Supper.

"It would be as bad if he got into one of his tantrums directly afterwards," said Nurse: "and with people pestering for Christmas-boxes, and the pudding and turkey, and so many things that might go wrong, it would be as likely as not he would. It's a sad thing too," she added, "for his neck's terribly short, and they say all his family have gone suddenly with the apoplexy. It's an awful thing, Miss Isobel, to be taken sudden -- and unprepared."

The awe of it came back on me every month when the fair white linen covered the rustiness of the old velvet altar-cloth which the marsh damps were rotting, and the silver vessels shone, and the village organist played out the non-communicants with a somewhat inappropriate triumphal march, and little Mrs. Rampant knelt on with buried face as we went out, and Mr. Rampant came out with us, looking more glum than usual, and with such a short neck!

Now I think poor Mr. Rampant was wrong, and that he ought to have gone with Mrs. Rampant to the Lord's Supper that Christmas. He might have found grace to have got through all the little ups and downs and domestic disturbances of a holiday season without being very ferocious; and if he had tried and failed I think GOD would have forgiven him. And he might -- it is possible that he might -- during that calm and solemn Communion, have forgiven his son as he felt that Our Father forgave him. So Aunt Isobel says; and I have good reason to think that she is likely to be right.

I think so too now, but then I was simply impressed by the thought that an ill-tempered person was, as Nurse expressed it, "unfit" to join in the highest religious worship. It is true that I was also impressed by her other saying, "It's an awful thing, Miss Isobel, to be taken sudden and unprepared;" but there was a temporary compromise in my own case. I could not be a communicant till I was confirmed.



Chapter IV.

Cases Of Conscience -- Ethics Of Ill-Temper.


Confirmations were not very frequent in our little village at this time. About once in three years the Bishop came to us. He came when I was twelve years old. Opinions were divided as to whether I was old enough, but I decided the matter by saying I would rather wait till the next opportunity.

"I may be more fit by that time," was my thought, and it was probably not unlike some of Mr. Rampant's self-communings.

The time came, and the Bishop also; I was fifteen.

I do not know why, but nobody had proposed that Philip should be confirmed at twelve years old. Fifteen was thought to be quite early enough for him, and so it came about that we were confirmed together.

I am very thankful that, as it happened, I had Aunt Isobel to talk to.

"You're relieved from one perplexity at any rate," said she, when I had been speaking of that family failing which was also mine. "You know your weak point. I remember a long talk I had, years ago, with Mrs. Rampant, whom I used to know very well when we were young. She said one of her great difficulties was not being able to find out her besetting sin. She said it always made her so miserable when clergymen preached on that subject, and said that every enlightened Christian must have discovered one master passion amongst the others of his soul. She had tried so hard, and could only find a lot, none much bigger or much less than the others. Some vanity, some selfishness, some distrust and weariness, some peevishness, some indolence, and a lapful of omissions. Since she married," continued my aunt, slowly pulling her thick black eyelashes, after a fashion she had, "I believe she has found the long-lost failing. It is impatience with Mr. Rampant, she thinks."

I could not help laughing.

"However, Isobel, we may be sure of this, people of soft, gentle temperaments have their own difficulties with their own souls which we escape. Perhaps in the absence of such marked vices as bring one to open shame one might be slower to undertake vigorous self-improvement. You and I have no difficulty in seeing the sin lying at our door."

"N -- no," said I.

"Well, have you?" said Aunt Isobel, facing round. "Bless me," she added impetuously, "don't say you haven't if you have. Never let any one else think for you, child!"

"If you'll only have patience and let me explain -- "

"I'm patience its very self!" interrupted my aunt, "but I do hate a No that means Yes."

My patience began to evaporate.

"There are some things, Aunt Isobel, you know, which can't be exactly squeezed into No and Yes. But if you don't want to be bothered I won't say anything, or I'll say yes or no, which ever you like."

And I kicked the shovel. (My aunt had shoved the poker with her slipper.) She drew her foot back and spoke very gently:

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Please say what you were going to say, and in your own way."

There is no doubt that good-humour -- like bad -- is infectious. I drew nearer to Aunt Isobel, and fingered the sleeve of her dress caressingly.

"You know, dear Aunt Isobel, that I should never think of saying to the Rector what I want to say to you. And I don't mean that I don't agree to whatever he tells us about right and wrong, but still I think if one can be quite convinced in the depths of one's own head, too, it's a good thing, as well as knowing that he must be right."

"Certainly," said Aunt Isobel.

"To begin with, I don't want you to think me any better than I am. When we were very very little, Philip and I used to spit at each other, and pull each other's hair out. I do not do nasty or unladylike things now when I am angry, but, Aunt Isobel, my 'besetting sin' is not conquered, it's only civilized."

"I quite agree with you," said Aunt Isobel; which rather annoyed me. I gulped this down, however, and went on:

"The sin of ill-temper, if it is a sin," I began. I paused, expecting an outburst, but Aunt Isobel sat quite composedly, and fingered her eyelashes.

"Of course the Rector would be horrified if I said such a thing at the confirmation-class," I continued, in a dissatisfied tone.

"Don't invent grievances, Isobel, for I see you have a real stumbling-block, when we can come to it. You are not at the confirmation-class, and I am not easily horrified."

"Well, there are two difficulties -- I explain very stupidly," said I with some sadness.

"We'll take them one at a time," replied Aunt Isobel with an exasperating blandness, which fortunately stimulated me to plain-speaking.

"Everybody says one ought to 'restrain' one's temper, but I'm not sure if I think one ought. Isn't it better to have things out? Look at Philip. He's going to be confirmed, and then he'll go back to school, and when he and another boy quarrel, they'll fight it out, and feel comfortable afterwards. Aunt Isobel, I can quite understand feeling friendly after you've had it out, even if you're the one who is beaten, if it has been a fair fight. Now restraining your temper means forcing yourself to be good outside, and feeling all the worse inside, and feeling it longer. There is that utterly stupid little schoolroom-maid, who is under my orders, that I may teach her. Aunt Isobel, you would not credit how often I tell her the same thing, and how politely she says 'Yes, miss!' and how invariably she doesn't do it after all. I say, 'You know I told you only yesterday. What is the use of my trying to teach you?' and all kinds of mild things like that; but really I quite hate her for giving me so much trouble and taking so little herself, and I wish I might discharge her. Now, if only it wasn't wrong to throw -- what are those things hot-tempered gentlemen always throw at their servants?"

"Don't ask me, my dear; ask Mr. Rampant."

"Oh, he throws everything. Bootjacks -- that's it. Now, if only I might throw a bootjack at her, it would waken her up, and be such a relief to my feelings, that I shouldn't feel half so unforgiving towards her all along. Then as to swearing, Aunt Isobel -- "

"Swearing!" ejaculated my aunt.

"Of course swearing is very wrong, and all profane-speaking but I do think it would be a help if there was some innocent kind of strong language to use when one feels strongly."

"If we didn't use up all our innocent strong language by calling things awful and horrible that have not an element of awe or horror in them, we should have some left for our great occasions," said Aunt Isobel.

"Perhaps," said I, "but that's not exactly what I mean. Now do you think it would be wrong to invent expletives that mean nothing bad? As if Mr. Rampant were to say, 'Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are my shooting-boots?' For you know I do think it would make him more comfortable to put it in that way, especially if he had been kept waiting for them."

I paused, and Aunt Isobel turned round.

"Let us carry your idea well forward, Isobel. Bootjacks and expletives would no doubt be a relief to the thrower when hurled at servants or some one who could not (or from principle would not) retaliate, and the angry feelings that propelled them might be shortened by 'letting off the steam,' so to speak. But imagine yourself to have thrown a bootjack at Philip to relieve your feelings, and Philip (to relieve his) flinging it back at you. This would only give fresh impetus to your indignation, and whatever you threw next would not be likely to soothe his."

"Please don't!" said I. "Aunt Isobel, I could never throw a hatchet again."

"You are bold to promise to stop short anywhere when relieving passionate feelings by indulgence has begun on two sides. And, my dear, matters are no better where the indulgence is in words instead of blows. In the very mean and undignified position of abusing those who cannot return your abuse it might answer; but 'innocent strong language' would cease to be of any good when it was returned. If to 'Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are my shooting-boots?' an equally violent voice from below replied, 'Bats and blackbeetles! look for them yourself!' some stronger vent for the steam of hot temper would have to be found, and words of any kind would soon cease to relieve the feelings. Isobel, I have had long and hard experience, and your ideas are not new ones to me. Believe me, child, the only real relief is in absolute conquest, and the earlier the battle begins, the easier and the shorter it will be. If one can keep irritability under, one may escape a struggle to the death with passion. I am not cramming principles down your throat -- I say as a matter of personal practice, that I do not know, and never hope to find a smoother or a shorter way. But I can say also -- after Victory comes Peace."

I gave a heavy sigh.

"Thank you, Aunt Isobel, I will try; but it makes my second difficulty all the worse. I can fancy that I might possibly learn self-control; I can fancy by main force holding my tongue, or compelling it to speak very slowly and civilly: but one can't force one's feelings. Aunt Isobel, if I had been very much insulted or provoked, I might keep on being civil for years on the outside, but how I should hate! You can't prevent yourself hating. People talk about 'forgive and forget.' If forgiving means doing no harm, and forgetting means behaving quite civilly, as if nothing had happened, one could. But of course it's nonsense to talk of making yourself really forget anything. And I think it's just as absurd to talk of making yourself forgive, if forgiveness means feeling really kindly and comfortable as you did before. The very case in which I am most sure you are right about self-control is one of the worst the other way. I ought to be ashamed to speak of it -- but I mean the hatchet-quarrel. If I had been very good instead of very wicked, and had restrained myself when Philip pulled all my work to pieces, and jeered at me for being miserable, I couldn't have loved him again as I did before. Forgive and forget! One would often be very glad to. I have often awoke in the morning and known that I had forgotten something disagreeable, and when it did come back I was sorry; but one's memory isn't made of slate, or one's heart either, that one can take a wet sponge and make it clean. Oh dear! I wonder why ill-tempered people are allowed to live! They ought to be smothered in their cradles."

Aunt Isobel was about to reply, but I interrupted her.

"Don't think me humble-minded, Aunt Isobel, for I'm not. Sometimes I feel inclined to think that ill-tempered people have more sense of justice and of the strict rights and wrongs of things -- at least if they are not very bad," I interpolated, thinking of Mr. Rampant -- "than people who can smile and look pleasant at everything and everybody like Lucy Lambent, who goes on calling me darling when I know I'm scowling like a horned-owl. Nurse says she's the 'sweetest tempered young lady she ever did know!' Aunt Isobel, what a muddle life is!"

"After some years of it," said my aunt, pulling her lashes hard, "I generally say, What a muddle my head is! Life is too much for it."

"I am quite willing to put it that way," sighed I, laying my muddle-head on the table, for I was tired. "It comes to much the same thing. Now -- there is my great difficulty! I give in about the other one, but you can't cure this, and the truth is, I am not fit to go to a confirmation-class, much less to the Holy Communion."

"Isobel," said my aunt, folding her hands on her lap, and bending her very thick brows on the fire, "I want you to clearly understand that I speak with great hesitation, and without any authority. I can do nothing for you but tell you what I have found myself in my struggles."

"Thank you a thousand times," said I, "that's what I want. You know I hear two sermons every Sunday, and I have a lot of good books. Mrs. Welment sends me a little book about ill-temper every Christmas. The last one was about saying a little hymn before you let yourself speak whenever you feel angry. Philip got hold of it, and made fun of it. He said it was like the recipe for catching a sparrow by putting salt on its tail, because if you were cool enough to say a hymn, there would then be no need for saying it. What do you think, Aunt Isobel?"

"My dear, I have long ago given up the idea that everybody's weak points can all be strengthened by one plaster. The hymn might be very useful in some cases, though I confess that it would not be in mine. But prayer is; and I find a form of prayer necessary. At the same time I have such an irritable taste, that there are very few forms of devotion that give me much help but the Prayer-Book collects and Jeremy Taylor. I do not know if you may find it useful to hear that in this struggle I sometimes find prayers more useful, if they are not too much to the sore point. A prayer about ill-temper might tend to make me cross, when the effort to join my spirit with the temptation-tried souls of all ages in a solemn prayer for the Church Universal would lift me out of the petty sphere of personal vexations, better than going into my grievances even piously. I speak merely of myself, mind."

"Thank you," I said. "But about what I said about hating. Aunt Isobel, did you ever change your feelings by force? Do you suppose anybody ever did?"

"I believe it is a great mistake to trouble one's self with the spiritual experiences of other people when one cannot fully know their circumstances, so I won't suppose at all. As to what I am sure of, Isobel, you know I speak the truth."

"Yes," said I; it would have been impertinence to say more.

"I have found that if one fights for good behaviour, GOD makes one a present of the good feelings. I believe you will find it so. Even when you were a child, if you had tried to be good, and had managed to control yourself, and had not thrown the hatchet, I am quite sure you would not have hated Philip for long. Perhaps you would have thought how much better Philip used to behave before your father and mother died, and a little elder-sisterly, motherly feeling would have mixed with your wrath at seeing him with his fat legs planted apart, and his shoulders up, the very picture of wilful naughtiness. Perhaps you might have thought you had repulsed him a little harshly when he wanted to help, as you were his chief playmate and twin sister."

"Please don't," said I. "How I wish I had! Indeed I don't know how I can ever speak of hating one of the others when there are so few of us, and we are orphans. But everybody isn't one's brother. And -- oh, Aunt Isobel, at the time one does get so wild, and hard, and twisted in one's heart!"

"I don't think it is possible to overrate the hardness of the first close struggle with any natural passion," said my aunt earnestly; "but indeed the easiness of after-steps is often quite beyond one's expectations. The free gift of grace with which GOD perfects our efforts may come in many ways, but I am convinced that it is the common experience of Christians that it does come."

"To every one, do you think?" said I. "I've no doubt it comes to you, Aunt Isobel, but then you are so good."

"For pity's sake don't say I am good," said my aunt, and she kicked down all the fire-irons; and then begged my pardon, and picked them up again.

We were silent for awhile. Aunt Isobel sat upright with her hands folded in her lap, and that look which her large eyes wear when she is trying to see all the sides of a question. They were dilated with a sorrowful earnestness when she spoke again.

"There may be some souls," she said, "whose brave and bitter lot it is to conquer comfortless. Perhaps some terrible inheritance of strong sin from the father is visited upon the son, and, only able to keep his purpose pure, he falls as fast as he struggles up, and still struggling falls again. Soft moments of peace with GOD and man may never come to him. He may feel himself viler than a thousand trumpery souls who could not have borne his trials for a day. Child, for you and for me is reserved no such cross and no such crown as theirs who falling still fight, and fighting fall, with their faces Zionwards, into the arms of the Everlasting Father. 'As one whom his mother comforteth' shall be the healing of their wounds."

There was a brisk knock at the door, and Philip burst in.

"Look here, Isobel, if you mean to be late for confirmation-class I'm not going to wait for you. I hate sneaking in with the benches all full, and old Bartram blinking and keeping your place in the catechism for you with his fat forefinger."

"I am very sorry, Philip dear," said I; "please go without me, and I'll come on as quickly as I can. Thank you very much for coming to remind me."

"There's no such awful hurry," said Philip in a mollified tone; "I'll wait for you down-stairs."

Which he did, whistling.

Aunt Isobel and I are not demonstrative, it does not suit us. She took hold of my arms, and I laid my head on her shoulder.

"Aunt Isobel, GOD help me, I will fight on to the very end."

"HE will help you," said Aunt Isobel.

I could not look at her face and doubt it. Oh, my weak soul, never doubt it more!



Chapter V.

Celestial Fire -- I Choose A Text.


We were confirmed.

As Aunt Isobel had said, I was spared perplexity by the unmistakable nature of my weakest point. There was no doubt as to what I should pray against and strive against. But on that day it seemed not only as if I could never give way to ill-temper again, but as if the trumpery causes of former outbreaks could never even tempt me to do so. As the lines of that ancient hymn to the Holy Ghost -- "Veni Creator" -- rolled on, I prayed humbly enough that my unworthy efforts might yet be crowned by the sevenfold gifts of the Spirit; but that a soul which sincerely longed to be "lightened with celestial fire" could be tempted to a common fit of sulks or scolding by the rub of nursery misdeeds and mischances, felt then so little likely as hardly to be worth deprecating on my knees.

And yet, when the service was over, the fatigue of the mental strain and of long kneeling and standing began to tell in a feeling that came sadly near to peevishness. I spent the rest of the day resolutely in my room and on my knees, hoping to keep up those high thoughts and emotions which had made me feel happy as well as good. And yet I all but utterly broke down into the most commonplace crossness because Philip did not do as I did, but romped noisily with the others, and teased me for looking grave at tea.

I just did not break down. So much remained alive of the "celestial fire," that I kept my temper behind my teeth. Long afterwards, when I learnt by accident that Philip's "good resolve" on the occasion had been that he would be kinder to "the little ones," I was very glad that I had not indulged my uncharitable impulse to lecture him on indifference to spiritual progress.

That evening Aunt Isobel gave me a new picture for my room. It was a fine print of the Crucifixion, for which I had often longed, a German woodcut in the powerful manner of Albert Dürer, after a design by Michael Angelo. It was neither too realistic nor too medieval, and the face was very noble. Aunt Isobel had had it framed, and below on an illuminated scroll was written -- "What are these wounds in Thine Hands? Those with which I was wounded in the house of My friends."

"I often think," she said, when we had hung it up and were looking at it, "that it is not in our Lord's Cross and Passion that His patience comes most home to us. To be patient before an unjust judge or brutal soldiers might be almost a part of self-respect; but patience with the daily disappointments of a life 'too good for this world,' as people say, patience with the follies, the unworthiness, the ingratitude of those one loves -- these things are our daily example. For wounds in the house of our enemies pride may be prepared; wounds in the house of our friends take human nature by surprise, and GOD only can teach us to bear them. And with all reverence I think that we may say that ours have an element of difficulty in which His were wanting. They are mixed with blame on our own parts."

"That is why you have put that text for me?" said I. My aunt nodded.

I was learning to illuminate, and I took much pride in my room. I determined to make a text for myself, and to choose a very plain passage about ill-temper. Mrs. Welment's books supplied me with plenty. I chose "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," but I resolved to have the complete text as it stands in the Bible. It seemed fair to allow myself to remember that anger is not always a sin, and I thought it useful to remind myself that if by obstinate ill-temper I got the victory in a quarrel, it was only because the devil had got the victory over me. So the text ran full length: -- "Be ye angry, and sin not; let not the sun go down upon your wrath: neither give place to the devil." It made a very long scroll, and I put it up over my window, and fastened it with drawing-pins.



Chapter VI.

Theatrical Properties -- I Prepare A Play -- Philip Begins To Prepare The Scenery -- A New Friend.


Philip was at school during the remainder of the year, but I tried to put my good resolves in practice with the children, and it made us a more peaceful household than usual. When Philip came home for the Christmas holidays we were certainly in very pleasant moods -- for an ill-tempered family.

Our friends allow that some quickness of wits accompanies the quickness of our tempers. From the days when we were very young our private theatricals have been famous in our own little neighbourhood. I was paramount in nursery mummeries, and in the children's charade parties of the district, for Philip was not very reliable when steady help was needed; but at school he became stage-manager of the theatricals there.

I do not know that he learned to act very much better than I, and I think Alice (who was only twelve) had twice the gift of either of us, but every half he came back more ingenious than before in matters for which we had neither the talent nor the tools. He glued together yards of canvas or calico, and produced scenes and drop-curtains which were ambitious and effective, though I thought him a little reckless both about good drawing and good clothes. His glue-kettles and size-pots were always steaming, his paint was on many and more inappropriate objects than the canvas. A shilling's-worth of gilding powder went such a long way that we had not only golden crowns and golden sceptres, and golden chains for our dungeon, and golden wings for our fairies, but the nursery furniture became irregularly and unintentionally gilded, as well as nurse's stuff dress, when she sat on a warrior's shield, which was drying in the rocking-chair.

But these were small matters. Philip gave us a wonderful account of the "properties" he had made for school theatricals. A dragon painted to the life, and with matches so fixed into the tip of him that the boy who acted as the life and soul of this ungainly carcase could wag a fiery tail before the amazed audience, by striking it on that particular scale of his dragon's skin which was made of sand-paper. Rabbit-skin masks, cotton-wool wigs and wigs of tow, seven-league boots, and witches' hats, thunder with a tea-tray, and all the phases of the moon with a moderator lamp -- with all these things Philip enriched the school theatre, though for some time he would not take so much trouble for our own.

But during this last half he had written me three letters -- and three very kind ones. In the latest he said that -- partly because he had been making some things for us, and partly because of changes in the school-theatrical affairs -- he should bring home with him a box of very valuable "properties" for our use at Christmas. He charged me at once to prepare a piece which should include a prince disguised as a woolly beast on two legs with large fore-paws (easily shaken off), a fairy godmother with a tow wig and the highest hat I could ever hope to see, a princess turned into a willow-tree (painted from memory of the old one at home), and with fine gnarls and knots, through which the princess could see everything, and prompt (if needful), a disconsolate parent, and a faithful attendant, to be acted by one person, with as many belated travellers as the same actor could personate into the bargain. These would all be eaten up by the dragon at the right wing, and re-enter more belated than ever at the left, without stopping longer than was required to roll a peal of thunder at the back. The fifth and last character was to be the dragon himself. The forest scene would be wanted, and I was to try and get an old cask for a cave.

I must explain that I was not expected to write a play. We never took the trouble to "learn parts." We generally took some story which pleased us out of Grimm's Fairy Tales or the Arabian Nights, and arranged for the various scenes. We each had a copy of the arrangement, and our proper characters were assigned to us. After this we did the dialogue as if it had been a charade. We were well accustomed to act together, and could trust each other and ourselves. Only Alice's brilliancy ever took us by surprise.

By the time that Philip came home I had got in the rough outline of the plot. He arrived with a box of properties, the mere size of which raised a cheer of welcome from the little ones, and red-hot for our theatricals.

Philip was a little apt to be red-hot over projects, and to cool before they were accomplished; but on this occasion we had no forebodings of such evil. Besides, he was to play the dragon! When he did fairly devote himself to anything, he grudged no trouble and hesitated at no undertakings. He was so much pleased with my plot and with the cave, that he announced that he should paint a new forest scene for the occasion. I tried to dissuade him. There were so many other things to be done, and the old scene was very good. But he had learnt several new tricks of the scene-painter's trade, and was bent upon putting them into practice. So he began his new scene, and I resolved to work all the harder at the odds and ends of our preparations. To be driven into a corner and pressed for time always stimulated instead of confusing me. I think the excitement of it is pleasant. Alice had the same dogged way of working at a crisis, and we felt quite confident of being able to finish up "at a push," whatever Philip might leave undone. The theatricals were to be on Twelfth Night.

Christmas passed very happily on the whole. I found my temper much oftener tried since Philip's return, but this was not only because he was very wilful and very fond of teasing, but because with the younger ones I was always deferred to.

One morning we were very busy in the nursery, which was our workshop. Philip's glue-pots and size-pots were steaming, there were coloured powders on every chair, Alice and I were laying a coat of invisible green over the cave-cask, and Philip, in radiant good-humour, was giving distance to his woodland glades in the most artful manner with powder-blue, and calling on us for approbation -- when the housemaid came in.

"It's not lunch-time?" cried Alice. "It can't be!"

"Get away, Mary," said Philip, "and tell cook if she puts on any more meals I'll paint her best cap pea-green. She's sending up luncheons and dinners all day long now: just because she knows we're busy."

Mary only laughed, and said, "It's a gentleman wants to see you, Master Philip," and she gave him a card. Philip read it, and we waited with some curiosity.

"It's a man I met in the train," said he, "a capital fellow. He lives in the town. His father's a doctor there. Granny must invite him to the theatricals. Ask him to come here, Mary, and show him the way."

"Oughtn't you to go and fetch him yourself?" said I.

"I can't leave this," said Philip. "He'll be all right. He's as friendly as possible."

I must say here that "Granny" was our maternal grandmother, with whom we lived. My mother and father were cousins, and Granny's husband was of that impetuous race to which we belonged. If he had been alive he would have kept us all in good order, no doubt. But he was dead, and Granny was the gentlest of old ladies: I fear she led a terrible life with us all!

Philip's friend came up-stairs. He was very friendly; in fact Alice and I thought him forward, but he was several years older than Philip, who seemed proud of the acquaintance. Perhaps Alice and I were biased by the fact that he spoilt our pleasant morning. He was one of those people who look at everything one has been working at with such unintelligent eyes that their indifference ought not to dishearten one; and yet it does.

"It's for our private theatricals," said Philip, as Mr. Clinton's amazed stare passed from our paint-covered selves to the new scene.

"My cousins in Dublin have private theatricals," said Mr. Clinton. "My uncle has built on a room for the theatre. All the fittings and scenes come from London, and the first costumiers in Dublin send in all the dresses and everything that is required on the afternoon before the performance."

"Oh, we're in a much smaller way," said Philip; "but I've some properties here that don't look bad by candlelight." But Mr. Clinton had come up to the cask, and was staring at it and us. I knew by the way Alice got quietly up, and shook some chips with a decided air out of her apron, that she did not like being stared at. But her movement only drew Mr. Clinton's especial attention.

"You'll catch it from your grandmamma for making such a mess of your clothes, won't you?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?" said Alice, with so perfect an air of not having heard him that he was about to repeat the question, when she left the nursery with the exact exit which she had made as a Discreet Princess repelling unwelcome advances in last year's play.

I was afraid of an outburst from Philip, and said in hasty civility, "This is a cave we are making."

"They'd a splendid cave at Covent Garden last Christmas," said Mr. Clinton. "It covered half the stage. An enormously tall man dressed in cloth of silver stood in the entrance, and waved a spear ten or twelve feet long over his head. A fairy was let down above that, so you may be sure the cave was pretty big."

"Oh, here's the dragon," said Philip, who had been rummaging in the property box. "He's got a fiery tail."

"They were quite the go in pantomimes a few years ago," said Mr. Clinton, yawning. "My uncle had two or three -- bigger than that, of course."

Philip saw that his friend was not interested in amateur property-making, and changed the subject.

"What have you been doing this morning?" said he.

"I drove here with my father, who had got to pass your gates. I say, there's splendid shooting on the marsh now. I want you to come out with me, and we'll pot a wild duck or two."

"I've no gun," said Philip, and to soften the statement added, "there's no one here to go out with."

"I'll go out with you. And I say, we could just catch the train back to the town, and if you'll come and lunch with us, we'll go out a bit this afternoon and look round. But you must get a gun."

"I should like some fresh air," said Philip, "and as you've come over for me -- "

I knew the appealing tone in his voice was for my ears, for my face had fallen.

"Could I be going on with it?" I asked, nodding towards the forest scene.

"Oh dear no! I'll go at it again to-night. It ought all to be painted by candlelight by rights. I'm not going to desert my post," he added.

"I hope not," said I as good-humouredly as I could; but dismay was in my heart.



Chapter VII.

A Quarrel -- Bobby Is Willing -- Exit Philip.


Philip came back by an evening train, and when he had had something to eat he came up to the nursery to go on with the scene. We had got everything ready for him, and he worked for about half-an-hour. But he was so sleepy, with cold air and exercise, that he did not paint well, and then he got impatient, and threw it up -- "till the morning."

In the morning he set to work, talking all the time about wild duck and teal, and the price of guns; but by the time he had put last night's blunders straight, the front door bell rang, and Mary announced "Mr. Clinton."

Philip was closeted in his room with his new friend till twelve o'clock. Then they went out into the yard, and finally Mr. Clinton stayed to luncheon. But I held my peace, and made Alice hold hers. Mr. Clinton went away in the afternoon, but Philip got the plate-powder and wash-leather, and occupied himself in polishing the silver fittings of his dressing-case.

"I think you might do that another time, Philip," said I; "you've not been half-an-hour at the properties to-day, and you could clean your bottles and things quite as well after the theatricals."

"As it happens I just couldn't," said Philip; "I've made a bargain, and bargains won't wait."

Alice and I screamed in one breath, "You're not going to give away the dressing-case!" -- for it had been my father's.

"I said a bargain" replied Philip, rubbing harder than ever; "you can't get hold of a gun every day Without paying down hard cash."

"I hate Mr. Clinton!" said Alice.

It was a very unfortunate speech, for it declared open war; and when this is done it cannot be undone. There is no taking back those sharp sayings which the family curse hangs on the tips of our tongues.

Philip and Alice exchanged them pretty freely. Philip called us selfish, inhospitable, and jealous. He said we grudged his enjoying himself in the holidays, when he had been working like a slave for us during the half. That we disliked his friend because he was his friend, and (not to omit the taunt of sex) that Clinton was too manly a fellow to please girls, etc., etc. In self-defence Alice was much more out-spoken about both Philip and Mr. Clinton than she had probably intended to be. That Philip began things hotly, and that his zeal cooled before they were accomplished -- that his imperiousness laid him open to flattery, and the necessity of playing first-fiddle betrayed him into second-rate friendships, which were thrown after the discarded hobbies -- that Mr. Clinton was ill-bred, and with that vulgarity of mind which would make him rather proud than ashamed of getting the best of a bargain with his friend -- these things were not the less taunts because they were true.

If the violent scenes which occur in ill-tempered families felt half as undignified and miserable as they look, surely they would be less common! I believe Philip and Alice would have come to blows if I had not joined with him to expel her from the room. I was not happy about it, for my sympathy was on her side of the quarrel, but she had been the one to declare war, and I could not control Philip. In short, it is often not easy to keep the peace and be just too, as I should like to have said to Aunt Isobel, if she had been at home. But she was to be away until the 6th.

Alice defeated, I took Philip seriously to task. Not about his friend -- the subject was too sore, and Alice had told him all that we thought, and rather more than we thought on that score -- but about the theatricals. I said if he really was tired of the business we would throw it up, and let our friends know that the proposed entertainment had fallen through, but that if he wanted it to go forward he must decide what help he would give, and then abide by his promise.

We came to terms. If I would let him have a day or two's fun with his gun, Philip promised to "spurt," as he called it, at the end. I told him we would be content if he would join in a "thorough rehearsal," the afternoon before, and devote himself to the business on the day of the performance.

"Real business, you know," I added, "with nobody but ourselves. Nobody coming in to interrupt."

"Of course," said Philip; "but I'll do more than that, Isobel. There's the scene -- "

"We'll finish the scene," said I, "if you don't aggravate Alice so that I lose her help as well as yours."

Alice was very sulky, which I could hardly wonder at, and I worked alone, except for Bobby, the only one with anything like a good temper among us, who roasted himself very patiently with my size-pot, and hammered bits of ivy, and of his fingers, rather neatly over the cave. But Alice was impulsive and kind-hearted. When I got a bad headache, from working too long, she came round, and helped me. Philip was always going to do so, but as a matter of fact he went out every day with the old fowling-piece for which he had given his dressing case.

When the ice bore Charles also deserted us, but Alice and I worked steadily on at dresses and scenery. And Bobby worked with us.

The 5th of January arrived, the day before the theatricals. Philip spent the morning in cleaning his gun, and after luncheon he brought it into the nursery to "finish" with a peculiarly aggravating air.

"When shall you be ready to rehearse?" I asked.

"Oh, presently," said Philip, "there's plenty of time yet. It's a great nuisance," he added, "I'll never have anything to do with theatricals again. They make a perfect slave of one."

"You've not slaved much, at any rate," said Charles.

"You'd better not give me any of your cheek," said Philip threateningly.

"We've done without him for a week, I don't know why we shouldn't do without him to-morrow," muttered Alice from the corner where she was sewing gold paper stars on to the Enchanted Prince's tunic.

"I wish you could," growled Philip, who took the suggestion more quietly than I expected; "anybody could do the Dragon, there's no acting in it!"

"I won't," said Charles, "Isobel gave me the Enchanted Prince or the Woolly Beast, and I shall stick to my part."

"Could I do the Dragon?" asked Bobby, releasing his hot face from the folds of an old blue cloak lined with red, in which he was rehearsing his walk as a belated wayfarer.

"Certainly not," said I, "you're the Bereaved Father and the Faithful Attendant to begin with, and I hope you won't muddle them. And you're Twelve Travellers as well, and the thunder, remember!"

"I don't care how many I do, if only I can," said Bobby, drawing his willing arm across his steaming forehead. "I should like to have a fiery tail."

"You can't devour yourself once -- let alone twelve times," said I sternly. "Don't be silly, Bob."

It was not Bob I was impatient with in reality, it was Philip.

"If you really mean to desert the theatricals after all you promised, I would much rather try to do without you," said I indignantly.

"Then you may!" retorted Philip. "I wash my hands of it and of the whole lot of you, and of every nursery entertainment henceforward!" and he got the fragments of his gun together with much clatter. But Charles had posted himself by the door to say his say, and to be ready to escape when he had said it.

"You're ashamed of it, that's it," said he; "you want to sit among the grown-ups with a spy-glass, now you've got Apothecary Clinton's son for a friend," -- and after this brief and insulting summary of the facts, Charles vanished. But Philip, white with anger, was too quick for him, and at the top of the back-stairs he dealt him such a heavy blow that Charles fell head-long down the first flight.

Alice and I flew to the rescue. I lived in dread of Philip really injuring Charles some day, for his blows were becoming serious ones as he grew taller and stronger, and his self-control did not seem to wax in proportion. And Charles's temper was becoming very aggressive. On this occasion, as soon as he had regained breath, and we found that no bones were broken, it was only by main force that we held him back from pursuing Philip.

"I'll hit him -- I'll stick to him," he sobbed in his fury, shaking his head like a terrier, and doubling his fists. But he was rather sick with the fall, and we made him lie down to recover himself, whilst Alice, Bobby, and I laid our heads together to plan a substitute for Philip in the Dragon.

When bed-time came, and Philip was still absent, we became uneasy, and as I lay sleepless that night I asked myself if I had been to blame for the sulks in which he had gone off. In fits of passion Philip had often threatened to go away and never let us hear of him again. I knew that such things did happen, and it made me unhappy when he went off like this, although his threats had hitherto been no more than a common and rather unfair device of ill-temper.



Chapter VIII.

I Hear From Philip -- A New Part Wanted -- I Lose My Temper -- We All Lose Our Tempers.


Next morning's post brought the following letter from Philip: -- 

"My Dear Isobel,

"You need not bother about the Dragon -- I'll do it. But I wish you would put another character into the piece. It is for Clinton. He says he will act with us. He says he can do anything if it is a leading part. He has got black velvet knickerbockers and scarlet stockings, and he can have the tunic and cloak I wore last year, and the flap hat; and you must lend him your white ostrich feather. Make him some kind of a grandee. If you can't, he must be the Prince, and Charles can do some of the Travellers. We are going out on the marsh this morning, but I shall be with you after luncheon, and Clinton in the evening. He does not want any rehearsing, only a copy of the plan. Let Alice make it, her writing is the clearest, and I wish she would make me a new one; I've torn mine, and it is so dirty, I shall never be able to read it inside the Dragon. Don't forget.

"Your affectionate brother,

"Philip."

There are limits to one's patience, and with some of us they are not very wide. Philip had passed the bounds of mine, and my natural indignation was heightened by a sort of revulsion from last night's anxiety on his account. His lordly indifference to other people's feelings was more irritating than the trouble he gave us by changing his mind.

"You won't let him take the Woolly Beast from me, Isobel?" cried Charles. "And you know you promised to lend me your ostrich plume."

"Certainly not," said I. "And you shall have the feather. I promised."

"If Mr. Clinton acts -- I shan't," said Alice.

"Mr. Clinton won't act," said I, "I can't alter the piece now. But I wish, Alice, you were not always so very ready to drive things into a quarrel."

"If we hadn't given way to Philip so much he wouldn't think we can bear anything," said Alice.

I could not but feel that there was some truth in this, and that it was a dilemma not provided against in Aunt Isobel's teaching, that one may be so obliging to those one lives with as to encourage, if not to teach them to be selfish.

Perhaps it would have been well if on the first day when Philip deserted us Alice and I, had spent the afternoon with Lucy Lambent, and if we had continued to amuse ourselves with our friends when Philip amused himself with his. We should then have been forced into a common decision as to whether the play should be given up, and, without reproaches or counter-reproaches, Philip would have learned that he could not leave all the work to us, and then arrange and disarrange the plot at his own pleasure, or rather, he would never have thought that he could. But a plan of this kind requires to be carried out with perfect coolness to be either justifiable or effective. And we have not a cool head amongst us.

One thing was clear. I ought to keep faith with the others who had worked when Philip would not. Charles should not be turned out of his part I rather hustled over the question of a new part for Mr. Clinton in my mind. I disliked him, and did not want to introduce him. I said to myself that it was quite unreasonable -- out of the question in fact -- and I prepared to say so to Philip.

Of course he was furious -- that I knew he would be; but I was firm.

"Charles can be the Old Father, and the Family Servant too," said he. "They're both good parts."

"Then give them to Mr. Clinton," said I, well knowing that he would not. "Charles has taken a great deal of pains with his part, and these are his holidays as well as yours, and the Prince shall not be taken from him."

"Well, I say it shall. And Charles may be uncommonly glad if I let him act at all after the way he behaved yesterday."

"The way you behaved, you, mean," said I -- for my temper was slipping from my grasp; -- "you might have broken his neck."

"All the more danger in his provoking me, and in your encouraging him."

I began to feel giddy, which is always a bad sign with us. It rang in my mind's ear that this was what came of being forbearing with a bully like Philip. But I still tried to speak quietly.

"If you think," said I through my teeth, "that I am going to let you knock the others about, and rough-ride it over our theatricals, you are mistaken."

"Your theatricals!" cried Philip, mimicking me. "I like that! Whom do the properties belong to, pray?"

"If it goes by buying," was my reply to this rather difficult question, "most of them belong to Granny, for the canvas and the paints and the stuff for the dresses, have gone down in the bills; and if it goes by work, I think we have done quite as much as you. And if some of the properties are yours, the play is mine. And as to the scene -- you did the distance in the middle of the wood, but Alice and I painted all the foreground."

"Then you may keep your foreground, and I'll take my distance," roared Philip, and in a moment his pocket-knife was open, and he had cut a hole a foot-and-a-half square in the centre of the Enchanted Forest, and Bobby's amazed face (he was running a tuck in his cloak behind the scenes) appeared through the aperture.

If a kind word would have saved the fruits of our week's hard labour, hot one of us would have spoken it. We sacrifice anything we possess in our ill-tempered family -- except our wills.

"And you may take your play, and I'll take my properties," continued Philip, gathering up hats, wigs, and what not from the costumes which Alice and I had arranged in neat groups ready for the green-room. "I'll give everything to Clinton this evening for his new theatre, and we'll see how you get on without the Fiery Dragon."

"Clinton can't want a fiery dragon when he's got you," said Charles, in a voice of mock compliment.

The Fairy Godmother's crabstick was in Philip's hand. He raised it, and flew at Charles, but I threw myself between them and caught Philip's arm.

"You shall not hit him," I cried.

Aunt Isobel is right about one thing. If one does mean to stop short in a quarrel one must begin at a very early stage. It is easier to smother one's feelings than to check one's words. By the time it comes to blows it is like trying to pull up a runaway horse. The first pinch Philip gave to my arm set my brain on fire. When he threw me heavily against the cave with a mocking laugh, and sprang after Charles, I could not have yielded an inch to him to save my life -- not to earn Fortunatus' purse, or three fairy wishes -- not to save whatever I most valued.

What would have induced me? I do not know, but I know that I am very glad it is not quite so easy to sell one's soul at one bargain as fairy-tales make out!

My struggle with Philip had given Charles time to escape. Philip could not find him, and rough as were the words with which he returned to me, I fancy they cost him some effort of self-control, and they betrayed to Alice's instinct and mine that he would have been glad to get out of the extremity to which our tempers had driven matters.

"Look here!" said he in a tone which would have been perfect if we had been acting a costermonger and his wife. "Are you going to make Clinton the Prince or not?"

"I am not," said I, nursing my elbow, which was cut by a nail on the cask. "I am not going to do anything whatever for Mr. Clinton, and I ought to be cured of working for you."

"You have lost an opening to make peace," said an inner voice. "You've given the yielding plan a fair trial, and it has failed," said self-justification -- the swiftest pleader I know. "There are some people, with self-satisfied, arbitrary tempers, upon whom gentleness is worse than wasted, because it misleads them. They have that remnant of savage notions which drives them to mistake generosity for weakness. The only way to convince them is to hit them harder than they hit you. And it is the kindest plan for everybody concerned."

I am bound to say -- though it rather confuses some of my ideas -- that experience has convinced me that this last statement is not without truth. But I am also bound to say that it was not really applicable to Philip. He is not as generous as Alice, but I had no good reason to believe that kindly concession would be wasted on him.

When I had flung my last defiance, Philip replied in violent words of a kind which girls in our class of life do not (happily!) use, even in a rage. They were partly drowned by the clatter with which he dragged his big box across the floor, and filled it with properties of all kinds, from the Dragon to the foot-light reflectors.

"I am going by the 4.15 to the town," said he, as he pulled the box out towards his own room. "You need not wait for either Clinton or me. Pray 'ring up' punctually!"

At this moment -- having fully realized the downfall of the theatricals -- Bobby burst into a howl of weeping. Alice scolded him for crying, and Charles reproached her for scolding him, on the score that her antipathy to Mr. Clinton had driven Philip to this extreme point of insult and ill-temper.

Charles's own conduct had been so far from soothing, that Alice had abundant material for retorts, and she was not likely to be a loser in the war of words. What she did say I did not hear, for by that time I had locked myself up in my own room.



Chapter IX.

Self-Reproach -- Family Discomfort -- Out On The Marsh -- Victory.


If I could have locked myself up anywhere else I should have preferred it. I would have justified my own part in the present family quarrel to Aunt Isobel herself, and yet I would rather not have been alone just now with the text I had made and pinned up, and with my new picture. However, there was nowhere else to go to.

A restless way I have of pacing up and down when I am in a rage, has often reminded me of the habits of the more ferocious of the wild beasts in the Zoological Gardens, and has not lessened my convictions on the subject of the family temper. For a few prowls up and down my den I managed to occupy my thoughts with fuming against Philip's behaviour, but as the first flush of anger began to cool, there was no keeping out of my head the painful reflections which the sight of my text, my picture, and my books suggested -- the miserable contrast between my good resolves and the result.

"It only shows," I muttered to myself, in a voice about as amiable as the growlings of a panther, "it only shows that it is quite hopeless. We're an ill-tempered family -- a hopelessly ill-tempered family; and to try to cure us is like patching the lungs of a consumptive family, I don't even wish that I could forgive Philip. He doesn't deserve it."

And then as I nursed the cut on my elbow, and recalled the long hours of work at the properties, the damaged scene, the rifling of the green-room, and Philip's desertion with the Dragon, his probable industry for Mr. Clinton's theatricals, and the way he had left us to face our own disappointed audience, fierce indignation got the upper hand once more.

"I don't care," I growled afresh; "if I have lost my temper, I believe I was right to lose it -- at least, that no one could have been expected not to lose it, I will never beg his pardon for it, let Aunt Isobel say what she will. I should hate him ever after if I did, for the injustice of the thing. Pardon, indeed!"

I turned at the top of the room and paced back towards the window, towards the long illuminated text, and that

" --  --  Noble face, So sweet and full of grace,"

which bent unchangeable from the emblem of suffering and self-sacrifice.

I have a trick of talking to myself and to inanimate objects. I addressed myself now to the text and the picture.

"But if I don't," I continued, "if after being confirmed with Philip in the autumn, we come to just one of our old catastrophes in the very next holidays, as bad as ever, and spiting each other to the last -- I shall take you all down to-morrow! I don't pretend to be able to persuade myself that black is white -- like Mrs. Rampant; but I am not a hypocrite, I won't ornament my room with texts, and crosses, and pictures, and symbols of Eternal Patience, when I do not even mean to try to sacrifice myself, or to be patient."

It is curious how one's faith and practice hang together. I felt very doubtful whether it was even desirable that I should. Whether we did not misunderstand GOD'S will, in thinking that it is well that people in the right should ever sacrifice themselves for those who are in the wrong. I did not however hide from myself, that to say this was to unsay all my resolves about my besetting sin. I decided to take down my texts, pictures, and books, and grimly thought that I would frame a fine photograph Charles had given me of a lioness, and would make a new inscription, the motto of the old Highland Clan Chattan -- with which our family is remotely connected -- "Touch not the cat but a glove."[1]

[Footnote 1: Anglicè "without a glove."]

"Put on your gloves next time, Master Philip!" I thought. "I shall make no more of these feeble attempts to keep in my claws, which only tempt you to irritate me beyond endurance. We're an ill-tempered family, and you're not the most amiable member of it. For my own part, I can control my temper when it is not running away with me, and be fairly kind to the little ones, so long as they do what I tell them. But, at a crisis like this, I can no more yield to your unreasonable wishes, stifle my just anger, apologize for a little wrong to you who owe apologies for a big one, and pave the way to peace with my own broken will, than the leopard can change his spots."

"And yet -- if I could!"

It broke from me almost like a cry, "If my besetting sin is a sin, if I have given way to it under provocation -- if this moment is the very hardest of the battle, and the day is almost lost -- and if now, even now, I could turn round and tread down this Satan under my feet. If this were to-morrow morning, and I had done it -- O my soul, what triumph, what satisfaction in past prayers, what hope for the future!

"Then thou shouldest believe the old legends of sinners numbered with the saints, of tyrants taught to be gentle, of the unholy learning to be pure -- for one believes with heartiness what he has experienced -- then text and picture and cross should hang on, in spite of frailty, and in this sign shalt thou conquer."

One ought to be very thankful for the blessings of good health and strong nerves, but I sometimes wish I could cry more easily. I should not like to be like poor Mrs. Rampant, whose head or back is always aching, and whose nerves make me think of the strings of an AEolian harp, on which Mr. Rampant, like rude Boreas, is perpetually playing with the tones of his voice, the creak of his boots, and the bang of his doors. But her tears do relieve, if they exhaust her, and back-ache cannot be as bad as heart-ache -- hot, dry heart-ache, or cold, hard heart-ache. I think if I could have cried I could have felt softer. As it was I began to wish that I could do what I felt sure that I could not.

If I dragged myself to Philip, and got out a few conciliatory words, I should break down in a worse fury than before if he sneered or rode the high horse, "as he probably would," thought I.

On my little carved Prayer-book shelf lay with other volumes a copy of À Kempis, which had belonged to my mother. Honesty had already whispered that if I deliberately gave up the fight with evil this must be banished with my texts and pictures. At the present moment a familiar passage came into my head:

"When one that was in great anxiety of mind, often wavering between fear and hope, did once humbly prostrate himself in prayer, and said, 'O if I knew that I should persevere!' he presently heard within him an answer from GOD, which said, 'If thou didst know it, what would'st thou do? Do what thou would'st do then, and thou shalt be safe.'"

Supposing I began to do right, and trusted the rest? I could try to speak to Philip, and it would be something even if I stopped short and ran away. Or if I could not drag my feet to him, I could take Aunt Isobel's advice, and pray. I might not be able to speak civilly to Philip, or even to pray about him in my present state of mental confusion, but I could repeat some prayer reverently. Would it not be better to start on the right road, even if I fell by the way?

I crossed the room in three strides to the place where I usually say my prayers. I knelt, and folded my hands, and shut my eyes, and began to recite the Te Deum in my head, trying to attend to it. I did attend pretty well, but it was mere attention, till I felt slightly softened at the verse -- "Make them to be numbered with Thy saints in glory everlasting." For my young mother was very good, and I always think of her when the choir comes to that verse on Sundays.

"Vouchsafe, O Lord, to keep us this day without sin." "It's too late to ask that," thought I, with that half of my brain which was not attending to the words of the Te Deum, "and yet there is a little bit of the day left which will be dedicated either to good or evil."

I prayed the rest, "O Lord, have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us. O Lord, let Thy mercy lighten upon us, as our trust is in Thee. O Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded!" and with the last verse there came from my heart a very passion of desire for strength to do the will of GOD at the sacrifice of my own. I flung myself on the floor with inarticulate prayers that were very fully to the point now, and they summed themselves up again in the old words, "In Thee, O Lord, have I trusted, let me never be confounded!"

When I raised my head I caught sight of the picture, and for an instant felt a superstitious thrill. The finely drawn face shone with a crimson glow. But in a moment more I saw the cause, and exclaimed -- "The sun is setting! I must speak to Philip before it goes down."

What should I say? Somehow, now, my judgment felt very clear and decisive. I would not pretend that he had been in the right, but I would acknowledge where I had been in the wrong. I had been disobliging about Mr. Clinton, and I would say so, and offer to repair that matter. I would regret having lost my temper, and say nothing about his. I would not offer to deprive Charles of his part, or break my promise of the white feather; but I would make a new part for Mr. Clinton, and he should be quite welcome to any finery in my possession except Charles's plume. This concession was no difficulty to me. Bad as our tempers are, I am thankful to say they are not mean ones. If I dressed out Mr. Clinton at all, it would come natural to do it liberally. I would do all this -- if I could. I might break down into passion at the mere sight of Philip and the properties, but at least I would begin "as if I knew I should persevere."

At this moment the front door was shut with a bang which shook the house.

It was Philip going to catch the 4.15. I bit my lips, and began to pull on my boots, watching the red sun as it sank over the waste of marshland which I could see from my window. I must try to overtake him, but I could run well, and I suspected that he would not walk fast. I did not believe that he was really pleased at the break-up of our plans and the prospect of a public exposure of our squabbles, though as a family we are always willing to make fools of ourselves rather than conciliate each other.

My things were soon on, and I hurried from my room. In the window-seat of the corridor was Alice. The sight of her reproached me. She slept in my room, but I jealously retained full power over it, and when I locked myself in she dared not disturb me.

"I'm afraid you've been wanting to come in," said I. "Do go in now."

"Thank you," said Alice, "I've nowhere to go to." Then tightening her lips, she added, "Philip's gone."

"I know," said I. "I'm going to try and get him back." Alice stared in amazement.

"You always do spoil Philip, because he's your twin," she said, at last; "you wouldn't do it for me."

"Oh, Alice, you don't know. I'd much rather do it for you, girls are so much less aggravating than boys. But don't try and make it harder for me to make peace."

"I beg your pardon, Isobel. If you do, you're an angel. I couldn't, to save my life."

At the head of the stairs I met Charles.

"He's gone," said he significantly, and bestriding the balustrades, he shot to the foot. When I reached him he was pinching the biceps muscle of his arm.

"Feel, Isobel," said he, "It's hard, isn't it?"

"Very, Charles, but I'm in a hurry."

"Look here," he continued, with an ugly expression on his face, "I'm going into training. I'm going to eat bits of raw mutton, and dumb-bell. Wait a year, wait half a year, and I shall be able to thrash him. I'll make him remember these theatricals. I don't forget. I haven't forgot his bursting my football out of spite."

It is not pleasant to see one's own sins reflected on other faces. I could not speak.

By the front door was Bobby. He was by way of looking out of the portico window, but his swollen eyes could not possibly have seen anything.

"Oh, Isobel, Isobel!" he sobbed, "Philip's gone, and taken the D -- d -- d -- dragon with him, and we're all m -- m -- m -- miserable."

"Don't cry, Bobby," said I, kissing him. "Finish your cloak, and be doing anything you can. I'm going to try and bring Philip back."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Isobel! If only he'll come back I don't care what I do. Or I'll give up my parts if he wants them, and be a scene-shifter, if you'll lend me your carpet-slippers, and make me a paper cap."

"GOD has given you a very sweet temper, Bobby," said I, solemnly. "I wish I had one like it."

"You're as good as gold," said Bobby. His loving hug added strength to my resolutions, and I ran across the garden and jumped the ha-ha, and followed Philip over the marsh. I do not know whether he heard my steps when I came nearly up with him, but I fancy his pace slackened. Not that he looked round. He was much too sulky.

Philip is a very good-looking boy, much handsomer than I am, though we are alike. But the family curse disfigures his face when he is cross more than any one's, and the back view of him is almost worse than the front. His shoulders get so humped up, and his whole figure is stiff with cross-grained obstinacy.

"I shall never hold out if he speaks as ungraciously as he looks," thought I in despair. "But I'll not give in till I can hold out no longer."

"Philip!" I said. He turned round, and his face was no prettier to look at than his shoulders.

"What do you want?" (in the costermonger tone.)

"I want you to come back, Philip" -- (here I choked).

"I dare say," he sneered, "and you want the properties! But you've got your play, and your amiable Charles, and your talented Alice, and your ubiquitous Bobby. And the audience will be entertained with an unexpected after-piece entitled -- 'The disobliging disobliged.'"

Oh it was hard! I think if I had looked at Philip's face I must have broken down, but I kept my eyes steadily on the crimson sun, which loomed large through the marsh mists that lay upon the horizon, as I answered with justifiable vehemence:

"I have a very bad temper, Philip" (I checked the disposition to add -- "and so have you"), "but I never tell a lie. I have not come after the properties. The only reason for which I have come is to try and make peace." At this point I gathered up all my strength and hurried on, staring at the sun till the bushes near us and the level waste of marsh beyond seemed to vanish in the glow. "I came to say that I am sorry for my share of the quarrel. I lost my temper, and I beg your pardon for that. I was not very obliging about Mr. Clinton, but you had tried me very much. However, what you did wrong, does not excuse me, I know, and if you like to come back, I'll make a new part as you wanted. I can't give him Charles's part, or the feather, but anything I can do, or give up of my own, I will. It's not because of to-night, for you know as well as I do that I do not care twopence what happens when I'm angry, and, after all, we can only say that you've taken the things. But I wanted us to get through these holidays without quarrelling, and I wanted you to enjoy them, and I want to try and be good to you, for you are my twin brother, and for my share of the quarrel I beg your pardon -- I can do no more."

Some of this speech had been about as pleasant to say as eating cinders, and when it was done I felt a sudden sensation (very rare with me) of unendurable fatigue. As the last words left my lips the sun set, but my eyes were so bedazzled that I am not sure that I should not have fallen, but for an unexpected support. What Philip had been thinking of during my speech I do not know, for I had avoided looking at him, but when it was done he threw the properties out of his arms, and flung them around me with the hug of a Polar bear.

"You ill-tempered!" he roared. "You've the temper of an angel, or you would never have come after me like this. Isobel, I am a brute, I have behaved like a brute all the week, and I beg your pardon."

I retract my wishes about crying, for when I do begin, I cry in such a very disagreeable way -- no spring shower, but a perfect tempest of tears. Philip's unexpected generosity upset me, and I sobbed till I frightened him, and he said I was hysterical. The absurdity of this idea set me off into fits of laughing, which, oddly enough, seemed to distress him so much that I stopped at last, and found breath to say, "Then you'll come home?"

"If you'll have me. And never mind about Clinton, I'll get out of it. The truth is, Isobel, you and Alice did snub him from the first, and that vexed me; but I am disappointed in him. He does brag so, and I've had to take that fowling-piece to the gunsmith's already, so I know what it's worth. I did give Clinton a hint about it, and -- would you believe it? -- he laughed, and said he thought he had got the best of that bargain. I said, 'I hope you have, if it isn't an even one, for I should be very sorry to think I had cheated a friend!' But he either did not or wouldn't see it. He's a second-rate sort of fellow, I'm sure, and I'm sorry I promised to let him act. But I'll get out of it, you shan't be bothered by him."

"No, no," said I, "if you promised I'd much rather. It won't bother me at all."

(It is certainly a much pleasanter kind of dispute when the struggle is to give, and not to take!)

"You can't fit him in now?" said Philip doubtfully.

"Oh yes, I can." I felt sure that I could. I have often been short of temper for our amusements, but never of ideas. Philip tucked the properties under one arm, and me under the other, and as we ran homewards over the marsh, I threaded Mr. Clinton into the plot with perfect ease.

"We'll have a second Prince, and he shall have an enchanted shield, which shall protect him from you -- though he can't kill you -- for Charles must do that. He shall be in love with the Princess too, but just when he and Charles are going to fight for her, the Fairy Godmother shall sprinkle him with the Waters of Memory, and break a spell which had made him forget his own Princess in a distant land. You know, Philip, if he does act well, he may make a capital part of it. It will be a splendid scene. We have two real metal swords, and as they are flashing in the air -- enter the Fairy with the carved claret jug. When he is sprinkled he must drop his sword, and put his hands to his head. He will recall the picture of his own Princess, and draw it out and kiss it (I can lend him my locket miniature of great-grandpapa). Charles and he must swear eternal friendship, and then he will pick up his sword, and exit right centre, waving the golden shield, to find his Princess. It will look very well, and as he goes out the Princess can enter left in distraction about the combat, and she and Charles can fall in each other's arms, and be blessed by the Fairy."

"Capital!" said Philip. "What a head you have! But you're out of breath? We're running too fast."

"Not a bit," said I, "it refreshes me. Do you remember when you and I used to run hand in hand from the top to the bottom of Breakneck Hill? Oh, Philip, I do wish we could never quarrel any more! I think we might keep our tempers if we tried."

"You might," said Philip, "because you are good. But I shall always be a brute."

(Just what I said to Aunt Isobel! Must every one learn his own lessons for himself? I had a sort of unreasonable feeling that my experience ought to serve for the rest of our ill-tempered family into the bargain.)

Philip's spirits rose higher and higher. Of course he was delighted to be out of the scrape. I am sure he was glad to be friendly again, and he was hotter than ever for the theatricals.

So was I. I felt certain that they would be successful now. But far above and beyond the comfort of things "coming right," and the pleasure of anticipated fun, my heart was rocked to a higher peace. In my small religious experiences I had never known this triumph, this thankfulness before. Circumstances, not self-control, had helped me out of previous quarrels; I had never really done battle, and gained a conquest over my besetting sin. Now, however imperfectly and awkwardly, I yet had fought. If Philip had been less generous I might have failed, but the effort had been real -- and it had been successful. Henceforth my soul should fight with the prestige of victory, with the courage that comes of having striven and won, trusted and not been confounded.

The first person we met after we got in was Aunt Isobel. She had arrived in our absence. No doubt she had heard the whole affair, but she is very good, and never gauche and she only said -- 

"Here come the stage-managers! Now what can I do to help? I have had some tea, and am ready to obey orders till the curtain rings up."

Boys do not carry things off well. Philip got very red, but I said -- "Oh, please come to the nursery, Aunt Isobel. There are lots of things to do." She came, and was invaluable. I never said anything about the row to her, and she never said anything to me. That is what I call a friend!

The first thing Philip did was to unlock the property-box in his room and bring the Dragon and things back. The second thing he did was to mend the new scene by replacing the bit he had cut out, glueing canvas on behind it, and touching up with paint where it joined.

We soon put straight what had been disarranged. Blinds were drawn, candles lighted, seats fixed, and the theatre began to look like itself. Aunt Isobel and I were bringing in the footlights, when we saw Bobby at the extreme right of the stage wrapped in his cloak, and contemplating, with apparent satisfaction, twelve old hats and six pasteboard bandboxes which were spread before him.

"My dear Bobby, what are these?" said Aunt Isobel. Bobby hastily -- almost stammeringly -- explained,

"I am Twelve Travellers, you know, Aunt Isobel."

"Dear me!" said Aunt Isobel.

"I'll show you how I am going to do it," said Bobby.

"Here are twelve old hats -- I have had such work to collect them! -- and six bandboxes."

"Only six?" said Aunt Isobel with commendable gravity.

"But there are the lids," said Bobby; "six of them, and six boxes, make twelve, you know. I've only one cloak, but it's red on one side and blue on the other, and two kinds of buttons. Well; I come on left for the First Traveller, with my cloak the red side out, and this white chimney-pot hat."

"Ah!" said Aunt Isobel.

"And one of the bandboxes under my cloak. The Dragon attacks me in the centre, and drives me off the right, where I smash up the bandbox, which sounds like him crunching my bones. Then I roll the thunder, turn my cloak to the blue side, put on this wideawake, and come on again with a bandbox lid and crunch that, and roll more thunder, and so on. I'm the Faithful Attendant and the Bereaved Father as well," added Bobby, with justifiable pride, "and I would have done the Dragon if they would have let me."

But even Bobby did not outdo the rest of us in willingness. Alice's efforts were obvious tokens of remorse; she waited on Philip, was attentive to Mr. Clinton (who, I think, to this day believes that he made himself especially acceptable to "the young ladies"), and surpassed herself on the stage. Charles does not "come round" so quickly, but at the last moment he came and offered to yield the white plume. I confess I was rather vexed with Mr. Clinton for accepting it, but Alice and I despoiled our best hats of their black ostrich feathers to make it up to Charles, and he said, with some dignity, that he should never have offered the white one if he had not meant it to be accepted.

One thing took us by surprise. We had had more trouble over the dressing of the new Prince than the costumes and make-up of all the rest of the characters together cost -- he was only just torn from the big looking-glass by his "call" to the stage, and, to our amazement, he seemed decidedly unwilling to go on.

"It's a very odd thing, Miss Alice," said he in accents so pitiable that I did not wonder that Alice did her best to encourage him, -- "it's a most extraordinary thing, but I feel quite nervous."

"You'll be all right when you're once on," said Alice; "mind you don't forget that it depends on you to explain that it's an invincible shield."

"Which arm had I better wear it on?" said Mr. Clinton, shifting it nervously from side to side.

"The left, the left!" cried Alice. "Now you ought to be on."

"Oh what shall I say?" cried our new hero.

"Say -- 'Devastating Monster! my arm is mortal, and my sword was forged by human fingers, but this shield is invincible as  --  -- '"

"Second Prince," called Charles impatiently, and Mr. Clinton was hustled on.

He was greeted with loud applause. He said afterwards that this put his part out of his head, that Alice had told him wrong, and that the shield was too small for him.

As a matter of fact he hammered and stammered and got himself and the piece into such confusion, that Philip lost patience as he lay awaiting his cue. With a fierce bellow he emerged from his cask, and roaring, "Avaunt, knight of the invincible shield and craven heart!" he crossed the stage with the full clatter of his canvas joints, and chased Mr. Clinton off at the left centre.

Once behind the scenes, he refused to go on again. He said that he had never played without a proper part at his uncle's in Dublin, and thought our plan quite a mistake. Besides which, he had got toothache, and preferred to join the audience, which he did, and the play went on without him.

I was acting as stage-manager in the intervals of my part, when I noticed Mr. Clinton (not the ex-Prince, but his father, the surgeon) get up, and hastily leave his place among the spectators. But just as I was wondering at this, I was recalled to business by delay on the part of Bobby, who ought to have been on (with the lights down) as the Twelfth Traveller.

I found him at the left wing, with all the twelve hats fitted one over another, the whole pile resting on a chair.

"Bob, what are you after? You ought to be on."

"All right," said Bob, "Philip knows. He's lashing his tail and doing some business till I'm ready. Help me to put this cushion under my cloak for a hump-back, will you? I didn't like the twelfth hat, it's too like the third one, so I'm going on as a Jew Pedlar. Give me that box. Now!" And before I could speak a roar of applause had greeted Bobby as he limped on in his twelve hats, crying, "Oh tear, oh tear! dish ish the tarkest night I ever shaw."

But either we acted unusually well, or our audience was exceptionally kind, for it applauded everything and everybody till the curtain fell.

*    *    *    *    *

"Behind the scenes" is always a place of confusion after amateur theatricals; at least it used to be with us. We ran hither and thither, lost our every-day shoes, washed the paint from our faces, and mislaid any number of towels, and combs, and brushes, ate supper by snatches, congratulated ourselves on a successful evening, and were kissed all around by Granny, who came behind the scenes for the purpose.

All was over, and the guests were gone, when I gave an invitation to the others to come and make lemon-brew over my bedroom fire as an appropriate concluding festivity. (It had been suggested by Bobby.) I had not seen Philip for some time, but we were all astonished to hear that he had gone out. We kept his "brew" hot for him, and Charles and Bobby were both nodding -- though they stoutly refused to go to bed, -- when his step sounded in the corridor, and he knocked and came hastily in.

Everybody roused up.

"Oh, Philip, we've been wondering where you were! Here's your brew, and we've each kept a little drop, to drink your good health."

("Mine is all pips," observed Bobby as a parenthesis.) But Philip was evidently thinking of something else.

"Isobel," he said, standing by the table, as if he were making a speech, "I shall never forget your coming after me to-day. I told you you had the temper of an angel."

"So did I," said Alice.

"Hear! hear!" said Bobby, who was sucking his pips one by one and laying them by -- "to plant in a pot," as he afterwards explained.

"You not only saved the theatricals," continued Philip, "you saved my life I believe."

No "situation" in the play had been half so startling as this. We remained open-mouthed and silent, whilst Philip sat down as if he were tired, and rested his head on his hands, which were dirty, and stained with something red.

"Haven't you heard about the accident?" he asked.

We all said "No."

"The 4.15 ran into the express where the lines cross, you know. Isobel, there were only two first-class carriages, and everybody in them was killed but one man. They have taken both his legs off, and he's not expected to live. Oh, poor fellow, he did groan so!"

Bobby burst into passionate tears, and Philip buried his head on his arms.

Neither Alice nor I could speak, but Charles got up and went round and stood by Philip.

"You've been helping," he said emphatically, "I know you have. You're a good fellow, Philip, and I beg your pardon for saucing you. I am going to forget about the football too. I was going to have eaten raw meat, and dumb-belled, to make myself strong enough to thrash you," added Charles remorsefully.

"Eat a butcher's shop full, if you like," replied Philip with contempt. And I think it showed that Charles was beginning to practise forbearance, that he made no reply.

*    *    *    *    *

Some years have passed since those Twelfth Night theatricals. The Dragon has long been dissolved into his component scales, and we never have impromptu performances now. The passing fame which a terrible railway accident gave to our insignificant station has also faded. But it set a seal on our good resolutions which I may honestly say has not been lightly broken.

There, on the very spot where I had almost resolved never to forgive Philip, never to try to heal the miserable wounds of the family peace, I learned the news of the accident in which he might have been killed. Philip says that if anything could make him behave better to me it is the thought that I saved his life, as he calls it. But if anything could help me to be good to him, surely it must be the remembrance of how nearly I did not save him.

I put Alice on an equality in our bedroom that night, and gave her part-ownership of the text and the picture. We are very happy together.

We have all tried to improve, and I think I may say we have been fairly successful.

More than once I have heard (one does hear many things people say behind one's back) that new acquaintances -- people who have only known us lately -- have expressed astonishment, not unmixed with a generous indignation, on hearing that we were ever described by our friends as -- A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY.



Our Field.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be.

*    *    *    *    *

And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Think not of any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

*    *    *    *    *

Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears: To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Wordsworth.



Our Field


There were four of us, and three of us had godfathers and godmothers. Three each. Three times three make nine, and not a fairy godmother in the lot. That was what vexed us.

It was very provoking, because we knew so well what we wanted if we had one, and she had given us three wishes each. Three times three make nine. We could have got all we wanted out of nine wishes, and have provided for Perronet into the bargain. It would not have been any good Perronet having wishes all to himself, because he was only a dog.

We never knew who it was that drowned Perronet, but it was Sandy who saved his life and brought him home. It was when he was coming home from school, and he brought Perronet with him. Perronet was not at all nice to look at when we first saw him, though we were very sorry for him. He was wet all over, and his eyes shut, and you could see his ribs, and he looked quite dark and sticky. But when he dried, he dried a lovely yellow, with two black ears like velvet. People sometimes asked us what kind of dog he was, but we never knew, except that he was the nicest possible kind.

When we had got him, we were afraid we were not going to be allowed to have him. Mother said we could not afford him, because of the tax and his keep. The tax was five shillings, but there wanted nearly a year to the time of paying it. Of course his keep began as soon as he could eat, and that was the very same evening. We were all very miserable, because we were so fond of Perronet -- at least, Perronet was not his name then, but he was the same person -- and at last it was settled that all three of us would give up sugar, towards saving the expense of his keep, if he might stay. It was hardest for Sandy, because he was particularly fond of sweet things; but then he was particularly fond of Perronet. So we all gave up sugar, and Perronet was allowed to remain.

About the tax, we thought we could save any pennies or half-pennies we got during the year, and it was such a long time to the time for paying, that we should be almost sure to have enough by then. We had not any money at the time, or we should have bought a savings-box; but lots of people save their money in stockings, and we settled that we would. An old stocking would not do, because of the holes, and I had not many good pairs; but we took one of my winter ones to use in the summer, and then we thought we could pour the money into one of my good summer ones when the winter came.

What we most of all wanted a fairy godmother for was about our "homes." There was no kind of play we liked better than playing at houses and new homes. But no matter where we made our "home," it was sure to be disturbed. If it was indoors, and we made a palace under the big table, as soon as ever we had got it nicely divided into rooms according to where the legs came, it was certain to be dinner-time, and people put their feet into it. The nicest house we ever had was in the out-house; we had it, and kept it quite a secret, for weeks. And then the new load of wood came and covered up everything, our best oyster-shell dinner-service and all.

Any one can see that it is impossible really to fancy anything when you are constantly interrupted. You can't have any fun out of a railway train stopping at stations, when they take all your carriages to pieces because the chairs are wanted for tea; any more than you can play properly at Grace Darling in a life-boat, when they say the old cradle is too good to be knocked about in that way.

It was always the same. If we wanted to play at Thames Tunnel under the beds, we were not allowed; and the day we did Aladdin in the store-closet, old Jane came and would put away the soap, just when Aladdin could not possibly have got the door of the cave open.

It was one day early in May -- a very hot day for the time of year, which had made us rather cross -- when Sandy came in about four o'clock, smiling more broadly even than usual, and said to Richard and me, "I've got a fairy godmother, and she's given us a field."

Sandy was very fond of eating, especially sweet things. He used to keep back things from meals to enjoy afterwards, and he almost always had a piece of cake in his pocket. He brought a piece out now, and took a large mouthful, laughing at us with his eyes over the top of it.

"What's the good of a field?" said Richard.

"Splendid houses in it," said Sandy.

"I'm quite tired of fancying homes," said I. "It's no good; we always get turned out."

"It's quite a new place," Sandy continued; "you've never been there," and he took a triumphant bite of the cake.

"How did you get there?" asked Richard.

"The fairy godmother showed me," was Sandy's reply.

There is such a thing as nursery honour. We respected each other's pretendings unless we were very cross, but I didn't disbelieve in his fairy godmother. I only said, "You shouldn't talk with your mouth full," to snub him for making a secret about his field.

Sandy is very good-tempered. He only laughed and said, "Come along. It's much cooler out now. The sun's going down."

He took us along Gipsy Lane. We had been there once or twice, for walks, but not very often, for there was some horrid story about it which rather frightened us. I do not know what it was, but it was a horrid one. Still we had been there, and I knew it quite well. At the end of it there is a stile, by which you go into a field, and at the other end you get over another stile, and find yourself in the high road.

"If this is our field, Sandy," said I, when we got to the first stile, "I'm very sorry, but it really won't do. I know that lots of people come through it. We should never be quiet here."

Sandy laughed. He didn't speak, and he didn't get over the stile; he went through a gate close by it leading into a little sort of bye-lane that was all mud in winter and hard cart-ruts in summer. I had never been up it, but I had seen hay and that sort of thing go in and come out of it.

He went on and we followed him. The ruts were very disagreeable to walk on, but presently he led us through a hole in the hedge, and we got into a field. It was a very bare-looking field, and went rather uphill. There was no path, but Sandy walked away up it, and we went after him. There was another hedge at the top, and a stile in it. It had very rough posts, one much longer than the other, and the cross step was gone, but there were two rails, and we all climbed over. And when we got to the other side, Sandy leaned against the big post and gave a wave with his right hand and said, "This is our field."

It sloped down hill, and the hedges round it were rather high, with awkward branches of blackthorn sticking out here and there without any leaves, and with the blossom lying white on the black twigs like snow. There were cowslips all over the field, but they were thicker at the lower end, which was damp. The great heat of the day was over. The sun shone still, but it shone low down and made such splendid shadows that we all walked about with grey giants at our feet; and it made the bright green of the grass, and the cowslips down below, and the top of the hedge, and Sandy's hair, and everything in the sun and the mist behind the elder bush which was out of the sun, so yellow -- so very yellow -- that just for a minute I really believed about Sandy's godmother, and thought it was a story come true, and that everything was turning into gold.

But it was only for a minute; of course I know that fairy tales are not true. But it was a lovely field, and when we had put our hands to our eyes and had a good look at it, I said to Sandy, "I beg your pardon, Sandy, for telling you not to talk with your mouth full. It is the best field I ever heard of."

"Sit down," said Sandy, doing the honours; and we all sat down under the hedge.

"There are violets just behind us," he continued. "Can't you smell them? But whatever you do, don't tell anybody of those, or we shan't keep our field to ourselves for a day. And look here." He had turned over on to his face, and Richard and I did the same, whilst Sandy fumbled among the bleached grass and brown leaves.

"Hyacinths," said Richard, as Sandy displayed the green tops of them.

"As thick as peas," said Sandy. "This bank will be blue in a few weeks; and fiddle-heads everywhere. There will be no end of ferns. May to any extent -- it's only in bud yet -- and there's a wren's nest in there --  -- " At this point he rolled suddenly over on to his back and looked up.

"A lark," he explained; "there was one singing its head off, this morning. I say, Dick, this will be a good field for a kite, won't it? But wait a bit."

After every fresh thing that Sandy showed us in our field, he always finished by saying, "Wait a bit"; and that was because there was always something else better still.

"There's a brook at the bottom there," he said, "with lots of fresh-water shrimps. I wonder whether they would boil red. But wait a bit. This hedge, you see, has got a very high bank, and it's worn into kind of ledges. I think we could play at 'shops' there -- but wait a bit."

"It's almost too good, Sandy dear!" said I, as we crossed the field to the opposite hedge.

"The best is to come," said Sandy. "I've a very good mind not to let it out till to-morrow." And to our distraction he sat down in the middle of the field, put his arms round his knees, as if we were playing at "Honey-pots," and rocked himself backwards and forwards with a face of brimming satisfaction.

Neither Richard nor I would have been so mean as to explore on our own account, when the field was Sandy's discovery, but we tried hard to persuade him to show us everything.

He had the most provoking way of laughing and holding his tongue, and he did that now, besides slowly turning all his pockets inside-out into his hands, and mumbling up the crumbs and odd currants, saying, "Guess!" between every mouthful.

But when there was not a crumb left in the seams of his pockets, Sandy turned them back, and jumping up, said -- "One can only tell a secret once. It's a hollow oak. Come along!"

He ran and we ran, to the other side of Our Field. I had read of hollow oaks, and seen pictures of them, and once I dreamed of one, with a witch inside, but we had never had one to play in. We were nearly wild with delight. It looked all solid from the field, but when we pushed behind, on the hedge side, there was the door, and I crept in, and it smelt of wood, and delicious damp. There could not be a more perfect castle, and though there were no windows in the sides, the light came in from the top, where the polypody hung over like a fringe. Sandy was quite right. It was the very best thing in Our Field.

Perronet was as fond of the field as we were. What he liked were the little birds. At least, I don't know that he liked them, but they were what he chiefly attended to. I think he knew that it was our field, and thought he was the watch-dog of it, and whenever a bird settled down anywhere, he barked at it, and then it flew away, and he ran barking after it till he lost it; and by that time another had settled down, and then Perronet flew at him, and so on, all up and down the hedge. He never caught a bird, and never would let one sit down, if he could see it.

We had all kinds of games in Our Field. Shops -- for there were quantities of things to sell -- and sometimes I was a moss-merchant, for there were ten different kinds of moss by the brook, and sometimes I was a jeweller, and sold daisy-chains and pebbles, and coral sets made of holly berries, and oak-apple necklaces; and sometimes I kept provisions, like earth-nuts and mallow-cheeses, and mushrooms; and sometimes I kept a flower-shop, and sold nosegays and wreaths, and umbrellas made of rushes, I liked that kind of shop, because I am fond of arranging flowers, and I always make our birthday wreaths. And sometimes I kept a whole lot of shops, and Richard and Sandy bought my things, and paid for them with money made of elder-pith, sliced into rounds. The first shop I kept was to sell cowslips, and Richard and Sandy lived by the brook, and were wine merchants, and made cowslip wine in a tin mug.

The elder-tree was a beauty. In July the cream-coloured flowers were so sweet, we could hardly sit under it, and in the autumn it was covered with berries; but we were always a little disappointed that they never tasted in the least like elderberry syrup. Richard used to make flutes out of the stalks, and one really did to play tunes on, but it always made Perronet bark.

Richard's every-day cap had a large hole in the top, and when we were in Our Field we always hung it on the top of the tallest of the two stile-posts, to show that we were there; just as the Queen has a flag hung out at Windsor Castle, when she is at home.

We played at castles and houses, and when we were tired of the houses, we pretended to pack up, and went to the seaside for change of air by the brook. Sandy and I took off our shoes and stockings and were bathing-women, and we bathed Perronet; and Richard sat on the bank and was a "tripper," looking at us through a telescope; for when the elder-stems cracked and wouldn't do for flutes, he made them into telescopes. And before we went down to the brook we made jam of hips and haws from the hedge at the top of the field, and put it into acorn cups, and took it with us, that the children might not be short of rolypolies at the seaside.

Whatever we played at we were never disturbed. Birds, and cows, and men and horses ploughing in the distance, do not disturb you at all.

We were very happy that summer: the boys were quite happy, and the only thing that vexed me was thinking of Perronet's tax-money. For months and months went on and we did not save it. Once we got as far as twopence half-penny, and then one day Richard came to me and said, "I must have some more string for the kite. You might lend me a penny out of Perronet's stocking, till I get some money of my own."

So I did; and the next day Sandy came and said, "You lent Dick one of Perronet's coppers; I'm sure Perronet would lend me one," and then they said it was ridiculous to leave a half-penny there by itself, so we spent it in acid drops.

It worried me so much at last, that I began to dream horrible dreams about Perronet having to go away because we hadn't saved his tax-money. And then I used to wake up and cry, till the pillow was so wet, I had to turn it. The boys never seemed to mind, but then boys don't think about things; so that I was quite surprised when one day I found Sandy alone in our field with Perronet in his arms, crying, and feeding him with cake; and I found he was crying about the tax-money.

I cannot bear to see boys cry. I would much rather cry myself, and I begged Sandy to leave off, for I said I was quite determined to try and think of something.

It certainly was remarkable that the very next day should be the day when we heard about the flower-show.

It was in school -- the village school, for Mother could not afford to send us anywhere else -- and the schoolmaster rapped on his desk and said, "Silence, children!" and that at the agricultural show there was to be a flower-show this year, and that an old gentleman was going to give prizes to the school-children for window-plants and for the best arranged wild flowers. There were to be nosegays and wreaths, and there was to be a first prize of five shillings, and a second prize of half-a-crown, for the best collection of wild flowers with the names put to them.

"The English names," said the schoolmaster; "and there may be -- silence, children! -- there may be collections of ferns, or grasses, or mosses to compete, too, for the gentleman wishes to encourage a taste for natural history."

And several of the village children said, "What's that?" and I squeezed Sandy's arm, who was sitting next to me, and whispered, "Five shillings!" and the schoolmaster said, "Silence, children!" and I thought I never should have finished my lessons that day for thinking of Perronet's tax-money.

July is not at all a good month for wild flowers; May and June are far better. However, the show was to be in the first week in July.

I said to the boys, "Look here: I'll do a collection of flowers. I know the names, and I can print. It's no good two or three people muddling with arranging flowers; but; if you will get me what I want, I shall be very much obliged. If either of you will make another collection, you know there are ten kinds of mosses by the brook; and we have names for them of our own, and they are English. Perhaps they'll do. But everything must come out of Our Field."

The boys agreed, and they were very good. Richard made me a box, rather high at the back. We put sand at the bottom and damped it, and then Feather Moss, lovely clumps of it, and into that I stuck the flowers. They all came out of Our Field. I like to see grass with flowers, and we had very pretty grasses, and between every bunch of flowers I put a bunch of grass of different kinds. I got all the flowers and all the grasses ready first, and printed the names on pieces of cardboard to stick in with them, and then I arranged them by my eye, and Sandy handed me what I called for, for Richard was busy at the brook making a tray of mosses.

Sandy knew the flowers and the names of them quite as well as I did, of course; we knew everything that lived in Our Field; so when I called, "Ox-eye daisies, cock's-foot grass, labels; meadow-sweet, fox-tail grass, labels; dog-roses, shivering grass, labels;" and so on, he gave me the right things, and I had nothing to do but to put the colours that looked best together next to each other, and to make the grass look light, and pull up bits of moss to show well. And at the very end I put in a label, "All out of Our Field."

I did not like it when it was done; but Richard praised it so much, it cheered me up, and I thought his mosses looked lovely.

The flower-show day was very hot. I did not think it could be hotter anywhere in the world than it was in the field where the show was; but it was hotter in the tent.

We should never have got in at all -- for you had to pay at the gate -- but they let competitors in free, though not at first. When we got in, there were a lot of grown-up people, and it was very hard work getting along among them, and getting to see the stands with the things on. We kept seeing tickets with "1st Prize" and "2nd Prize," and struggling up; but they were sure to be dahlias in a tray, or fruit that you mightn't eat, or vegetables. The vegetables disappointed us so often, I got to hate them. I don't think I shall ever like very big potatoes (before they are boiled) again, particularly the red ones. It makes me feel sick with heat and anxiety to think of them.

We had struggled slowly all round the tent, and seen all the cucumbers, onions, lettuces, long potatoes, round potatoes, and everything else, when we saw an old gentleman, with spectacles and white hair, standing with two or three ladies. And then we saw three nosegays in jugs, with all the green picked off, and the flowers tied as tightly together as they would go, and then we saw some prettier ones, and then we saw my collection, and it had got a big label in it marked "1st Prize," and next to it came Richard's moss-tray, with the Hair-moss, and the Pincushion-moss, and the Scale-mosses, and a lot of others with names of our own, and it was marked "2nd Prize." And I gripped one of Sandy's arms just as Richard seized the other, and we both cried, "Perronet is paid for!"

*    *    *    *    *

There was two-and-sixpence over. We never had such a feast! It was a picnic tea, and we had it in Our Field. I thought Sandy and Perronet would have died of cake, but they were none the worse.

We were very much frightened at first when the old gentleman invited himself; but he would come, and he brought a lot of nuts, and he did get inside the oak, though it is really too small for him.

I don't think there ever was anybody so kind. If he were not a man, I should really and truly believe in Sandy's fairy godmother.

Of course I don't really believe in fairies. I am not so young as that. And I know that Our Field does not exactly belong to us.

I wonder to whom it does belong? Richard says he believes it belongs to the gentleman who lives at the big red house among the trees. But he must be wrong; for we see that gentleman at church every Sunday, but we never saw him in Our Field.

And I don't believe anybody could have such a field of their very own, and never come to see it, from one end of Summer to the other.



Madam Liberality.

"Like little body with a mighty heart."

King Henry V., Act 2.



Part I.


It was not her real name: it was given to her by her brothers and sister. People with very marked qualities of character do sometimes get such distinctive titles, to rectify the indefiniteness of those they inherit and those they receive in baptism. The ruling peculiarity of a character is apt to show itself early in life, and it showed itself in Madam Liberality when she was a little child.

Plum-cakes were not plentiful in her home when Madam Liberality was young, and such as there were, were of the "wholesome" kind -- plenty of bread-stuff, and the currants and raisins at a respectful distance from each other. But few as the plums were, she seldom ate them. She picked them out very carefully, and put them into a box, which was hidden under her pinafore.

When we grown-up people were children, and plum-cake and plum-pudding tasted very much nicer than they do now, we also picked out the plums. Some of us ate them at once, and had then to toil slowly through the cake or pudding, and some valiantly dispatched the plainer portion of the feast at the beginning, and kept the plums to sweeten the end. Sooner or later we ate them ourselves, but Madam Liberality kept her plums for other people.

When the vulgar meal was over -- that commonplace refreshment ordained and superintended by the elders of the household -- Madam Liberality would withdraw into a corner, from which she issued notes of invitation to all the dolls. They were "fancy written" on curl papers and folded into cocked hats.

Then began the real feast. The dolls came, and the children with them. Madam Liberality had no toy tea-sets or dinner-sets, but there were acorn-cups filled to the brim, and the water tasted deliciously, though it came out of the ewer in the night nursery, and had not even been filtered. And before every doll was a flat oyster-shell covered with a round oyster-shell, a complete set of complete pairs, which had been collected by degrees, like old family plate. And when the upper shell was raised, on every dish lay a plum. It was then that Madam Liberality got her sweetness out of the cake.

She was in her glory at the head of the inverted tea-chest; and if the raisins would not go round, the empty oyster-shell was hers, and nothing offended her more than to have this noticed. That was her spirit, then and always. She could "do without" anything, if the wherewithal to be hospitable was left to her.

When one's brain is no stronger than mine is, one gets very much confused in disentangling motives and nice points of character. I have doubted whether Madam Liberality's besetting virtue were a virtue at all. Was it unselfishness or a love of approbation, benevolence or fussiness, the gift of sympathy or the lust of power? Or was it something else? She was a very sickly child, with much pain to bear, and many pleasures to forego. Was it, as doctors say, "an effort of nature," to make her live outside herself and be happy in the happiness of others?

Equal doubt may hang over the conduct of her brothers and sister towards her. Did they more love her, or find her useful? Was their gratitude -- as gratitude has been defined to be -- "a keen sense of favours to come"? They certainly got used to her services, and to begging and borrowing the few things that were her "very own," without fear of refusal. But if they rather took her benevolence for granted, and thought that she "liked lending her things," and that it was her way of enjoying possessions, they may have been right; for next to one's own soul, one's own family is perhaps the best judge of one's temper and disposition.

And they called her Madam Liberality, so Madam Liberality she shall remain.

It has been hinted that there was a reason for the scarceness of the plums in the plum-cake. Madam Liberality's father was dead, and her mother was very poor, and had several children. It was not an easy matter with her to find bread for the family, putting currants and raisins out of the question.

Though poor, they were, however, gentle-folk, and had, for that matter, rich relations. Very rich relations indeed! Madam Liberality's mother's first cousin had fifteen thousand a year. His servants did not spend ten thousand. (As to what he spent himself, it was comparatively trifling.) The rest of the money accumulated. Not that it was being got together to do something with by and by. He had no intention of ever spending more than he spent at present. Indeed, with a lump of coal taken off here, and a needless candle blown out there, he rather hoped in future to spend less.

His wife was Madam Liberality's godmother. She was a good-hearted woman, and took real pleasure in being kind to people, in the way she thought best for them. Sometimes it was a graceful and appropriate way, and very often it was not. The most acceptable act of kindness she ever did to her god-daughter was when the child was recovering from an illness, and she asked her to visit her at the seaside.

Madam Liberality had never seen the sea, and the thought of it proved a better stimulus than the port wine which her doctor ordered so easily, and her mother got with such difficulty.

When new clothes were bought, or old ones refurbished, Madam Liberality, as a rule, went to the wall. Not because her mother was ever guilty of favouritism, but because such occasions afforded an opportunity of displaying generosity towards her younger sister.

But this time it was otherwise; for whatever could be spared towards "summer things" for the two little girls was spent upon Madam Liberality's outfit for the seaside. There was a new dress, and a jacket "as good as new," for it was cut out of "mother's" cloth cloak and made up, with the best binding and buttons in the shop, by the village tailor. And he was bribed, in a secret visit, and with much coaxing from the little girls, to make real pockets instead of braided shams. The second best frock was compounded of two which had hitherto been very bests -- Madam Liberality's own, eked out by "Darling's" into a more fashionable fullness, and with a cape to match.

There was a sense of solid property to be derived from being able to take in at a glance the stock of well-mended under-garments, half of which were generally at the wash. Besides, they had been added to, and all the stockings were darned, and only one pair in the legs where it would show, below short petticoat mark.

Then there was a bonnet newly turned and trimmed, and a pair and a half of new boots, for surely boots are at least half new when they have been (as the village cobbler described it in his bill) "souled and healed"?

Poor little Madam Liberality! When she saw the things which covered her bed in their abundance, it seemed to her an outfit for a princess. And yet when her godmother asked Podmore, the lady's-maid, "How is the child off for clothes?" Podmore unhesitatingly replied, "She've nothing fit to be seen, ma'am," which shows how differently the same things appear in different circumstances.

Podmore was a good friend to Madam Liberality. She had that open-handed spirit which one acquires quite naturally in a house where everything goes on on a large scale, at somebody else's expense. Now Madam Liberality's godmother, from the very largeness of her possessions, was obliged to leave the care of them to others, in such matters as food, dress, the gardens, the stables, etc. So, like many other people in a similar case, she amused herself and exercised her economical instincts by troublesome little thriftinesses, by making cheap presents, dear bargains, and so forth. She was by nature a managing woman; and when those very grand people, the butler, the housekeeper, the head-gardener, and the lady's-maid had divided her household duties among them, there was nothing left for her to be clever about, except such little matters as joining the fag-ends of the bronze sealing-wax sticks which lay in the silver inkstand on the malachite writing-table, and being good-natured at the cheapest rate at which her friends could be benefited.

Madam Liberality's best neckerchief had been very pretty when it was new, and would have been pretty as well as clean still if the washerwoman had not used rather too hot an iron to it, so that the blue in the check pattern was somewhat faded. And yet it had felt very smart as Madam Liberality drove in the carrier's cart to meet the coach at the outset of her journey. But when she sat against the rich blue leather of her godmother's coach as they drove up and down the esplanade, it was like looking at fairy jewels by daylight when they turn into faded leaves.

"Is that your best neckerchief, child?" said the old lady.

"Yes, ma'am," blushed Madam Liberality,

So when they got home her godmother went to her odds-and-ends drawer.

Podmore never interfered with this drawer. She was content to be despotic among the dresses, and left the old lady to faddle to her heart's content with bits of old lace and ribbon which she herself would not have condescended to wear.

The old lady fumbled them over. There were a good many half-yards of ribbon with very large patterns, but nothing really fit for Madam Liberality's little neck but a small Indian scarf of many-coloured silk. It was old, and Podmore would never have allowed her mistress to drive on the esplanade in anything so small and youthful-looking; but the colours were quite bright, and there was no doubt but that Madam Liberality might be provided for by a cheaper neck-ribbon. So the old lady shut the drawer, and toddled down the corridor that led to Podmore's room.

She had a good general idea that Podmore's perquisites were large, but perquisites seem to be a condition of valuable servants in large establishments, and then anything which could be recovered from what had already passed into Podmore's room must be a kind of economy. So she resolved that Podmore should "find something" for Madam Liberality's neck.

"I never noticed it, ma'am, till I brought your shawl to the carriage," said Podmore. "If I had seen it before, the young lady shouldn't have come with you so. I'll see to it, ma'am."

"Thank you, Podmore."

"Can you spare me to go into the town this afternoon, ma'am?" added the lady's-maid. "I want some things at Huckaback and Woolsey's."

Huckaback and Woolsey were the linendrapers where Madam Liberality's godmother "had an account." It was one of the things on a large scale over the details of which she had no control.

"You'll be back in time to dress me?"

"Oh dear, yes, ma'am." And having settled the old lady's shawl on her shoulders, and drawn out her cap-lappets, Podmore returned to her work.

It was a work of kindness. The old lady might deal shabbily with her faded ribbons and her relations, but the butler, the housekeeper, and the lady's-maid did their best to keep up the credit of the family.

It was well known that Madam Liberality was a cousin, and Podmore resolved that she should have a proper frock to go down to dessert in.

So she had been very busy making a little slip out of a few yards of blue silk which had been over and above one of the old lady's dresses, and now she betook herself to the draper's to get spotted muslin to cover it and ribbons to trim it with.

And whilst Madam Liberality's godmother was still feeling a few twinges about the Indian scarf, Podmore ordered a pink neckerchief shot with white, and with pink and white fringes, to be included in the parcel.

But it was not in this way alone that Podmore was a good friend to Madam Liberality.

She took her out walking, and let her play on the beach, and even bring home dirty weeds and shells. Indeed, Podmore herself was not above collecting cowries in a pill-box for her little nephews.

When Mrs. Podmore met acquaintances on the beach, Madam Liberality played alone, and these were her happiest moments. She played amongst the rotting, weed-grown stakes of an old pier, and "fancied" rooms among them -- suites of rooms in which she would lodge her brothers and sister if they came to visit her, and where -- with cockle-shells for teacups, and lava for vegetables, and fucus-pods for fish -- they should find themselves as much enchanted as Beauty in the palace of the Beast.

Again and again she "fancied" Darling into her shore-palace, the delights of which should only be marred by the growls which she herself would utter from time to time from behind the stakes, in the character of a sea-beast, and which should but enhance the moment when she would rush out and throw her arms round Darling's neck and reveal herself as Madam Liberality.

"Darling" was the pet name of Madam Liberality's sister -- her only sister, on whom she lavished the intensest affection of a heart which was always a large one in proportion to her little body. It seemed so strange to play at any game of fancies without Darling, that Madam Liberality could hardly realize it.

She might be preparing by herself a larger treat than usual for the others; but it was incredible that no one would come after all, and that Darling would never see the palace on the beach, and the state-rooms, and the limpets, and the seaweed, and the salt-water soup, and the real fish (a small dab discarded from a herring-net) which Madam Liberality had got for her.

Her mind was filled with day-dreams of Darling's coming, and of how she would display to her all the wonders of the seashore, which would reflect almost as much credit upon her as if she had invented razor-shells and crabs. She thought so much about it that she began quite to expect it.

Was it not natural that her godmother should see that she must be lonely, and ask Darling to come and be with her? Perhaps the old lady had already done so, and the visit was to be a surprise. Madam Liberality could quite imagine doing a nice thing like this herself, and she hoped it so strongly that she almost came to believe in it.

Every day she waited hopefully, first for the post, and then for the time when the coach came in, the hour at which she herself had arrived; but the coach brought no Darling, and the post brought no letter to say that she was coming, and Madam Liberality's hopes were disappointed.

Madam Liberality was accustomed to disappointment.

From her earliest years it had been a family joke that poor Madam Liberality was always in ill-luck's way.

It is true that she was constantly planning; and if one builds castles, one must expect a few loose stones about one's ears now and then. But, besides this, her little hopes were constantly being frustrated by fate.

If the pigs or the hens got into the garden, Madam Liberality's bed was sure to be laid waste before any one came to the rescue. When a picnic or a tea-party was in store, if Madam Liberality did not catch cold, so as to hinder her from going, she was pretty sure to have a quinsy from fatigue or wet feet afterwards. When she had a treat she paid for the pleasurable excitement by a headache, just as when she ate sweet things they gave her toothache.

But if her luck was less than other people's, her courage and good spirits were more than common. She could think with pleasure about the treat when she had forgotten the headache. One side of her little face would look fairly cheerful when the other was obliterated by a flannel bag of hot camomile flowers, and the whole was redolent of every horrible domestic remedy for toothache, from oil of cloves and creosote to a baked onion in the ear. No sufferings abated her energy for fresh exploits, or quenched the hope that cold, and damp, and fatigue would not hurt her "this time."

In the intervals of wringing out hot flannels for her own quinsy, she would amuse herself by devising a desert island expedition on a larger and possibly a damper scale than hitherto, against the time when she should be out again.

It is a very old simile, but Madam Liberality really was like a cork rising on the top of the very wave of ill-luck that had swallowed up her hopes. Her little white face and undaunted spirit bobbed up after each mischance or malady as ready and hopeful as ever.

Though her day-dream about Darling and the shore palace was constantly disappointed, this did not hinder her from indulging new hopes and fancies in another place to which she went with Podmore; a place which was filled with wonders of a different kind from the treasures of the palace on the shore.

It was called the Bazaar. It would be a very long business to say what was in it. But amongst other things there were foreign cage-birds, musical-boxes, and camp-stools, and baskets, and polished pebbles, and paper patterns, and a little ladies' and children's millinery, and a good deal of mock jewellery, and some very bad soaps and scents, and some very good children's toys.

It was Madam Liberality's godmother who first took her to the bazaar. A titled lady of her acquaintance had heard that wire flower-baskets of a certain shape could be bought in the bazaar cheaper (by two-pence-halfpenny each) than in London; and after writing to her friend to ascertain the truth of the statement, she wrote again to authorize her to purchase three on her behalf. So Madam Liberality's godmother ordered out the blue carriage and pair, and drove with her little cousin to the bazaar.

And as they came out, followed by a bearded man, bowing very low, and carrying the wire baskets, Madam Liberality's godmother stopped near the toy-stall to button her glove. And when she had buttoned it (which took a long time, because her hands were stout, and Podmore generally did it with a hook), she said to Madam Liberality, "Now, child, I want to tell you that if you are very good whilst you are with me, and Podmore gives me a good report of you, I will bring you here before you go home, and buy you a present."

Madam Liberality's heart danced with delight. She wished her godmother would stand by the toy-stall for an hour, that she might see what she most hoped the present would be. But the footman tucked them into the carriage, and the bearded man bowed himself back into the bazaar, and they drove home. Then Madam Liberality's godmother directed the butler to dispatch the wire baskets to her ladyship, which he did by coach. And her ladyship's butler paid the carriage, and tipped the man who brought the parcel from the coach-office, and charged these items in his account. And her ladyship wrote a long letter of thanks to Madam Liberality's godmother for her kindness in saving her unnecessary expense.

The old lady did not go to the bazaar again for some time, but Madam Liberality went there with Podmore. She looked at the toys and wondered which of them might one day be her very own. The white china tea-service with the green rim, big enough to make real tea in, was too good to be hoped for, but there were tin tea-sets where the lids would come off, and wooden ones where they were stuck on; and there were all manner of toys that would be invaluable for all kinds of nursery games and fancies.

They helped a "fancy" of Madam Liberality even then. She used to stand by the toy-stall, and fancy that she was as rich as her godmother, and was going to give Christmas-boxes to her brothers and sister, and her amusement was to choose, though she could not buy them.

Out of this came a deep mortification. She had been playing at this fancy one afternoon, and having rather confused herself by changing her mind about the toys, she went through her final list in an undertone, to get it clearly into her head. The shopman was serving a lady, and Madam Liberality thought he could not hear her as she murmured, "The china tea-set, the box of beasts, the doll's furniture for Darling," etc., etc. But the shopman's hearing was very acute, and he darted forward, crying, "The china tea-set, did you say, miss?"

The blood rushed up to poor Madam Liberality's face till it seemed to choke her, and the lady, whom the shopman had been serving, said kindly, "I think the little girl said the box of beasts."

Madam Liberality hoped it was a dream, but having pinched herself, she found that it was not.

Her mother had often said to her, "When you can't think what to say, tell the truth." It was not a very easy rule, but Madam Liberality went by it.

"I don't want anything, thank you," said she; "at least, I mean I have no money to buy anything with: I was only counting the things I should like to get if I had."

And then, as the floor of the bazaar would not open and swallow her up, she ran away, with her red face and her empty pocket, to shelter herself with Podmore at the mock-jewellery stall, and she did not go to the bazaar any more.

Once again disappointment was in store for Madam Liberality. The end of her visit came, and her godmother's promise seemed to be forgotten. But the-night before her departure, the old lady came into her room and said,

"I couldn't take you with me to-day, child, but I didn't forget my promise. Podmore says you've been very good, and so I've brought you a present. A very useful one, I hope," added the old lady, in a tone as if she were congratulating herself upon her good sense. "And tell Catherine -- that's your mother, child -- with my love, always to have you dressed for the evening. I like to see children come in to dessert, when they have good manners -- which I must say you have; besides, it keeps the nurses up to their work."

And then she drew out from its paper a little frock of pink mousseline-de-laine, very prettily tacked together by the young woman at the millinery-stall, and very cheap for its gay appearance.

Down came all Madam Liberality's visions in connection with the toy-stall: but she consoled herself that night with picturing Darling's delight when she gave her (as she meant to give her) the pink dress.

She had another source of comfort and anticipation -- the scallop-shells.

But this requires to be explained. The greatest prize which Madam Liberality had gained from her wanderings by the seashore was a complete scallop-shell. When washed the double shell was as clean and as pretty as any china muffin-dish with a round top; and now her ambition was to get four more, and thus to have a service for doll's feasts which should far surpass the oyster-shells. She was talking about this to Podmore one day when they were picking cowries together, and Podmore cried, "Why, this little girl would get you them, miss, I'll be bound!"

She was a bare-footed little girl, who sold pebbles and seaweed, and salt water for sponging with, and she had undertaken to get the scallop-shells, and had run off to pick seaweed out of a newly landed net before Madam Liberality could say "Thank you."

She heard no more of the shells, however, until the day before she went away, when the butler met her as she came indoors, and told her that the little girl was waiting. And it was not till Madam Liberality saw the scallop-shells lying clean and pink in a cotton handkerchief that she remembered that she had no money to pay for them.

Here was another occasion for painful truthtelling! But to make humiliating confession before the butler seemed almost beyond even Madam Liberality's moral courage. He went back to his pantry, however, and she pulled off her pretty pink neckerchief and said,

"I am very sorry, little girl, but I've got no money of my own; but if you would like this instead -- " And the little girl seemed quite pleased with her bargain, and ran hastily off, as if afraid that the young lady would change her mind.

And this was how Madam Liberality got her scallop-shells.

*    *    *    *    *

It may seem strange that Madam Liberality should ever have been accused of meanness, and yet her eldest brother did once shake his head at her and say, "You're the most meanest and the generoustest person I ever knew!" And Madam Liberality wept over the accusation, although her brother was then too young to form either his words or his opinions correctly.

But it was the touch of truth in it which made Madam Liberality cry. To the end of their lives Tom and she were alike and yet different in this matter. Madam Liberality saved, and pinched, and planned, and then gave away, and Tom gave away without the pinching and saving. This sounds much handsomer, and it was poor Tom's misfortune that he always believed it to be so; though he gave away what did not belong to him, and fell back for the supply of his own pretty numerous wants upon other people, not forgetting Madam Liberality.

Painful experience convinced Madam Liberality in the end that his way was a wrong one, but she had her doubts many times in her life whether there were not something unhandsome in her own decided talent for economy. Not that economy was always pleasant to her. When people are very poor for their position in life, they can only keep out of debt by stinting on many occasions when stinting is very painful to a liberal spirit. And it requires a sterner virtue than good-nature to hold fast the truth that it is nobler to be shabby and honest than to do things handsomely in debt.

But long before Tom had a bill even for bull's-eyes and Gibraltar Rock, Madam Liberality was pinching and plotting, and saving bits of coloured paper and ends of ribbon, with a thriftiness which seemed to justify Tom's view of her character.

The object of these savings was twofold: birthday presents and Christmas-boxes. They were the chief cares and triumphs of Madam Liberality's childhood. It was with the next birthday or the approaching Christmas in view that she saved her pence instead of spending them, but she so seldom had any money that she chiefly relied on her own ingenuity. Year by year it became more difficult to make anything which would "do for a boy;" but it was easy to please Darling, and "Mother's" unabated appreciation of pincushions, and of needle-books made out of old cards, was most satisfactory.

To break the mystery in which it always pleased Madam Liberality to shroud her small preparations, was to give her dire offence. As a rule, the others respected this caprice, and would even feign a little more surprise than they felt, upon occasion. But if during her preparations she had given umbrage to one of the boys, her retreat was soon invaded with cries of -- "Ah! I see you, making birthday presents out of nothing and a quarter of a yard of ribbon!" Or -- "There you are! At it again, with two old visiting cards and a ha'porth of flannel!" And only Darling's tenderest kisses could appease Madam Liberality's wrath and dry her tears.

She had never made a grander project for Christmas, or had greater difficulty in carrying it out, than in the winter which followed her visit to the seaside. It was in the house of her cousin that she had first heard of Christmas-trees, and to surprise the others with a Christmas-tree she was quite resolved. But as the time drew near, poor Madam Liberality was almost in despair about her presents, and this was doubly provoking, because a nice little fir-tree had been promised her. There was no blinking the fact that "Mother" had been provided with pincushions to repletion. And most of these made the needles rusty, from being stuffed with damp pig-meal, when the pigs and the pincushions were both being fattened for Christmas.

Madam Liberality sat with her little pale face on her hand and her slate before her, making her calculations. She wondered what emery-powder cost. Supposing it to be very cheap, and that she could get a quarter of a pound for "next to nothing," how useful a present might be made for "Mother" in the shape of an emery pincushion, to counteract the evil effects of the pig-meal ones! It would be a novelty even to Darling, especially if hers were made by glueing a tiny bag of emery into the mouth of a "boiled fowl cowry." Madam Liberality had seen such a pincushion in Podmore's work-basket. She had a shell of the kind, and the village carpenter would always let her put a stick into his glue-pot if she went to the shop.

But then, if emery were only a penny a pound, Madam Liberality had not a farthing to buy a quarter of a pound with. As she thought of this her brow contracted, partly with vexation, and partly because of a jumping pain in a big tooth, which, either from much illness or many medicines, or both, was now but the wreck of what a tooth should be. But as the toothache grew worse, a new hope dawned upon Madam Liberality. Perhaps one of her troubles would mend the other!

Being very tender-hearted over children's sufferings, it was her mother's custom to bribe rather than coerce when teeth had to be taken out. The fixed scale of reward was sixpence for a tooth without fangs, and a shilling for one with them. If pain were any evidence, this tooth certainly had fangs. But one does not have a tooth taken out if one can avoid it, and Madam Liberality bore bad nights and painful days till they could be endured no longer; and then, because she knew it distressed her mother to be present, she went alone to the doctor's house to ask him to take out her tooth.

The doctor was a very kind old man, and he did his best, so we will not say anything about his antique instruments, or the number of times he tied a pocket-handkerchief round an awful-looking claw, and put both into Madam Liberality's mouth without effect.

At last he said he had got the tooth out, and he wrapped it in paper, and gave it to Madam Liberality, who, having thought that it was her head he had extracted from its socket, was relieved to get away.

As she ran home she began to plan how to lay out her shilling for the best, and when she was nearly there she opened the bit of paper to look at her enemy, and it had no fangs!

"I'm sure it was more than a sixpenny one," she sobbed; "I believe he has left them in."

It involved more than the loss of half the funds she had reckoned upon. Perhaps this dreadful pain would go on even on Christmas Day. Her first thought was to carry her tears to her mother; her second that, if she only could be brave enough to have the fangs taken out, she might spare mother all distress about it till it was over, when she would certainly like her sufferings to be known and sympathized with. She knew well that courage does not come with waiting, and making a desperate rally of stout-heartedness, she ran back to the doctor.

He had gone out, but his assistant was in. He looked at Madam Liberality's mouth, and said that the fangs were certainly left in and would be much better out.

"Would it hurt very much?" asked Madam Liberality, trembling.

The assistant blinked the question of "hurting."

"I think I could do it," said he, "if you could sit still. Not if you were jumping about."

"I will sit still," said Madam Liberality.

"The boy shall hold your head," said the assistant.

But Madam Liberality rebelled; she could screw up her sensitive nerves to endure the pain, but not to be coerced by "the boy."

"I give you my word of honour I will sit still," said she, with plaintive earnestness.

And the assistant (who had just remembered that the boy was out with the gig) said, "Very well, miss."

We need not dwell upon the next few seconds. The assistant kept his word, and Madam Liberality kept hers. She sat still, and went on sitting still after the operation was over till the assistant became alarmed, and revived her by pouring some choking stuff down her throat. After which she staggered to her feet and put out her hand and thanked him.

He was a strong, rough, good-natured young man, and little Madam Liberality's pale face and politeness touched him.

"You're the bravest little lady I ever knew," he said kindly; "and you keep your word like a queen. There's some stuff to put to the place, and there's sixpence, miss, if you'll take it, to buy lollipops with. You'll be able to eat them now."

After which he gave her an old pill-box to carry the fragments of her tooth in, and it was labelled "three to be taken at bed-time."

Madam Liberality staggered home, very giddy, but very happy. Moralists say a great deal about pain treading so very closely on the heels of pleasure in this life, but they are not always wise or grateful enough to speak of the pleasure which springs out of pain. And yet there is a bliss which comes just when pain has ceased, whose rapture rivals even the high happiness of unbroken health; and there is a keen relish about small pleasures hardly earned, in which the full measure of those who can afford anything they want is sometimes lacking.

Relief is certainly one of the most delicious sensations which poor humanity, can enjoy! Madam Liberality enjoyed it to the full, and she had more happiness yet in her cup, I fear praise was very pleasant to her, and the assistant had praised her, not undeservedly, and she knew that further praise was in store from the dearest source of approbation -- from her mother. Ah! how pleased she would be! And so would Darling, who always cried when Madam Liberality was in great pain.

And this was only the beginning of pleasures. The sixpence would amply provide "goodies" for the Christmas-tree, and much might be done with the forthcoming shilling. And if her conduct on the present occasion would not support a request for a few ends of candles from the drawing-room candle-sticks, what profit would there be in being a heroine?

When her mother gave her two shillings instead of one, Madam Liberality felt in honour bound to say that she had already been rewarded with sixpence; but her mother only said,

"You quite deserved it, I'm sure," and she found herself in possession of no less than half-a-crown.

And now it is sad to relate that misfortune again overtook Madam Liberality. All the next day she longed to go into the village to buy sweetmeats, but it snowed and rained, and was bitterly cold, and she could not.

Just about dusk the weather slightly cleared up, and she picked her way through the melting snow to the shop. Her purchases were most satisfactory. How the boys would enjoy them! Madam Liberality enjoyed them already, though her face was still sore, and the pain had spread to her throat, and though her ideas seemed unusually brilliant, and her body pleasantly languid, which, added to a peculiar chill trembling of the knees -- generally forewarned her of a coming quinsy. But warnings were thrown away upon Madam Liberality's obdurate hopefulness.

Just now she could think of nothing but the coming Christmas-tree. She hid the sweetmeats, and put her hand into her pocket for the two shillings, the exact outlay of which, in the neighbouring town, by means of the carrier, she had already arranged. But -- the two shillings were gone! How she had lost them Madam Liberality had no idea.

She trudged through the dirty snow once more to the shop, and the counter was examined, and old Goody looked under the flour scales and in the big chinks of the stone floor. But the shillings were not there, and Madam Liberality kept her eyes on the pavement as she ran home, with as little result. Moreover, it was nearly dark.

It snowed heavily all night, and Madam Liberality slept very little from pain and anxiety; but this did not deter her from going out with the first daylight in the morning to rake among the snow near the door, although her throat was sore beyond concealment, her jaws stiff, and the pleasant languor and quick-wittedness had given way to restless fever.

Her conscience did prick her a little for the anxiety she was bringing upon her mother (her own sufferings she never forecast); but she could not give up her Christmas-tree without a struggle, and she hoped by a few familiar remedies to drive back the threatened illness.

Meanwhile, if the shillings were not found before eleven o'clock it would be too late to send to the town shop by the carrier. But they were not found, and the old hooded cart rumbled away without them.

It was Christmas Eve. The boys were bustling about with holly. Darling was perched on a very high chair in the kitchen, picking raisins in the most honourable manner, without eating one, and Madam Liberality ought to have been the happiest of all.

Even now she dried her tears, and made the best of her ill-luck. The sweetmeats were very good; and it was yet in her power to please the others, though by a sacrifice from which she had shrunk. She could divide her scallop-shells among them. It was economy -- economy of resources -- which made her hesitate. Separated -- they would please the boys once, and then be lost. Kept together in her own possession -- they would be a constant source of triumph for herself, and of treats for her brothers and sister.

Meanwhile, she would gargle her throat with salt and water. As she crept up-stairs with this purpose, she met her mother.

Madam Liberality had not looked in the looking-glass lately, so she did not understand her mother's exclamation of distress when they met. Her face was perfectly white, except where dark marks lay under her eyes, and her small lips formed between them the rigid line of pain. It was impossible to hold out any longer, and Madam Liberality broke down and poured forth all her woes.

"I'll put my feet in hot water, and do anything you like, mother dear," said she, "if only you'll let me try and have a tree, and keep it secret from the others. I do so want to surprise them."

"If you'll go to your room, my darling, and do as I tell you, I'll keep your secret, and help you with your tree," said her mother. "Don't cry, my child, don't cry; it's so bad for your throat. I think I can find you some beads to make a necklace for Darling, and three pencils for the boys, and some paper which you can cut up into drawing-books for them."

A little hope went a long way with Madam Liberality, and she began to take heart. At the same time she felt her illness more keenly now there was no need for concealing it. She sat over the fire and inhaled steam from an old teapot, and threaded beads, and hoped she would be allowed to go to church next day, and to preside at her Christmas-tree afterwards.

In the afternoon her throat grew rapidly worse. She had begged -- almost impatiently -- that Darling would not leave the Christmas preparations to sit with her, and as talking was bad for her, and as she had secret preparations to make on her own account, her mother had supported her wish to be left alone.

But when it grew dusk, and the drawing-books were finished, Madam Liberality felt lonely. She put a shawl round her head, and went to the window. There was not much to be seen. The fields were deeply buried in snow, and looked like great white feather beds, shaken up unequally against the hedges. The road was covered so deeply that she could hardly have traced it, if she had not known where it was. How dark the old church tower looked amid so much whiteness!

And the snow-flakes fell like sugar-plums among the black trees. One could almost hear the keen wind rustling through the bending sedges by the pond, where the ice looked quite "safe" now. Madam Liberality hoped she would be able to get out before this fine frost was over. She knew of an old plank which would make an admirable sledge, and she had a plan for the grandest of winter games all ready in her head. It was to be called Arctic Discovery -- and she was to be the chief discoverer.

As she fancied herself -- starving but scientific, chilled to the bone, yet undaunted -- discovering a north-west passage at the upper end of the goose pond, the clock struck three from the old church tower. Madam Liberality heard it with a pang. At three o'clock -- if he had had her shillings -- she would have been expecting the return of the carrier, with the presents for her Christmas-tree.

Even as she thought about it, the old hooded waggon came lumbering down among the snow-drifts in the lane. There was a bunch of mistletoe at the head, and the old carrier went before the horse, and the dog went before the carrier. And they were all three up to their knees in snow, and all three had their noses down, as much as to say, "Such is life; but we must struggle on."

Poor Madam Liberality! The sight of the waggon and the mistletoe overwhelmed her. It only made matters worse to see the waggon come towards the house. She rather wondered what the carrier was bringing; but whatever it was, it was not the toys.

She went back to her seat by the fire, and cried bitterly; and, as she cried, the ball in her throat seemed to grow larger, till she could hardly breathe. She was glad when the door opened, and her mother's kind face looked in.

"Is Darling here?" she asked.

"No, mother," said Madam Liberality huskily.

"Then you may bring it in," said her mother to some one outside, and the servant appeared, carrying a wooden box, which she put down before Madam Liberality, and then withdrew. "Now don't speak," said her mother, "it is bad for you, and your eyes have asked fifty questions already, my child. Where did the box come from? The carrier brought it. Who is it for? It's for you. Who sent it? That I don't know. What is inside? I thought you would like to be the first to see. My idea is that perhaps your godmother has sent you a Christmas-box, and I thought that there might be things in it which would help you with your Christmas-tree, so I have not told any one about it."

To the end of her life Madam Liberality never forgot that Christmas-box. It did not come from her godmother, and the name of the giver she never knew. The first thing in it was a card, on which was written -- "A Christmas-box from an unknown friend;" and the second thing in it was the set of china tea-things with the green rim; and the third thing was a box of doll's furniture.

"Oh, Mother!" cried Madam Liberality, "they're the very things I was counting over in the bazaar, when the shopman heard me."

"Did anybody else hear you?" asked her mother.

"There was a lady, who said, 'I think the little girl said the box of beasts.' And, oh! Mother, Mother! here is the box of beasts! They're not common beasts, you know -- not wooden ones, painted; they're rough, something like hair. And feel the old elephant's ears, they're quite leathery, and the lion has real long hair for his mane and the tip of his tail. They are such thorough beasts. Oh, how the boys will like them! Tom shall have the darling brown bear. I do think he is the very best beast of all; his mouth is a little open, you know, and you can see his tongue, and it's red. And, Mother! the sheep are curly! And oh, what a dog! with real hair. I think I must keep the dog. And I shall make him a paper collar, and print 'Faithful' on it, and let him always stand on the drawers by our bed, and he'll be Darling's and my watch-dog."

Happiness is sometimes very wholesome, but it does not cure a quinsy off hand. Darling cried that night when the big pillow was brought out, which Madam Liberality always slept against in her quinsies, to keep her from choking. She did not know of that consolatory Christmas-box in the cupboard.

On Christmas Day Madam Liberality was speechless. The quinsy had progressed very rapidly.

"It generally breaks the day I have to write on my slate," Madam Liberality wrote, looking up at her mother with piteous eyes.

She was conscious that she had been greatly to blame for what she was suffering, and was anxious to "behave well about it" as an atonement. She begged -- on her slate -- that no one would stay away from church on her account, but her mother would not leave her.

"And now the others are gone," said Mother, "since you won't let the Christmas-tree be put off, I propose that we have it up, and I dress it under your orders, whilst the others are out, and then it can be moved into the little book-room, all ready for to-night."

Madam Liberality nodded like a china Mandarin.

"But you are in sad pain, I fear?" said her mother,

"One can't have everything," wrote Madam Liberality on her slate. Many illnesses had made her a very philosophical little woman; and, indeed, if the quinsy broke and she were at ease, the combination of good things would be more than any one could reasonably expect, even at Christmas.

Every beast was labelled, and hung up by her orders. The box of furniture was addressed to herself and Darling, as a joint possession, and the sweetmeats were tied in bags of muslin. The tree looked charming. The very angel at the top seemed proud of it.

"I'll leave the tea-things up-stairs," said Mother.

But Madam Liberality shook her head vigorously. She had been making up her mind, as she sat steaming over the old teapot; and now she wrote on her slate, "Put a white cloth round the tub, and put out the tea-things like a tea-party, and put a ticket in the slop-basin -- For Darling. With very, VERY Best Love. Make the last 'very' very big."

Madam Liberality's mother nodded, but she was printing a ticket; much too large a ticket, however, to go into the green and white slop-basin. When it was done she hung it on the tree, under the angel. The inscription was -- From Madam Liberality.

When supper was over, she came up to Madam Liberality's room, and said,

"Now, my dear, if you like to change your mind and put off the tree till you are better, I will say nothing about it."

But Madam Liberality shook her head more vehemently than before, and her mother smiled and went away.

Madam Liberality strained her ears. The book-room door opened -- she knew the voice of the handle -- there was a rush and a noise, but it died away into the room. The tears broke down Madam Liberality's cheeks. It was hard not to be there now. Then there was a patter up the stairs, and flying steps along the landing, and Madam Liberality's door was opened by Darling. She was dressed in the pink dress, and her cheeks were pinker still, and her eyes full of tears. And she threw herself at Madam Liberality's feet, crying,

"Oh how good, how very good you are!"

At this moment a roar came up from below, and Madam Liberality wrote,

"What is it?" and then dropped the slate to clutch the arms of her chair, for the pain was becoming almost intolerable. Before Darling could open the door her mother came in, and Darling repeated the question,

"What is it?"

But at this moment the reply came from below, in Tom's loudest tones. It rang through the house, and up into the bedroom.

"Three cheers for Madam Liberality! Hip, hip, hooray!"

The extremes of pleasure and of pain seemed to meet in Madam Liberality's little head. But overwhelming gratification got the upper hand, and, forgetting even her quinsy, she tried to speak, and after a brief struggle she said, with tolerable distinctness,

"Tell Tom I am very much obliged to him."

But what they did tell Tom was that the quinsy had broken, on which he gave three cheers more.



Part II.


Madam Liberality grew up into much the same sort of person that she was when a child. She always had been what is termed old-fashioned, and the older she grew the better her old-fashionedness became her, so that at last her friends would say to her, "Ah, if we all wore as well as you do, my dear! You've hardly changed at all since we remember you in short petticoats." So far as she did change the change was for the better. (It is to be hoped we do improve a little as we get older!) She was still liberal and economical. She still planned and hoped indefatigably. She was still tender-hearted in the sense in which Gray speaks,

"To each his sufferings, all are men Condemned alike to groan, The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own."

She still had a good deal of ill-health and ill-luck, and a good deal of pleasure in spite of both. She was still happy in the happiness of others, and pleased by their praise. But she was less headstrong and opinionated in her plans, and less fretful when they failed. It is possible, after one has cut one's wisdom-teeth, to cure one's self even of a good deal of vanity, and to learn to play the second fiddle very gracefully; and Madam Liberality did not resist the lessons of life.

GOD teaches us wisdom in divers ways. Why He suffers some people to have so many troubles and so little of what we call pleasure in this world we cannot in this world know. The heaviest blows often fall on the weakest shoulders, and how these endure and bear up under them is another of the things which GOD knows better than we.

I will not pretend to decide whether grown-up people's troubles are harder to bear than children's troubles, but they are of a graver kind. It is very bitter when the boys melt the nose of one's dearest doll against the stove, and living pets with kind eyes and friendly paws grow aged and die; but the death of friends is a more serious and lasting sorrow, if it is not more real.

Madam Liberality shed fewer tears after she grew up than she had done before, but she had some heart-aches which did not heal.

The thing which did most to cure her of being too managing for the good of other people was Darling's marriage. If ever Madam Liberality had felt proud of self-sacrifice and success, it was about this. But when Darling was fairly gone, and "Faithful" -- very grey with dust and years -- kept watch over only one sister in "the girls' room," he might have seen Madam Liberality's nightly tears if his eyes had been made of anything more sensitive than yellow paint.

Desolate as she was, Madam Liberality would have hugged her grief if she could have had her old consolation, and been happy in the happiness of another. Darling never said she was not happy. It was what she left out, not what she put into the long letters she sent from India that cut Madam Liberality to the heart.

Darling's husband read all her letters, and he did not like the home ones to be too tender -- as if Darling's mother and sister pitied her. And he read Darling's letters before they went away by the mail.

From this it came about that the sisters' letters were very commonplace on the surface. And though Madam Liberality cried when Darling wrote, "Have swallows built in the summer-house this year? Have you put my old doll's chest of drawers back in its place since the room was papered? What colour is the paper?" -- the Major only said that stuff like that was hardly worth the postage to England. And when Madam Liberality wrote, "The clump of daffodils in your old bed was enormous this spring. I have not touched it since you left. I made Mother's birthday wreath out of the flowers in your bed and mine. Jemima broke the slop-basin of the green and white tea-set to-day. It was the last piece left. I am trying to forgive her," -- the Major made no harsher remark than, "A storm in a slop-basin! Your sister is not a brilliant letter-writer, certainly."

The source of another heart-ache for Madam Liberality was poor Tom. He was as liberal and hospitable as ever in his own way. He invited his friends to stay with his mother, and when they and Tom had gone, Madam Liberality and her mother lived without meat to get the housekeeping book straight again. Their great difficulty in the matter was the uncertain nature of Tom's requirements. And when he did write for money he always wrote in such urgent need that there was no refusing him if by the art of "doing without" his wants could be supplied.

But Tom had a kindly heart; he sent his sister a gold locket, and wrote on the box, "For the best and most generous of sisters."

Madam Liberality liked praise, and she dearly liked praise from Tom; but on this occasion it failed to soothe her. She said curtly, "I suppose it's not paid for. If we can't afford much, we can afford to live at our own expense, and not on the knavery or the forbearance of tradesmen." With which she threw the locket into a box of odds and ends, and turned the key with some temper.

Years passed, and Madam Liberality was alone. Her mother was dead, and Tom -- poor Tom! -- had been found drowned. Darling was still in India, and the two living boys were in the colonies, farming.

It seemed to be an aggravation of the calamity of Tom's death that he died, as he had lived, in debt. But, as regards Madam Liberality, it was not an unmixed evil. It is one of our bitterest pangs when we survive those we love that with death the opportunity has passed for being kind to them, though we love them more than ever. By what earthly effort could Madam Liberality's mother now be pleased, whom so little had pleased heretofore?

But for poor Tom it was still possible to plan, to economize, to be liberal -- and by these means to pay his debts, and save the fair name of which he had been as reckless as of everything else which he possessed.

Madam Liberality had had many a hard struggle to get Tom a birthday present, but she had never pinched and planned and saved on his behalf as she did now. There is a limit, however, to the strictest economies. It would have taken a longer time to finish her labour of love but for "the other boys." They were good, kind fellows, and having had to earn daily bread where larks do not fall ready cooked into the mouth, they knew more of the realities of life than poor Tom had ever learned. They were prosperous now, and often sent a few pounds to Madam Liberality "to buy a present with."

"And none of your old 'Liberality' tricks, mind!" George wrote on one occasion. "Fit yourself thoroughly out in the latest fashions, and do us credit!"

But it all went to Tom's tailor.

She felt hardly justified in diverting George's money from his purpose; but she had never told the boys of Tom's debts. There was something of her old love of doing things without help in this, and more of her special love for Tom.

It was not from the boys alone that help came to her. Madam Liberality's godmother died, and left her fifty pounds. In one lump she had now got enough to finish her work.

The acknowledgments of these last payments came on Tom's birthday. More and more courteous had grown the tradesmen's letters, and Madam Liberality felt a foolish pleasure in seeing how respectfully they all spoke now of "Your lamented brother, Madam!"

The jeweller's bill was the last; and when Madam Liberality tied up the bundle, she got out Tom's locket and put a bit of his hair into it, and tied it round her throat, sobbing as she did so, "Oh, Tom, if you could have lived and been happy in a small way! Your debts are paid now, my poor boy. I wonder if you know. Oh, Tom, Tom!"

It was her greatest triumph -- to have saved Tom's fair name in the place where he had lived so foolishly and died so sadly.

But the triumphs of childhood cast fewer shadows. There was no one now to say, "Three cheers for Madam Liberality!"

*    *    *    *    *

It was a very cold winter, but Madam Liberality and Jemima, the maid-of-all-work, were warmer than they had been for several previous winters, because they kept better fires. Time heals our sorrows in spite of us, and Madam Liberality was a very cheerful little body now, and as busy as ever about her Christmas-boxes. Those for her nephews and nieces were already despatched. "The boys" were married; Madam Liberality was godmother to several children she had never seen; but the Benjamin of his aunt's heart was Darling's only child -- Tom -- though she had not seen even him.

Madam Liberality was still in the thick of her plans, which were chiefly to benefit the old people and the well-behaved children of the village. All the Christmas-boxes were to be "surprises," and Jemima was in every secret but the one which most concerned her.

Madam Liberality had even some plans for her own benefit. George had talked of coming home in the summer, and she began to think of saving up for a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then the last time she went to the town she saw some curtains of a most artistic pattern, and particularly cheap. So much good taste for so little money was rare in provincial shops. By and by she might do without something which would balance the cost of the curtains. And she had another ambition -- to provide Jemima with black dresses and white muslin aprons for afternoon wear in addition to her wages, that the outward aspect of that good soul might be more in accordance than hitherto with her intrinsic excellence.

She was pondering this when Jemima burst in in her cooking apron, followed up the passage by the steam of Christmas cakes, and carrying a letter.

"It's a big one, Miss," said she. "Perhaps it's a Christmas-box, Miss." And beaming with geniality and kitchen warmth, Jemima returned to her labours.

Madam Liberality made up her mind about the dresses and aprons; then she opened her letter.

It announced the death of her cousin, her godmother's husband. It announced also that, in spite of the closest search for a will, which he was supposed to have made, this could not be found.

Possibly he had destroyed it, intending to make another. As it was he had died intestate, and succession not being limited to heirs male, and Madam Liberality being the eldest child of his nearest relative -- the old childish feeling of its being a dream came over her.

She pinched herself, however, to no purpose. There lay the letter, and after a second reading Madam Liberality picked up the thread of the narrative and arrived at the result -- she had inherited fifteen thousand a year.

The first rational idea which came to her was that there was no difficulty now about getting the curtains; and the second was that their chief merit was a merit no more. What is the good of a thing being cheap when one has fifteen thousand a year?

Madam Liberality poked the fire extravagantly, and sat down to think.

The curtains naturally led her to household questions, and those to that invaluable person, Jemima. That Jemima's wages should be doubled, trebled, quadrupled, was a thing of course. What post she was to fill in the new circumstances was another matter. Remembering Podmore, and recalling the fatigue of dressing herself after her pretty numerous illnesses. Madam Liberality felt that a lady's-maid would be a comfort to be most thankful for. But she could not fancy Jemima in that capacity, or as a housekeeper, or even as head housemaid or cook. She had lived for years with Jemima herself, but she could not fit her into a suitable place in the servants' hall.

However, with fifteen thousand a year, Madam Liberality could buy, if needful, a field, and build a house, and put Jemima into it with a servant to wait upon her. The really important question was about her new domestics. Sixteen servants are a heavy responsibility.

Madam Liberality had very high ideas of the parental duties involved in being the head of a household. She had suffered -- more than Jemima -- over Jemima's lack of scruple as to telling lies for good purposes. Now a footman is a young man who has, no doubt, his own peculiar temptations. What check could Madam Liberality keep upon him? Possibly she might -- under the strong pressure of moral responsibility -- give good general advice to the footman; but the idea of the butler troubled her.

When one has lived alone in a little house for many years one gets timid. She put a case to herself. Say that she knew the butler to be in the habit of stealing the wine, and suspected the gardener of making a good income by the best of the wall fruit, would she have the moral courage to be as firm with these important personages as if she had caught one of the school-children picking and stealing in the orchard? And if not, would not family prayers be a mockery?

Madam Liberality sighed. Poor dear Tom! He had had his faults certainly; but how well he would have managed a butler!

This touched the weak point of her good fortune to the core. It had come too late to heap luxuries about dear "Mother"; too late to open careers for the boys; too late to give mad frolics and girlish gaieties to light hearts, such as she and Darling had once had. Ah, if they could have enjoyed it together years ago!

There remained, however, Madam Liberality's old consolation: one can be happy in the happiness of others. There were nephews and nieces to be provided for, and a world so full of poor and struggling folk that fifteen thousand a year would only go a little way. It was, perhaps, useful that there had been so many articles lately in the papers about begging letters, and impostors, and, the evil effects of the indiscriminate charity of elderly ladies; but the remembrance of them made Madam Liberality's head ache, and troubled her dreams that night.

It was well that the next day was Sunday. Face to face with those greater interests common to the rich and the poor, the living and the dead, Madam Liberality grew calmer under her new cares and prospects. It did not need that brief pause by her mother's grave to remind her how little money can do for us: and the sight of other people wholesomely recalled how much it can effect. Near the church porch she was passed by the wife of a retired chandler, who dressed in very fine silks, and who was accustomed to eye Madam Liberality's old clothes as she bowed to her more obviously than is consistent with good breeding. The little lady nodded very kindly in return. With fifteen thousand a year one can afford to be quite at ease in an old shawl.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Madam Liberality caught herself thinking that if the legacy had been smaller -- say fifty pounds a year -- she would at once have treated herself to certain little embellishments of the old house, for which she had long been ambitious. But it would be absurd to buy two or three yards of rosebud chintz, and tire herself by making covers to two very old sofa-cushions, when the point to be decided was in which of three grandly furnished mansions she would first take up her abode. She ordered a liberal supper, however, which confirmed Jemima in her secret opinion that the big letter had brought good news.

When, therefore, another letter of similar appearance arrived, Jemima snatched up the waiter and burst breathlessly in upon Madam Liberality, leaving the door open-behind her, though it was bitterly cold and the snow fell fast.

And when Madam Liberality opened this letter she learned that her cousin's will had been found, and that (as seems to be natural) he had left his money where it would be associated with more money and kept well together. His heir was a cousin also, but in the next degree -- an old bachelor, who was already wealthy; and he had left Madam Liberality five pounds to buy a mourning ring.

It had been said that Madam Liberality was used to disappointment, but some minutes passed before she quite realized the downfall of her latest visions. Then the old sofa-cushions resumed their importance, and she flattened the fire into a more economical shape, and set vigorously to work to decorate the house with the Christmas evergreens. She had just finished and gone up-stairs to wash her hands when the church clock struck three.

It was an old house, and the window of the bedroom went down to the floor, and had a deep window-seat. Madam Liberality sat down in it and looked out. She expected some linsey-woolsey by the carrier, to make Christmas petticoats, and she was glad to see the hooded waggon ploughing its way through the snow. The goose-pond was firmly frozen, and everything looked as it had looked years ago, except that the carrier's young son went before the waggon and a young dog went before him. They passed slowly out of sight, but Madam Liberality sat on. She gazed dreamily at the old church, and the trees, and the pond, and thought of the past; of her mother, and of poor Tom, and of Darling, and she thought till she fancied that she heard Darling's voice in the passage below. She got up to go down to Jemima, but as she did so she heard a footstep on the stairs, and it was not Jemima's tread. It was too light for the step of any man or woman.

Then the door opened, and on the threshold of Madam Liberality's room stood a little boy dressed in black, with his little hat pushed back from the loveliest of baby faces set in long flaxen hair. The carnation colour of his cheeks was deepened by the frost, and his bright eyes were brighter from mingled daring and doubt and curiosity, as he looked leisurely round the room and said in a slow, high-pitched, and very distinct tone,

"Where are you, Aunt Liberality?"

But, lovely as he was, Madam Liberality ran past him, for another figure was in the doorway now, also in black, and, with a widow's cap; and Madam Liberality and Darling fell sobbing into each other's arms.

"This is better than fifteen thousand a year," said Madam Liberality.

*    *    *    *    *

It is not necessary to say much more. The Major had been killed by a fall from horseback, and Darling came back to live at her old home. She had a little pension, and the sisters were not parted again.

It would be idle to dwell on Madam Liberality's devotion to her nephew, or the princely manner in which he accepted her services. That his pleasure was the object of a new series of plans, and presents, and surprises, will be readily understood. The curtains were bought, but the new carpet had to be deferred in consequence of an extravagant outlay on mechanical toys. When the working of these brought a deeper tint into his cheeks, and a brighter light into his eyes, Madam Liberality was quite happy; and when he broke them one after another, his infatuated aunt believed this to be a precocious development of manly energies.

The longest lived, if not the favourite, toys with him were the old set of scallop-shells, with which he never wearied of making feasts, to which Madam Liberality was never weary of being invited. He had more plums than had ever sweetened her childhood, and when they sat together on two footstools by the sofa, and Tom announced the contents of the dishes in his shrillest voice and lifted the covers, Madam Liberality would say in a tone of apology,

"It's very odd, Darling, and I'm sure at my time of life it's disgraceful, but I cannot feel old!"

We could hardly take leave of Madam Liberality in pleasanter circumstances. Why should we ask whether, for the rest of her life, she was rich or poor, when we may feel so certain that she was contented? No doubt she had many another hope and disappointment to keep life from stagnating.

As a matter of fact she outlived the bachelor cousin, and if he died intestate she must have been rich after all. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she never suffered again from insufficient food or warmth. Perhaps the illnesses of her later years were alleviated by skill and comforts such as hitherto she had never known. Perhaps Darling and she enjoyed a sort of second spring in their old age, and went every year to the Continent, and grew wonderful flowers in the greenhouse, and sent Tom to Eton, and provided for their nephews and nieces, and built churches to their mother's memory, and never had to withhold the liberal hand from helping because it was empty; and so passed by a time of wealth to the hour of death.

Or perhaps the cousin took good care to bequeath his money where there was more money for it to stick to. And Madam Liberality pinched out her little presents as heretofore, and kept herself warm with a hot bottle when she could not afford a fire, and was too thankful to have Darling with her when she was ill to want anything else. And perhaps Darling and she prepared Tom for school, and (like many another widow's son) he did them credit. And perhaps they were quite happy with a few common pot-plants in the sunny window, and kept their mother's memory green by flowers about her grave, and so passed by a life of small cares and small pleasures to where

"Divided households re-unite."

Of one thing we may be quite certain. Rich or poor, she was always

Madam Liberality.

<eob>

Rollo In Naples

By

Jacob Abbott



Chapter I.

The Vetturino.


If ever you make a journey into Italy, there is one thing that you will like very much indeed; and that is the mode of travelling that prevails in that country. There are very few railroads there; and though there are stage coaches on all the principal routes, comparatively few people, except the inhabitants of the country, travel in them. Almost all who come from foreign lands to make journeys in Italy for pleasure, take what is called a vetturino.

There is no English word for vetturino, because where the English language is spoken, there is no such thing. The word comes from the Italian word vettura, which means a travelling carriage, and it denotes the man that owns the carriage, and drives it wherever the party that employs him wishes to go. Thus there is somewhat the same relation between the Italian words vettura and vetturino that there is between the English words chariot and charioteer.

The Italian vetturino, then, in the simplest English phrase that will express it, is a travelling carriage man; that is, he is a man who keeps a carriage and a team of horses, in order to take parties of travellers with them on long journeys, wherever they wish to go. Our word coachman does not express the idea at all. A coachman is a man employed by the owner of a carriage simply to drive it; whereas the vetturino is the proprietor of his establishment; and though he generally drives it himself, still the driving is only a small part of his business. He might employ another man to go with him and drive, but he would on that account be none the less the vetturino.

The vetturino usually takes the entire charge of the party, and provides for them in every respect, -- that is, if they make the arrangement with him in that way, which they generally do, inasmuch as, since they do not, ordinarily, know the language of the country, it is much more convenient for them to arrange with him to take care of them than to attempt to take care of themselves. Accordingly, in making a journey of several days, as, for example, from Genoa to Florence, from Florence to Rome, or from Rome to Venice, or to Naples, the vetturino determines the length of each day's journey; he chooses the hotels where to stop, both at noon and for the night; he attends to the passports in passing the frontiers, and also to the examination of the baggage at the custom houses; and on arriving at the hotels he orders what the travellers require, and settles the bill the next morning. For all this the travellers pay him one round sum, which includes every thing. This sum consists of a certain amount for the carriage and horses, and an additional amount of about a dollar and a half or a dollar and three quarters a day, as agreed upon beforehand, for hotel expenses on the way. Thus, by this mode of travelling, the whole care is taken off from the traveller's mind, and he has nothing to do during the daytime but to sit in his carriage and enjoy himself, and at night to eat, drink, sleep, and take his comfort at the hotel.

It was at Florence that Mr. George and Rollo first commenced to travel with a vetturino. They came to Florence by steamer and railway; that is, by steamer to Leghorn, and thence across the country by railway. Florence is a very pretty place, with the blue and beautiful River Arno running through the middle of it, and ancient stone bridges leading across the river from side to side. The town is filled with magnificent churches and palaces, built, some of them, a thousand years ago, and all so richly adorned with sculptures, paintings, bronzes, and mosaics, that the whole world flock there to see them. People go there chiefly in the winter. At that season the town is crowded with strangers. A great many people, too, go there in the winter to avoid the cold weather which prevails at that time of the year, in all the more northerly countries of Europe.

There is so little winter in Florence that few of the houses have any fireplaces in them except in the kitchen. When there comes a cold day, the people warm themselves by means of a jug or jar of earthen ware, with a handle passing over across the top, by which they carry it about. They fill these jars half full of hot embers, and so carry them with them wherever they want to go. The women, when they sit down, put the jar under their dresses on the floor or pavement beneath them, and the men place it right before them between their feet.

You will see market women and flower girls sitting in the corners of the streets in the winter, attending to their business, and keeping themselves warm all the time with these little fire jars; and artists in the palaces and picture galleries, each with one of them by his side, or close before him, while he is at work copying the works of the great masters, or making drawings from the antique statues.

There is another very curious use that the people of Florence make of these jars; and that is they warm the beds with them when any body is sick, so as to require this indulgence. You would think it very difficult to warm a bed with an open jar filled with burning embers. The way they do it is this: they hang the jar in the inside of a sort of wooden cage, shaped like a bushel basket, and about as large. They turn this cage upside down, and hang the jar up in it by means of a hook depending inside. They turn down the bed clothes and put the cage in it, jar of coals and all. They then put back the bed clothes, and cover the cage all up. They leave it so for a quarter of an hour, and then, carefully turning the clothes down again, they take the jar out, and the bed is warmed.

But to return to Mr. George and Rollo. They engaged a vetturino for the first time at Florence. Mr. George had gone to Florence chiefly for the purpose of examining the immense collections of paintings and statuary which exist there. Rollo went, not on account of the paintings or statues, -- for he did not care much about such things, -- but because he liked to go any where where he could see new places, and be entertained by new scenes. Accordingly, while Mr. George was at work in the galleries of Florence, studying, by the help of catalogues, the famous specimens of ancient art, Rollo was usually rambling about the streets, observing the manners and customs of the people, and watching the singular and curious scenes that every where met his eye.

The reason why there are so many paintings and sculptures in Italy is this: in the middle ages, it was the fashion, in all the central parts of Europe, for the people to spend almost all their surplus money in building and decorating churches. Indeed, there was then very little else that they could do. At the present time, people invest their funds, as fast as they accumulate them, in building ships and railroads, docks for the storage of merchandise, houses and stores in cities, to let for the sake of the rent, and country seats, or pretty private residences of various kinds, for themselves. But in the middle ages very little could be done in the way of investments like these. There were no railroads, and there was very little use for ships. There was no profit to be gained by building houses and stores, for there were so many wars and commotions among the people of the different towns and kingdoms, that nothing was stable or safe. For the same reason it was useless for men to spend their money in building and ornamenting their own houses, for at the first approach of an enemy, the town in which they lived was likely to be sacked, and their houses, and all the fine furniture which they might contain, would be burned or destroyed.

But the churches were safe. The people of the different countries had so much veneration for sacred places, and for every thing connected with religion, that they were afraid to touch or injure any thing that had been consecrated to a religious use. To plunder a church, or a convent, or an abbey, or to do any thing to injure or destroy the property that they contained, was regarded as sacrilege; and sacrilege they deemed a dreadful crime, abhorred by God and man. Thus, while they would burn and destroy hundreds of dwellings without any remorse, and turn the wretched inmates out at midnight into the streets to die of exposure, terror, and despair, they would stop at once when they came to the church, afraid to harm it in any way, or to touch the least thing that it contained. Accordingly, while every thing else in a conquered town was doomed to the most reckless destruction, all that was in the church, -- the most delicate paintings, and the most costly gold and silver images and utensils -- were as safe as if they were surrounded by impregnable castle walls.

Of course these notions were very mistaken ones. According to the teachings of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, it must be a greater sin to burn down the cottage of a poor widow, and turn her out at midnight into the streets to die, than to plunder for gain the richest altar in the world.

From these and various other similar causes, it happened that, in the middle ages, -- that is, from five hundred to a thousand years ago, -- almost all the great expenditures of money, in all the great cities and towns of Europe, were made for churches. Sometimes these churches were so large that they were several hundred years in building. One generation would begin, another would continue, and a third would finish the work; that is, provided the finishing work was ever done. Great numbers of them remain unfinished to the present day, and always will remain so.

It is generally, however, the exterior which remains incomplete. Within they are magnificent beyond description. They are so profusely adorned with altars, chapels, crucifixes, paintings, vessels of gold and silver, and with sculptures and monuments of every kind, that on entering them one is quite bewildered with the magnificence of the scene.

There are a great many different altars where divine service may be performed, some arranged along the sides of the church, in the recesses between the pillars, and others in the transepts, and in various little chapels opening here and there from the transepts and the aisles; and so extensive and vast is the interior that sometimes four or five different congregations are engaged in worship in different parts of the church at the same time, without at all disturbing one another.

One of the most celebrated of these great churches is the cathedral at Florence, where Mr. George and Rollo were now staying. There is a representation of it on the next page, which will give you some idea of its form, though it can convey no conception of its immense magnitude.

The dome that surmounts the centre of the building is the largest in the world. It was a hundred years after the church was commenced before the dome was put on. The dome is about a hundred and forty feet wide from side to side, and almost as high as it is wide. It is more than a hundred and thirty feet high, which is enough for twelve or fifteen stories of a good-sized house. And this is the dome alone. The whole height of the church, from the ground to the top of the cross, is nearly four hundred feet. You will get a better idea of how high this is, if you ask of your father, or of some one that knows, what the height is of some tall steeple near where you live.

When the architect who conceived the idea of finishing the church by putting this dome upon it first proposed it, the other architects of the town declared that it could not be done. It was impossible, they said, to build so large a dome on the top of so lofty a building. But he insisted that it was not impossible. He could not only build the dome at that height, but he could first build an octagonal lantern, he said, on the top of the church, and then build the dome upon that, which would carry the dome up a great deal higher. At last they consented to let him make the attempt; and he succeeded. You see the dome in the engraving, and the octagonal lantern beneath it, on which it rests. The lantern is the part which has the round windows.

You see to the left of the church, at the farther end, a tall, square tower. This is the bell tower. There are six bells in it. It was designed to have a spire upon it, but the spire has not yet been built, and perhaps it never will be.

This bell tower alone cost an enormous sum of money. It is faced on every side, as indeed the church itself is, with different colored marbles, and the four walls of it, on the outside, are so profusely adorned with sculptures, statues, and other costly and elaborate architectural decorations, that it would take a week to examine them fully in detail.

The part of the church which is presented to view in the engraving is the end. The front proper is on a line with the farther side of the bell tower. The engraving does not show us the length of the edifice at all, except so far as we gain an idea of it by the long procession which we see at the side. As I have already said, the length is more than five hundred feet, which is nearly half a quarter of a mile.

The putting on of the dome was considered the greatest achievement in the building of the church; and the architect who planned and superintended the work gained for himself immortal honor. After his death a statue of him was made, and placed in a niche in the wall of the houses on one side of the square, opposite the dome. He is represented as sitting in a chair, holding a plan of the work in his hand, and looking up to see it as it appeared completed. We can just see this statue in the foreground of the picture, on the left.

And now I must return to the story.

While Mr. George and Rollo were in Florence, Rollo was occupied mainly, as I have already said, in rambling about the town, and observing the scenes of real and active life, which every where met his view in the streets and squares, while Mr. George spent his time chiefly in the churches, and in the galleries of painting and sculpture, studying the works of art. One morning after breakfast, Mr. George was going to the great gallery in the palace of the grand duke, to spend the day there. Rollo said that he would walk with him a little way. So they walked together along the street which led by the bank of the river.

"Uncle George," said Rollo, "how much longer is it going to take for you to study these paintings and statues till you are satisfied?"

"Five or ten years," said Mr. George.

"O uncle George!" exclaimed Rollo; "I have seen as much of them as I want to see already."

"You have not seen one of them yet," said Mr. George.

"Not seen one of them!" repeated Rollo.

"No, not one of them," replied Mr. George.

"I don't know what you mean by that," said Rollo.

"I'll show you what I mean some time or other," said Mr. George, "when you are in one of the galleries with me."

"I should like to have you," said Rollo; "but now I really want to know when you are going to be ready to go on towards Naples. I'd rather see Mount Vesuvius than all the paintings in the world, especially if there is a good blazing eruption coming out of it, and plenty of red-hot stones."

"The first question to be settled," said Mr. George, "is, how we shall go."

"Are there more ways than one?" asked Rollo.

"Yes," said Mr. George; "there are three or four ways. We are here at Florence, in the interior of the country, and Rome is also in the interior; but there is a seaport on the coast for each city. So we can go from here to Leghorn, which is the seaport for Florence, by the railroad, and there we can take a steamboat and go to Civita Vecchia, which is the seaport for Rome. There we can land and go up to Rome in some sort of a carriage."

"I like that way," said Rollo. "I like that best of all. There are a railroad and a steamboat both in it."

"Another way," continued Mr. George, "is, we can go by the malle post."[A]

[Footnote A: The malle post is a sort of despatch carriage, that takes the mails. It can take also two or three passengers. They change horses very often with the malle post, and drive very fast.]

"I should like to go by the malle post," said Rollo; "they keep the horses on the gallop almost all the way."

"Then again," continued Mr. George, "if we choose we can engage a vetturino."

"Yes," said Rollo; "there are plenty of them always standing out here by the bridge. They ask me almost, every day, when I go by, whether I want a carriage. 'Want a carriage, sir,' they say, 'to go to Rome, to Naples, to Venice, to Genoa?'"

Here Rollo repeated the words of the vetturini, imitating the peculiar intonations with which they spoke, in quite a skilful manner: "To Rome! Naples! Venice! Nice! Genoa!"

"Yes," said Mr. George, "those are the men."

"And, come to think of it," said Rollo, "I believe, after all, I would rather go with a vetturino. We ride along so pleasantly day after day, and go through all the towns, cracking our whip, and seeing so many curious things all along the road side!"

"Yes," said Mr. George; "but there is one difficulty. We are only two, and the carriages of the vetturini are usually large enough for four or six."

"And would not they go for two?" asked Rollo.

"O, yes," said Mr. George; "they will go for two; but then the men must have full price for their carriage and horses, and that makes it very expensive for two."

"What do people do, then," asked Rollo, "when there are only two to go?"

"They generally find some other people that want to go," replied Mr. George, "and make up a party, and so divide the expense."

"And can't we do that?" asked Rollo.

"We do not know any body here," said Mr. George.

Rollo did not know what to say to this, and so he was silent, and walked along, thinking what it was best to do. Presently, after a moment's pause, he added, -- 

"I mean to ask some of the vetturinos if they have not got a carriage for two."

"Vetturini is the plural of vetturino, in Italian," said Mr. George, "and not vetturinos."

"But I am not speaking Italian," said Rollo; "I am speaking English."

"True," said Mr. George.

At this stage of the conversation Mr. George and Rollo arrived at the end of the bridge across the Arno, which Mr. George had to pass over in going to his gallery. This bridge is a very ancient one, and is quite a curiosity, as it is built massively of stone, and is lined with a row of shops on each side, so that in passing over it you would think it was a street instead of a bridge, were it not that the shops are so small that you can look directly through them, and see the river through the windows on the back side.

These shops are occupied by jewellers, who keep for sale the mosaic pins, bracelets, and earrings, for which Florence is so famous, and great numbers of these mosaics, as well as various other kinds of jewelry, are exposed to view in little show cases that are arranged in a curious manner, on small counters before the windows, so that any one can see them all in passing along.

On reaching this bridge, Rollo concluded to stop, and look at the mosaics, and so his uncle left him and went on alone.

As Rollo was standing at one of the little shop windows a few minutes after his uncle had left him, a man dressed in a blue frock, and with a sort of woollen comforter of bright colors about his neck, came up to him, and asked him in French whether the party that he belonged to did not want a carriage to go to Rome. Rollo perceived at once that the man was a vetturino.

"I don't know but that we do," said he. "Have you got a carriage?"

"Yes," replied the vetturino; "I have got a large and very nice carriage, and four excellent horses."

"Then it won't do," said Rollo, "for there are only two in our party, and a large carriage and four horses will be more than we need."

"O, but that will make no difference," said the vetturino. "You see I'm a return, and I will take you about as cheap as you can go in a small carriage."

"For how much?" asked Rollo.

"Why, my price is three napoleons a day," said the vetturino, "for a full party; but as you are only two, I will take you for less. Have you got a great deal of baggage?"

"No; very little," said Rollo.

After some further conversation with the vetturino, Rollo concluded to make an appointment with him to come to the hotel that evening and see his uncle George.

"Come immediately after dinner," said Rollo.

"At what time?" asked the vetturino.

"Why, we dine at half past six," said Rollo, "and uncle George will be through at eight."

"Then I will come at eight," said the vetturino.

One reason why Rollo concluded to make this appointment was, that he particularly liked the vetturino's appearance. He had an open and intelligent countenance, and his air and bearing were such as to give Rollo the idea that he was a very good-natured and sociable, as well as capable man. In answer to a question from Rollo, he said that his name was Vittorio.

When Mr. George came home that evening, a short time before dinner, Rollo told him what he had done.

"Good!" said Mr. George. "We are in luck. I should not be surprised if we should be able to fill his carriage for him. I have found a party."

Mr. George further stated to Rollo that, in rambling through the rooms of the gallery where he had been spending the day, he had met with a lady of his acquaintance who was travelling with two children and a maid, and that he had been talking with her about forming a party to travel together to Naples.

"Are the children girls or boys?" asked Rollo.

"One of them is a girl and the other is a boy," said Mr. George; "but the girl is sick."

"Is she?" asked Rollo.

"At least she has been sick," said Mr. George. "She has had a fever, but now she is slowly getting well. Her name is Rosalie."

"I think that is rather a sentimental name," said Rollo.

"They call her Rosie, sometimes," said Mr. George.

"That's a little better," said Rollo, "but not much. And what is her other name?"

"Gray," said Mr. George.

*    *    *    *    *

Vittorio came at eight o'clock that evening, according to appointment. The first thing that Mr. George did was to propose to go and see his carriage. So they all went together to see it. It was in a stable near by. Mr. George and Rollo were both well pleased with the carriage. It had four seats inside, like an ordinary coach. Besides these there were two good seats outside, under a sort of canopy which came forward over them like a chaise top. In front of these, and a little lower down, was the driver's seat.

The inside of such a coach is called the interior.[B] The place outside, under the chaise top, is called the coupé.[C] Rollo generally called it the coop.

[Footnote B: In French, l'interieur.]

[Footnote C: Pronounced coopay, only the last syllable is spoken rather short.]

The chaise top in front could be turned back, so as to throw the two seats there entirely open. In the same manner the top of the interior could be opened, so as to make the carriage a barouche.

"It is just exactly such a carriage as we want," said Rollo, "if Mrs. Gray will only let you and me have the coop."

"We'll see about that," said Mr. George.

Mr. George then proceeded to discuss with Vittorio the terms and conditions of the agreement which should be made between them, in case the party should conclude to hire the carriage; and after ascertaining precisely what they were, he told Vittorio that he would decide the next morning, and he appointed ten o'clock as the time when Vittorio was to call to get the decision. Mr. George and Rollo then went back to the hotel.

"Why did not you engage him at once?" asked Rollo, as they walked along. "It was such a good carriage!"

"Because I want first to see what terms and conditions I can make with Mrs. Gray," replied Mr. George.

"Why?" asked Rollo; "don't you think she will be willing to pay her share?"

"O, yes," said Mr. George. "She says she is willing to pay the whole, if I will only let her go with us."

"And shall you let her pay the whole?" asked Rollo.

"No, indeed," replied Mr. George. "I shall let her pay her share, which will be just two thirds, for she has four in her party, and we are two."

"And so her portion will be four sixths," said Rollo, "and that is the same as two thirds."

"Exactly," said Mr. George.

"So then it is all settled," said Rollo.

"About the money it is," replied Mr. George; "but that was not what I referred to. When two parties form a plan for travelling together in the same carriage for many days, it is necessary to have a very precise understanding beforehand about every thing, or else in the end they are very sure to quarrel."

"To quarrel!" repeated Rollo.

"Yes," said Mr. George; "and generally the more intimate their friendship for each other is before they set out, the more sure they are to quarrel in the end."

"That's curious," said Rollo.

"They begin by being very polite to each other," continued Mr. George; "but by and by, a thousand questions begin to come up, and there is nobody to decide them. For a time each one professes a great readiness to yield to the other; but before long each begins to think that the other assumes too much of the direction. Mrs. A. thinks that Mrs. B. keeps the carriage too much shut up, or that she always manages to have the best seat; and Mrs. B. thinks that Mrs. A. takes the best room too often at the hotels; or that she is never ready at the proper time; or that she always manages to have what she likes at the hotels, without paying enough regard to the wishes of the rest of the party."

"Is that the way they act?" asked Rollo.

"Yes," said Mr. George; "that is the way exactly. I have heard the secret history of a great many travelling parties that began very brightly, but ended in heart-burnings, miffs, and all sorts of troubles. The only way to prevent this is to have a very definite and precise understanding on all these points before we set out. And that is what I am going to have with Mrs. Gray."

"And suppose she won't come to any agreement," said Rollo. "She'll say, 'La, it's no matter. We shall not quarrel.'"

"Then I won't go with her," said Mr. George.



Chapter II.

Contracts And Agreements.


In arranging for a journey in Italy with a vetturino, there are three separate classes of expenditure to be provided for. First, the carriage and horses; secondly, the board at the hotels by the way; and thirdly, the buono manos.

As to the carriage and horses, the question, in the case of Mr. George's party, was soon settled. Vittorio said that his regular price was three napoleons a day for a full party. This is about twelve dollars, and includes the keeping of the horses, and all the tolls, tariffs, and way expenses of every kind. Mr. George had ascertained that this was about the usual price, and he did not ask Vittorio to take any less.

For the board of the party by the way, Vittorio said that they could themselves call for what they wanted at the hotels, and pay their own bills, or he would provide for them all the way, on their paying him a certain sum per day for each person. This last is the usual plan adopted when travelling in Italy, for the hotel keepers are very apt to charge too much when the travellers call for and pay the bills themselves. Whereas, when the vetturino pays, the hotel keepers are much more reasonable. They are aware that the vetturino knows what the charges ought to be, and they are afraid, if they overcharge him for his party, that then he will take his next party to some other hotel.

"And what shall you give us," asked Mr. George, in talking with Vittorio on this subject, "if you provide for us?"

"In the morning," replied Vittorio, "before we set out, there will be coffee or tea, and bread and butter, with eggs. Then, when we stop at noon, you will have a second breakfast of mutton chops, fried potatoes, fried fish, omelets, and other such things. Then, at night, when the day's journey is done, you will have dinner."

"Very well," said Mr. George. "I should think that that might do. And how much must we pay you?"

"It used to be eight francs a day," said Vittorio; "but the price of every thing is raised, and now we cannot do it well for less than nine francs. I will do it for nine francs apiece all round."

"But there are two boys," said Mr. George. "Don't you charge any thing extra for boys?"

"No, sir," said Vittorio, smiling. He thought at first that Mr. George was going to ask for some abatement on account of a portion of the party being young. "No, sir; we don't charge any thing extra for them."

"You would charge extra for them, I think," said Mr. George, "if you only knew how much they can eat."

Vittorio smiled and said that if the party would pay nine francs apiece all round, he should be satisfied, without asking for any thing extra on account of the boys.

The third item of expense in an Italian journey consists of the buono manos. In Italy, and indeed generally in Europe, though especially in Italy, nobody, in rendering you a service, is satisfied with receiving merely what you agreed to pay for the service. Every one expects something over at the end, as a token of your satisfaction with him. If you employ a guide in a town to show you about to the places and things that are curious there, under an agreement that he is to have a dollar a day, he is not satisfied at night if you pay him merely a dollar. He expects twenty cents or a quarter of a dollar over, as a buono mano, as it is called. This is the understanding on which the bargain is made.

In the same manner, when you pay your bill at the hotel, the waiter expects you to give him a buono mano. If any body renders the vetturino a service along the road, it is the vetturino who pays them, because it is in the agreement that he is to pay the way expenses; but then, after getting their pay from him, and also his buono mano, they generally come to the carriage and ask for another buono mano from the party of travellers. Some travellers get vexed and out of patience with this system, and always give, if they give at all, with scowling looks and moody mutterings. Others, seeing how poor all the people are, and how hard it is for them to get their living, are very willing to pay, especially as it is generally only a few cents in each case that is required. Still, unless the traveller understands the system, and prepares himself beforehand with a stock of small change, the buono mano business gives him a good deal of trouble. If he does so provide himself, and if he falls into the custom good naturedly, as one of the established usages of the country, which is moreover not without its advantages, it becomes a source of pleasure to him to pay the poor fellows their expected fees.

"Rollo," said Mr. George, "I am going to put the whole business of the buono manos into your hands."

"Good!" said Rollo. "I'll take the business if you will only give me the money."

"How much will it require, Vittorio, for each day, to do the thing up handsomely?" asked Mr. George.

Vittorio immediately began to make a calculation. He reckoned in pauls, the money which is used most in the central parts of Italy. The substance of his calculation was, that for the whole party about half a dollar would be a proper sum to pay to the domestic at the hotel where they stopped for the night, and a quarter of a dollar or less at noon. Then there were chambermaids, ostlers, and drivers of extra horses or oxen to help up the long hills, all of whom would like a small buono mano. This would bring the amount up to about six francs, or a dollar and a quarter a day, on the plan of doing the thing up handsomely, as Mr. George had proposed.

"You mean to be generous with them, uncle George," said Rollo.

"Yes," said Mr. George. "In travelling in Italy, pay out liberally to every body that renders you any service, but not a sou to beggars. That's my rule."

"Besides," he continued, "it is good policy for us to be generous in this case, for Mrs. Gray will pay two thirds of the money. So that you and I, sitting in the coop, as you call it, will have all the pleasure of the generosity, with only one third of the expense of it."

While Mr. George was saying this, he took his wallet out of his pocket, and opened to the compartment of it which contained napoleons.

"Let us see," said he; "we shall be ten days on the way in going to Naples, and Sunday makes eleven. Six francs a day for eleven days makes sixty-six francs."

So saying, he took out three gold napoleons, for the sixty francs, and six francs in silver, and handing the whole to Rollo, said, "There's the money."

"But, uncle George," said Rollo, "I can't pay the buono manos in gold."

"No," said Mr. George; "you must get the money changed, of course."

"And what shall I get it changed into?" asked Rollo.

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Mr. George. "That's for you to find out. We have three different kinds of currency between here and Naples. We are now in Tuscany. After we get through Tuscany we come into the Roman states, and after we get through the Roman states we shall come into the kingdom of the two Sicilies, where Naples is. You will require different money in all these countries, and you must look out and not have any left over, or at least very little, when you cross the frontiers."

"But how shall I manage that?" asked Rollo.

"I don't know," said Mr. George, "any more than you do. If I had it to do, I should try to find out. But that is your affair, not mine. You said that if I would give you the money you would take the whole business of the buono manos off my hands. I must go now and see about my arrangement with Mrs. Gray."

"Well," said Rollo, "I'll find out what to do."

Thus the buono mano question was disposed of.

As to the board, Mr. George made a verbal agreement with Vittorio that he would pay fifty-four francs a day for the whole party, and that, in consideration of that sum, Vittorio was to provide board and lodging for them all, at the best hotels, and in the best style. He paid for five days in advance. At the end of that time, the party were to be at liberty either to continue the system at the same rate, or to abandon it, and pay the bills at the hotels themselves.

In respect to the carriage and horses, Vittorio brought him an agreement, filled up from a printed form, which he and Vittorio signed in duplicate. It was as follows. There was a picture of a carriage and horses at the head of it. I give you the document in the original French. If you are studying French yourself, you can read it. If not, you must ask some one to translate it for you, if you wish to know what it all means.

Vittorio Gonsalvi, Voiturier.

FLORENCE, le 22 Mars, 1857.

Par la présente écriture, faite à double original, pour valoir et pour être strictement observée, comme de droit, par les parties contractantes, a été fixe, et convenu ce qui suit.

Le propriétaire de voiture, Gonsalvi, domicilié à Rome, promet et s'oblige de servir Monsieur George Holiday et sa suite dans le voyage qu'il veut entreprendre de Florence à Napoli, par la voie de Arezzo, Perugia, Rome, et Terracina, et être conduit par un bon voiturier, pour le prix convenu de trois cents francs, pour la voiture et les quatre chevaux.

Moyennant ce paiement, qui s'effectuera moitié avant de partir, moitié à Napoli, le propriétaire de voiture, ou son conducteur délégué, est tenu des obligations ci-après designées.

Tous les frais occasionnés pour le passage des fleuves, rivières, ponts, et montagnes, ainsi que ceux des barrières, seront à la charge du voiturier conducteur.

L'étrenne d'usage à donner au voiturier conducteur sera selon son bon service.

Le dit voyage sera fait dans dix jours complets.

Le depart de Florence est fixé dans le journée du 23 courant, a onze heures matin.

Pour tous les jours en sus, qu'il plairait à dit Monsieur Holiday de s'arrêter dans une ville, ou qu'il y fut forcé par des imprévues, il est convenu qu'il payera cinq francs par jour par cheval pour la nourriture des chevaux.

Le voiturier devra constamment descendre dans de bonnes auberges, et partira tous les matins de bonne heure, pour arriver tous les soirs avant la nuit à l'auberge ou l'on devra coucher.

Et pour l'observance des conditions ci-dessus mentionnées, les parties interessées l'ont volontairement signée.

George Holiday, Vittorio Gonsalvi.

The agreement which Mr. George made with Mrs. Gray was not so difficult to understand. Mrs. Gray did not, as Rollo had predicted, appear unwilling to make a definite arrangement in respect to the respective privileges and rights of the various members of the party in the carriage and at the hotels. She was a very sensible woman, and she saw the propriety of Mr. George's suggestion at once. Mr. George attributed the necessity of it, in part, to there being so many children in the party.

"When there are children," said he, "we must have system and a routine."

"That is very true," said Mrs. Gray.

"And the more formal and precise the arrangement is, the better," said Mr. George. "It amuses them, and occupies their minds, to watch the operation of it."

"Yes," said Mrs. Gray; "I have no doubt of it."

"Then," said Mr. George, "I will draw up some articles of agreement, and if you approve of them, Rosie shall make a copy of them. Rosie shall keep the copy, too, after she has made it, and shall see that the rules are all observed."

"But what shall I do," said Rosie, "if any body breaks any of the rules?"

"Then they must be punished," said Mr. George. "You shall determine what the punishment shall be, and I will see that it is inflicted."

So Mr. George drew up a set of rules; but before proposing them to Mrs. Gray and her children, he read them to Rollo. He read as follows: -- 

I.

The interior of the carriage, all the way, shall belong to Mrs. Gray and her family, and the coupé to Mr. George and Rollo. Mr. George or Rollo may, perhaps, sometimes ride inside; but if they do so, it is to be understood that they ride there as the guests of Mrs. Gray; and in the same manner, if at any time any of Mrs. Gray's party ride outside, it will be as the guests of Mr. George and Rollo.

"Good!" said Rollo. "I like that regulation very much. I shall not want to get inside very often."

"You may sometimes wish to invite Rosie to take your place outside, when it is very pleasant, and you take her place inside," suggested Mr. George.

"No," said Rollo; "there will be room outside for her and me too. She can sit right between you and me."

"And, perhaps, sometimes I may invite Rosie and her brother to come outside and ride with you, while I go inside with Mrs. Gray," added Mr. George.

"That will be a good plan," said Rollo. "But now what is the second rule?"

II.

On arriving at a hotel for the night, Mrs. Gray is to take her choice first of all the rooms shown, for herself and Rosie. Then from the other rooms Mr. George is to choose the bed that he will sleep in. Then the two boys are to choose from the beds that are left, each to have the first choice alternately, beginning with Josie.

"Why should Josie begin?" asked Rollo. "I am the oldest."

"True," said Mr. George; "but it is of no consequence at all which begins, and as we are drawing up the rules, it is polite and proper to give Josie the precedence in such a point."

"Very well," said Rollo; "go on. How about Susannah?"

"O, it is not necessary to make any rule about Susannah," replied Mr. George. "I suppose that Mrs. Gray will take her into her room, if there is a spare bed there. If not, they must make some other arrangement for her."

III.

Every evening before the party separate for the night, Mrs. Gray shall decide at what hour we shall set off the next morning, and also at what hour we shall breakfast, after first hearing what Vittorio's opinion is as to the best time for setting out.

"Why can't we have a fixed time for setting out every day?" asked Rollo, "and agree about it once for all beforehand."

"Because we have different distances to go on different days," said Mr. George, "so that sometimes we shall have to set out much earlier than will be necessary at other times."

"Then why should not we consult together as to the time?" asked Rollo. "I don't see any reason for leaving it altogether to one of the party."

"Why, you see that Mrs. Gray is a lady," replied Mr. George, "and it takes a lady longer to dress and get ready than men. Besides, she has two children to look after."

"And Susannah to help her," said Rollo.

"True," said Mr. George; "still it seems proper that the time for setting out should be fixed by the lady, -- of course, after hearing what the vetturino has to say."

"I think so too," said Rollo; "so go on."

IV.

Any person who is not ready to sit down to breakfast at the time which shall have been appointed by Mrs. Gray the evening before, or who shall not be ready to enter the carriage at the time appointed, shall pay a fine, except in the case hereinafter provided for. If the person so behindhand is one of the children, the fine shall be two cents, or the value thereof in the currency of the country where we may chance to be; and if it is one of the grown persons, the fine shall be three times that amount, that is, six cents.

"Yes; but suppose we don't wake up?" suggested Rollo.

"That contingency is provided for in the next article," said Mr. George.

V.

It shall be Mr. George's duty to knock at all the bedroom doors every morning, three quarters of an hour before the time fixed for breakfast; and if he fails to do so, then he shall pay all the fines for tardiness that may be incurred that morning by any of the party.

"Very good!" said Rollo.

VI.

It shall be Rosie's duty to decide whether or not any persons are tardy any morning; and her mother's watch shall be the standard of time. Her decisions shall be without appeal; and no excuses whatever shall be heard, nor shall there be any release from the fine, except in the case of a failure of Mr. George to knock at the doors, as hereinbefore provided.

"But we might some of us have a good excuse some time," said Rollo.

"True," said Mr. George; "we doubtless shall. But if we go upon the plan of admitting excuses, then there will be a long debate every morning, on the question whether the excuses are good or not, which will cause a great deal of trouble. It is better for us to pay the fine at once. It is not much, you know."

"Well," said Rollo, "go on."

VII.

Josie is hereby appointed treasurer, to collect and keep the fines.

"And what is to be done with the money?" asked Rollo.

"You will see," said Mr. George.

VIII.

Any one of the party who shall at any time make complaint of any thing in respect to the carriage, or the riding during the day, or in respect to the food provided at the hotels, or the rooms, or the beds, when we stop for the night, except when such complaint relates to an evil which may be remedied, and is made with a view to having it remedied, shall be fined one cent, or the value thereof in the currency of the country. Rosie is to be the sole judge of the infractions of this rule, and is to impose the fine, while Josie, as before, is to collect and keep the money.

"I wish you would make me the treasurer," said Rollo.

"No," said Mr. George; "you have the care of the buono mano fund. Josie shall be treasurer for the fines."

"Very well," said Rollo.

IX.

On the arrival of the party at Naples, the amount of the fine money shall be expended in the famous Neapolitan confectionery, and shall be divided equally among the three children.

"Good!" said Rollo. "But, uncle George, I don't think you ought to call us children exactly. We are almost all of us twelve or thirteen."

"True," said Mr. George, "you are not children; but what can I call you to distinguish you from the grown persons of the party. The regular and proper designation for persons under age, in a legal document, is infants."

"Hoh!" said Rollo, "that is worse than children."

"I might call you the young persons, or the junior members of the party."

"Yes," said Rollo, "that will be better; the junior members of the party."

So it was agreed to strike out the word children wherever it occurred in the document, and insert in lieu of it the phrase junior members of the party.

With this correction the document was read to Mrs. Gray in the hearing of Rosie and Josie. They all approved it in every respect. The draught was then given to Rosie in order that she might make a fair copy of it. When the copy was made, the nine rules were read again in the hearing of the whole party, and all agreed to abide by them.

Thus the arrangements for the journey were complete; and Mrs. Gray, after learning from Vittorio that the first day's journey would not be long, and that it would answer to set out at any time before noon, fixed the hour for departure at eleven o'clock. Vittorio said he would be at the door half an hour before, in order to have time to load the baggage.



Chapter III.

The Journey.


The journey from Florence to Naples, as planned and provided for by the contracts and agreements described in the last chapter, was prosecuted from day to day, until its completion, in a very successful and prosperous manner. The various contingencies likely to occur having been foreseen and provided for by the contract and the rules, every thing worked smoothly and well, and none of those discussions, disagreements, and misunderstandings occurred, which so often mar the pleasure of parties travelling together in one company for many days.

Mrs. Gray was fined for not being ready for breakfast at the time appointed, on the very first morning after leaving Florence. It was at a place called Arezzo. The time appointed for the breakfast was at seven o'clock. Mr. George knocked at all the doors a little before quarter past six. About quarter before seven the two boys came into the breakfast room, and soon afterwards Mr. George and Rosie came. The breakfast was brought in and set upon the table by the waiter a few minutes before seven. The boys immediately began to set the chairs round.

"Quick! quick!" said Josie. "Let us sit down quick, and mother will be tardy, and have to pay a fine."

"Ah, but it does not go by our sitting down," said Rollo. "It goes by Mrs. Gray's watch."

"Yes," said Rosie; "I have got the watch. It wants a minute of the time now."

"I hope she won't come," said Josie.

"She will come," said Rosie. "She has been almost ready for some time."

The children all took their seats at the table. Rosie had the watch before her, and was closely observing the minute hand. Mr. George, who thought it not polite that he should take his seat before Mrs. Gray came, stood waiting by the fire. It was a cool morning, and so Mr. George had made a little fire when he first got up.

Notwithstanding Rosie's prediction, Mrs. Gray did not come. Rosie watched the second hand, and as soon as it passed the mark she said, -- 

"There! it is seven o'clock; now mother is tardy."

Josie clapped his hands, and even Rollo looked quite pleased. In about two minutes the door of Mrs. Gray's bedroom opened, and Mrs. Gray appeared.

"You are too late, mother!" said Josie, in an exulting tone. "You are too late!"

"It does not depend on you to decide," said Mrs. Gray; "it depends upon Rosie."

"Well, mother, you are really too late," said Rosie. "You are two minutes beyond the time, or a minute and a half, at the very least, when you opened the door. So you must pay the fine."

"Yes; and you must pay it to me," said Josie. "I am the treasurer."

"But you have not heard my excuse yet," said Mrs. Gray. "You don't know but that I have got a good excuse."

"Ah, that makes no difference, mother," said Josie. "Excuses go for nothing."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Gray. "Is that the agreement? Let us see, Rosie."

So Rosie took the paper out of her pocket, and with Josie's assistance, -- who looked over very eagerly all the time, -- she found the passage, and Josie read as follows, speaking the words in a very distinct and emphatic manner: -- 

"'No excuses shall be heard, nor shall there be any release from the fine, except,' and so forth, and so forth. So you see, mother, you can't be excused."

"I see," said Mrs. Gray. "The language is very plain indeed; so I'll pay the fine. I pay it very willingly. It would be very dishonorable in any of us, after having deliberately adopted the rules, to manifest any unwillingness to abide by them."

So Mrs. Gray took out of her pocket a small silver coin called a paul, which Mr. George said was a good deal more than six cents, but which she said was near enough to the amount of the fine, and paid it into Josie's hands. Josie put it safely into a certain compartment of his wallet, which he had set apart for the purpose.

The truth was, that Mrs. Gray contrived to be tardy that morning on purpose, in order to set an example of exact and cheerful submission to the law, and to give a practical illustration, in her own case, of the strictness with which, when once enacted, such laws ought to be enforced. She knew very well that if she had once submitted to be fined, when she was only a minute and a half behind the time, and also to be refused a hearing for her excuse, nobody could afterwards expect any indulgence. The effect produced was just what she had intended, and the whole party were extremely punctual all the way. There were only a few fines assessed, and they were all paid at once, without any objection.

The road lay for a day through a small country called Tuscany. The scenery was very beautiful. Although it was so early in the spring, the wheat fields were every where very green, and in the hedges, and along the banks by the road side, multitudes of flowers were blooming. For a considerable portion of the way, where our travellers passed, the occupation of the inhabitants was that of braiding straw for bonnets; and here every body seemed to be braiding. In the streets of the villages, at the doors of the houses, and all along the roads every where, men, women, and children were to be seen standing in little groups, or walking about together in the sun, braiding the straw with a rapid motion, like that of knitting. They had a little bundle of prepared straw, at their side, and the braid which they had made hung rolled up in a coil before them. They looked contented and happy at their work, so that the scene was a very pleasing, as well as a very curious one to see.

After leaving the frontiers of Tuscany, the party entered the Papal States -- a country occupying the centre of Italy, with Rome for the capital of it. The Papal States are so called because they are under the dominion of the pope. Of course the Catholic religion reigns here in absolute supremacy.

While passing through this country, the children, or rather, as Rollo would wish to have it expressed, the young people of the party, were very much interested in observing the crosses which were put up here and there by the road side, with the various emblems and symbols connected with our Saviour's death affixed to them. The first time that one of these crosses attracted their attention, Rosie was riding in the coupé with Mr. George and Rollo. There was room enough for her to sit very comfortably between them.

"See!" said Rosie; "see! Look at that cross, with all those images and figures upon it!"

The cross was pretty large, and was made of wood. It was set up by the road side, like a sign post in America. From the middle of the post out to the left hand end of the arm of the cross, there was a spear fixed. This spear, of course, represented the weapon of the Roman soldier, by which the body of Jesus was pierced in the side. From the same part of the post out to the end of the opposite arm of the cross was a pole with two sponges at the end of it, which represented the sponges with which the soldiers reached the vinegar up for Jesus to drink. Then all along the cross bar were various other emblems, such as the nails, the hammer, a pair of pincers, a little ladder, a great key, and on the top a cock, to represent the cock which crowed at the time of Peter's betrayal of his Lord.

Rollo and Rosie both looked at these things very eagerly, as the carriage drove by. Rosie seemed somewhat shocked at the sight.

"How curious that is!" said Rollo.

"I suppose it is all idolatry," said Rosie, speaking very seriously.

"No," said Mr. George, "it is not necessarily idolatry. These kind of contrivances originated in the middle ages, when the poor people who lived in all these countries were very ignorant, as indeed they are now; and inasmuch as they could not read, and there were no schools in which to teach them, they had to be instructed by such contrivances as these."

"They are very poor contrivances, I think," said Rollo.

"They would be very poor as a substitute for Sunday schools, and other such advantages as the children enjoy in America," said Mr. George; "but not very poor, after all, for the people for whom they were intended. Go back in imagination five hundred years, and conceive of a little child, born in one of these peasants' huts. His father and mother probably have never even seen a book, and are not capable of understanding any thing that is not perfectly simple and plain. The child, walking along the road side, sees this cross. He stops to look up at it, and wonders what all those little objects fastened upon it mean. After a while, when he grows a little older, he asks his mother, when she is coming by with him some day, what they mean. Now, she would not have been able, of herself, and without any aid, to give the child any regular instruction whatever, but she can explain to him about the cross, and the various emblems that are upon it."

"Yes," said Rosie; "I should think she could do that."

"The child," continued Mr. George, "in looking upon the cross, and seeing all those curious objects upon it, would ask his mother what they mean. Then his mother would tell him about the crucifixion of Christ. 'They nailed him to the cross,' she would say, 'by long nails passing through his hands and feet. Don't you see the nails?' And the child would say, 'Yes,' and look at the nails very intently. 'The soldiers climbed up by a ladder,' she would say. 'Don't you see the ladder? And by and by, when in his fever he called for some drink, they reached something up to him by a sponge fastened to the end of a long pole. Do you see the pole?' The child would look at all these things, and would get a much more clear and vivid idea of the transaction than it would be possible for so ignorant a mother to communicate to it in any other way."

"Yes," said Rosie; "I think she would."

"Thus you see," continued Mr. George, "there is a right and proper use of such contrivances as these, as well as a wrong and an idolatrous one. Unfortunately, however, pretty much all of them, though perhaps originally well intended, have degenerated, in Catholic countries, into superstition and idolatry."

The scenery of the country through which the journey lay was enchanting. The ground was every where cultivated like a garden. There were wheat fields, and vineyards, and olive orchards, and rows of mulberry trees for the silk worms, and gardens of vegetables of every kind. Here and there groups of peasants were to be seen at work, men and women together, some digging fresh fields, some ploughing, some planting, and some pruning the trees or the vines. In many places the vines were trained upon the trees, so that in riding along the road you seemed to see an immense orchard on each side of you, with a carpet of rich verdure below, and a monstrous serpent climbing up into every tree, from the grass beneath it.

The scenery was very much varied, too; and the changes were on so grand a scale that they made the views which were presented on every side appear extremely imposing. Sometimes the road lay across a wide plain, many miles in extent, but extremely fertile and luxuriant, and bounded in the distance by blue and beautiful mountains. After travelling upon one of these plains for many hours, the road would gradually approach the mountains, and then at length would enter among them, and begin to wind, by zigzags, up a broad slope, or into a dark ravine. At such places Vittorio would stop, usually at a post house at the foot of the ascent, and take an additional horse, or pair of horses, and sometimes a yoke of oxen, to help his team draw the carriage up the hill. Many of these ascents were four or live miles long, and as the road turned upon itself in continual zigzags, there was presented to Mr. George and Rollo, and also to Mrs. Gray's party within the carriage, as they ascended, a perpetual succession of widely-extended views over the vast plain below, with the road which they had traversed stretching across it in a straight line for ten or fifteen miles, like a white ribbon.

Sometimes Mr. George and the two boys descended from the carriage, and walked for a while, in going up these hills; but generally they remained in their seats and rode. Indeed the men who came with the extra horses or oxen often rode themselves. When oxen were employed, the man used to ride, sometimes sitting on the yoke between them, and facing backward, so that he could watch them and see how they performed their work. He kept them up to their work by means of a small whip, which he had in his hand.

After reaching the top of the ascent, Vittorio would stop, and the man would detach his oxen from the team. Vittorio would pay him for his services, and then the man would come and hold out his hat to Mr. George and Rollo for a buono mano from them. Rollo always had it ready.

The party stopped every day at noon for breakfast, as Vittorio called it. The coffee, and eggs, and bread and butter, which they had early in the morning, was not called breakfast; it was called simply coffee. The breakfast, which came about noon, consisted of fried fish, beefsteaks, or mutton chops, fried potatoes, all hot, and afterwards oranges and figs. With this there was always what they called wine set upon the table, which tasted like a weak mixture of sour cider and water. Every thing, except the wine, was very good.

Mrs. Gray, however, always called this meal the dinner, and all the rest of the party were very willing to have it called so; and when they stopped at night, all that they required was tea and coffee, with bread and butter.

The inns where the party stopped were very quaint and queer. They looked, Josie said, precisely as he had imagined the inns to look which he had read about in Don Quixote. The entrance was generally under an arched passage way, where the horses and carriage could go in. From this passage a flight of broad stone steps led up into the house. The lower floor was usually occupied for stables, sheds, and other such purposes, and the one above for kitchens and the like. Higher up came the good rooms.

The apartment which was used by the party for their sitting and eating room was usually a large hall, with a brick or stone floor, and a vaulted ceiling above, painted in fresco. The walls of the room were usually painted too. There was generally a small and very coarse carpet under the table, and sometimes one before the fireplace. The doors were massive; and the locks and hinges upon them, and also the andirons and the shovel and tongs, were of the most ancient and curious construction. The first thing which the children did, on being ushered into one of these old halls, was to walk all about, and examine these various objects in detail. Rollo made drawings of a great many of them in his drawing book, to bring home and show to people in America.

The bed rooms opened out from this great hall, on the different sides of it. There were generally, but not always, two beds in each. According to the agreement, Mrs. Gray had her first choice of these rooms. She chose one, if possible, which had one wide bed in it, and one narrow one. The wide one was for herself and Rosie; the narrow one was for Susannah.

Mr. George came next in the order of choice, and he generally took a room which had only one bed in it, leaving another room with two single beds in it for the two boys. They always had a fire in the great hall every evening. Mrs. Gray usually went to her room with Rosie and Susannah at half past eight, leaving Mr. George and the two boys in the hall. The first evening of the journey -- that is, the evening of the night spent at Arezzo -- Mr. George told Rollo, as soon as Mrs. Gray had gone, that he had some bad news to tell him.

"What is it?" asked Rollo.

"It is that I am going to make a rule for you, that every night, from and after the time that Mrs. Gray goes into her room, you are not to have any conversation with any body."

"Why not, uncle George?" asked Rollo.

"Because I want to have the room still, so that I can write. I have journals and letters to write, and so have you, -- and so I suppose has Josie; and the evening, after Mrs. Gray and Rosie have gone to their room, will be the best time to appropriate to the work. You can do your own work of this kind at that time or not, just as you please; but if you do not do it, you must not interrupt me in doing mine."

"I suppose that is a rule for me and Josie too," said Rollo.

"No," said Mr. George, "it is for you alone."

"Why is it not a rule for Josie," said Rollo, "as much as for me?"

"Because I have no authority to make any rules for Josie," replied Mr. George. "I have no authority over him at all, but only over you."

"But, uncle George," said Rollo, "if you are busy writing, and I am not allowed to talk, and Mrs. Gray and Rosie have gone to bed, Josie will not have any body to talk to."

"True," said Mr. George.

"Then I don't see but that you might just as well make the rule for him too, at once," said Rollo. "You may just as well make a rule that he shall not talk himself, as to make one that cuts him off from having any body to talk to."

"Only," replied Mr. George, "that to do the one comes within my authority, while to do the other does not."

Here Rollo was silent a few minutes, and seemed to be musing on what Mr. George had said. Presently he added, -- 

"Besides, uncle George, this is not put down among the rules and regulations for the journey which you drew up. We all agreed to abide by those rules, and this is not one of them."

"True," said Mr. George. "But those rules and regulations are of force as a compact only between Mrs. Gray and me, as the heads respectively of the two divisions of the party. They are not at all of the nature of a compact between Mrs. Gray and her children, nor between you and me. Her authority over her children in respect to every thing not referred to in the compact, is left entirely untouched by them, and so is mine over you."

"Well," said Rollo, drawing a long breath, "I have no objection at all to the rule. Indeed, I should like some time every evening to write and draw. I only wanted to see how you would defend your rule, in the argument."

"And how do you think the argument stands?" asked Mr. George.

"I think it stands pretty strong," said Rollo.

Rollo further inquired of his uncle whether he and Josie could not talk in their own room; but Mr. George said no. If boys were allowed to talk together after they went to bed, he said, they were very apt to get into a frolic, and disturb those who slept in the adjoining rooms.

"And besides," said Mr. George, "even if they do not get into a frolic, they sometimes go on talking to a later hour than they imagine, and the sound of their voices is heard like a constant murmuring through the partitions, and disturbs every body that is near. So you must do all your talking in the course of the day, and when eight o'clock comes, you must bring your discourse to a close. You may sit up as long as you please to read or write; but when you get tired of those employments, you must go to bed and go to sleep."

The rule thus made was faithfully observed during the whole journey.

It was Monday morning when the party left Florence, and on Saturday afternoon at three o'clock, the carriage drew up at the passport office just under the great gate called the Porta del Popolo, at Rome. The party spent the Sabbath at Rome, and on the Monday morning after they set out again. On the following Thursday they arrived at Naples, and there they all established themselves in very pleasant quarters at the Hotel de Rome -- a hotel which, being built out over the water from the busiest part of the town, commands on every side charming views, both of the town and of the sea.



Chapter IV.

Situation Of Naples.


Naples is situated on a bay which has the reputation of being the most magnificent sheet of water in the world. It is bordered on every side by romantic cliffs and headlands, or by green and beautiful slopes of land, which are adorned with vineyards and groves of orange and lemon trees, and dotted with white villas; while all along the shore, close to the margin of the water, there extends an almost uninterrupted line of cities and towns round almost the whole circumference of the bay. The greatest of these cities is Naples.

But the crowning glory of the scene is the great volcano Vesuvius, which rises a vast green cone from the midst of the plain, and emits from its summit a constant stream of smoke. In times of eruption this smoke becomes very dense and voluminous, and alternates from time to time with bursts of what seems to be flame, and with explosive ejections of red-hot stones or molten lava. Besides the cities and towns that are now to be seen along the shore at the foot of the slopes of the mountain, there are many others buried deep beneath the ground, having been overwhelmed by currents of lava from the volcano, or by showers of ashes and stones, in eruptions which took place ages ago.

Of course there is every probability that there will be more eruptions in time to come, and that many of the present towns will also be overwhelmed and destroyed, as their predecessors have been. But these eruptions occur usually at such distant intervals from each other, that the people think it is not probable that the town in which they live will be destroyed in their day; and so they are quiet. Of course, however, whenever they hear a rumbling in the mountain behind them, or notice any other sign of an approaching convulsion, they naturally feel somewhat nervous until the danger passes by.

Naples is built on the northern shore of the bay You will see by the map on the preceding page just what the situation of the town is, and where Vesuvius is in relation to it. Vesuvius, you observe, stands back a little from the sea, but the slope of land extends quite down to the margin of the water. You perceive, however, that there is a carriage road, and also a railroad, passing along the coast between the mountain and the sea.

Besides the villages and towns laid down on the map, upon this coast, there are many little hamlets scattered along the way, so that, as seen across the water from Naples, there seems to be, as it were, a continued town, extending along the whole line of the shore.

Among the places named on the map you see the sites of Herculaneum and Pompeii marked. Pompeii lies to the south-east from the mountain, and Herculaneum to the south-west. Of course the lava, in breaking out from the crater in different eruptions, runs down the mountain, sometimes on one side and sometimes on another. It is the same with the showers of stones and ashes, which are carried in different directions, according to the course of the wind.

Very near the site of Herculaneum you see a small town laid down, named Resina. This is the place where people stop when about to make the ascent of Vesuvius, and leave the carriage in which they came from Naples. If they come by the railroad, they leave the train at the Portici station, which, also, you will see upon the map, and thence go to Resina by a carriage.

At Resina they take another carriage, or sometimes go on in the same, until they get up to what is called the Hermitage, the place of which you also see marked on the map. The Hermitage is so called because the spot was once the residence of a monk who lived there alone in his cell. It is now, however, a sort of ruin.

There is no carriage road at all beyond the Hermitage, and here, accordingly, the party of travellers take mules or donkeys, to go on some distance farther. At last they reach a part of the mountain which is so steep that even mules and donkeys cannot go; and here the people are accordingly obliged to dismount, and to climb up the last part of the ascent on foot, or else to be carried up in a chair, which is the mode usually adopted for ladies. You will see how Mr. George and Rollo managed, in the next chapter.

The ruins of Herculaneum can be visited on the same day in which you make the ascent of Vesuvius; for, as you see by the map, they are very near the place, Resina, where the ascent of the mountain commences. Pompeii, however, is much farther on, and usually requires a separate day.

Besides, it takes much longer to visit Pompeii than Herculaneum, on account of there being go much more to see there. The reason for this is, that the excavations have been carried on much farther at Pompeii than at Herculaneum. Herculaneum was buried up in lava, and the lava, when it cooled, became as hard as a stone; whereas Pompeii was only covered with ashes and cinders, which are very easily dug away.

Besides, Herculaneum was buried very deep, so that, in order to get to it, you have to go far down under ground. The fact that there was an ancient city buried there was discovered about a hundred and fifty years ago, by a man digging a well in the ground above. In digging this well, the workmen came upon some statues and other remains of ancient art. They dug these things out, and afterwards the excavations were continued for many years; but the difficulties in the way were so great, on account of the depth below the surface of the ground where the work was to be done, and also on account of the hardness of the lava, that after a while it was abandoned. People, however, now go down sometimes through a shaft made near the well by which the first discovery was made, and ramble about, by the light of torches, which they carry with them, among the rubbish in the subterranean chambers.

The site of Pompeii was discovered in the same way with Herculaneum, namely, by the digging of a well. Pompeii, however, as has already been said, was not buried nearly as deep as Herculaneum, and the substances which covered it were found to be much softer, and more easily removed. Consequently a great deal more has been done at Pompeii than at Herculaneum in making excavations. Nearly a third of the whole city has now been explored, and the work is still going on.

The chief inducement for continuing to dig out these old ruins, is to recover the various pictures, sculptures, utensils, and other curious objects that are found in the houses. These things, as fast as they are found, are brought to Naples, and deposited in an immense museum, which has been built there to receive them.

You will see in a future chapter how Rollo went to see this museum.

Vesuvius, Herculaneum, and Pompeii are all to the eastward of Naples, following the shore of the bay. To the westward, at the distance of about a mile or two from the centre of the town, is a famous passage through a hill, like the tunnel of a railway, which is considered a great curiosity. This passage is called the Grotto of Posilipo. You will see its place marked upon the map. The wonder of this subterranean passage way is its great antiquity. It has existed at least eighteen hundred years, and how much longer nobody knows. It is wide enough for a good broad road. When it was first cut through, it was only high enough for a carriage to pass; but the floor of it has been cut down at different times, until now the tunnel is nearly seventy feet high at the ends, and about twenty-five in the middle. High up on the sides of it, at different distances, you can see the marks made by the hubs of the wheels, as they rubbed against the rocks, at the different levels of the road way, in ancient times.

On passing through the grotto in a carriage, or on foot, the traveller comes out to an open country beyond, where he sees a magnificent prospect spread out before him. The road goes on along the coast, and comes to several very curious places, which will be described particularly in future chapters of this volume.

On the afternoon of the day when Mr. George and his party arrived at the hotel, just before sundown, Rollo came into Mrs. Gray's parlor, where Mr. George and all the rest of the party, except Josie, were sitting, and asked them to go with him and see a place which he and Josie had found.

"Where is it, and what is it?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"You must come and see," said Rollo. "I would rather not tell you till you come and see."

But Mrs. Gray, being somewhat fatigued with her ride, and being, moreover, very comfortably seated on a sofa, seemed not inclined to move.

"Rosie may go instead," said Mrs. Gray, "and when she has seen it, she may come back and tell me, and if she thinks it is worth while I will go."

"Well," said Rollo; "come, Rosie."

So Rollo led the way, and Rosie followed out of the parlor into the hall, and from the hall along a sort of corridor which led to a narrow and winding stone stair.

"No," said Rosie, as soon as she began to ascend the stair, "I don't think mother will like to come. She does not like to go up long stairs, especially stone stairs, and more especially still, stairs that wind round and round."

"Wait and see," said Rollo.

After going round and round several times, -- all the while ascending, -- Rollo came out to a sort of open passage way, paved with glazed tiles of a very pretty pattern, where there was a door leading out to a balcony. From this balcony there was a narrow iron stair which led up on the outside of the house to the roof. Rollo led the way up this stair, and Rosie followed him, though somewhat timidly. They landed at length on a sort of platform among the chimneys, from which another stair led up to another platform, higher still, where Josie was.

"There!" said Rollo, as soon as he reached the first platform, "don't you think your mother would like to be here?"

Rosie looked around, and saw that a magnificent panorama presented itself to her view.

"She would like to be here very much, if she only dared to come," said Rosie.

On looking towards the east, Rosie could survey the whole shore of the bay in that direction, with the continuous line of towns and villages along the margin of the water, and the immense green slopes of Vesuvius rising beyond. Among the green fields and groves, far up these slopes, white hamlets and villas were scattered, and above, the double summit of Vesuvius was seen, with dense volumes of white smoke ascending from one of the peaks. The children, too, could look from where they stood far out over the bay, and see the ships and steamers in the offing, and great numbers of small boats plying to and fro nearer the shore.

Rollo had an opera glass in his hand, which he used as a spy-glass. He let Rosie look through this glass at the mountain, so that she might see the smoke coming out more distinctly. With the glass, besides the general column of vapor, she could discern several places, near the summit, where small, separate puffs of smoke were issuing.

Farther down the mountain, Rollo directed her attention to a white building, which was seen very distinctly in the rays of the setting sun. This building, he said, must be the Hermitage.

"How do you know it is the Hermitage?" asked Rosie.

"I know by the situation of it," said Rollo. "Look through the glass and you will see that it is the highest house on the mountain side. Besides, it stands on the end of a ridge or spur, projecting from the mountain, just as I know the Hermitage does, with a deep valley on each side of it."

"I should have thought that they would have built it in one of the valleys," said Rosie. "It would have been more sheltered then from the wind."

"No," said Rollo. "That would not have been a good plan at all, for then it would have been in the track of the streams of lava. The lava comes down through the valleys."

"I can see the zigzag road leading up to the Hermitage," said Rosie.

"Yes," replied Rollo; "and I think it probable we could see people going up or coming down, if there were any there now."

"I mean to watch," said Rosie.

Rosie watched, but she did not see any thing moving. The truth was, that the people who had been up that day had all come down. They usually come down early in the afternoon. And yet parties sometimes make arrangements to stay up there until after dark, so as to see the glow of the fires that are continually smouldering in the chasms and crevices of the crater, and sometimes breaking out there.

Mrs. Gray was so much pleased with Rosie's report of what she saw on the roof, that she went up herself immediately after Rosie came down. Mr. George went up too. As for Josie, he staid up there all the time.

When Mrs. Gray and Mr. George reached the first platform, Josie called to them. "Mother," said he, "come up here!"

"No," said Mrs. Gray; "this is high enough for me. I can see very well here."

Mrs. Gray was very much interested in the view of the mountain, and of the column of smoke issuing from the summit. She had not seen the summit before, as all the upper part of the mountain had been enveloped in clouds during the time while they were approaching the town.

She was also much pleased with the view of Naples itself, which she obtained from this platform. The hotel was built out over the water, so that from the lookout the town was spread out in full view, with all the great castles and towers which crowned the cliffs and headlands above, and the various moles, and piers, and fortresses, that extended out into the water below.

In coming up the iron stair, on the outside of the building, Mrs. Gray had been a little afraid; but in coming down she found the steps so firm and solid under her tread that she said she should not be afraid at all a second time.

"Then, mother," said Rosie, "let us come up here this evening after dark, and then on the top of the mountain, instead of smoke coming out, we shall see fire."

"Shall we, Rollo?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"I believe so," said Rollo. "At any rate they do sometimes see fire coming out; and I don't know why we should not to-night."

It was finally agreed that after it became dark, Rollo and Josie should go up alone first, to see if there was any fire, and if there was, then Mrs. Gray and Rosie were to go up.

Accordingly, about eight o'clock, Rollo and Josie went up. They very soon came running down again, and reported that there was quite a bright fire. So Mrs. Gray and Rosie went up. Taking their stations on the platform, and looking towards the mountain, they could see distinctly a bright glow playing over the summit, with brighter flashes beaming up from time to time. The sight impressed them all with an emotion of solemn awe.



Chapter V.

Planning The Ascension.


Rollo was very impatient for the time to come for the ascent of Vesuvius; but several days elapsed before Mr. George was ready. Then, after that, for two or three days, the weather was not favorable. The sky was filled with showery-looking clouds, and great caps of fog hung over the summits of the mountains.

"If we get up there when there are mists and fogs hanging about the mountain," said Mr. George, "we shall not be able to see the fire at all."

"Then I would rather wait for a fair day," said Rollo.

Rollo repeatedly asked Rosie if she was not going up.

"I don't know," said Rosie; "it depends upon my mother. I shall not go unless she goes, and she says she has not decided."

At last, after several days of uncertain weather, the wind came round to the westward, the clouds passed off, and the whole sky became serene. This was in the afternoon. Mr. George had been rambling with Rollo about the town that day; but when he found that the weather promised now to be good, he said he would go home and talk with Mrs. Gray about making the ascent. So he and Rollo returned to the hotel, and went up together to Mrs. Gray's room.

Mr. George told Mrs. Gray that the weather promised to be favorable the next day for the ascent of the mountain.

"And Rollo and I," said he, "think of going up. If you would like to go, we should be very happy to have you join our party."

"Can I go, do you think?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"O, yes," said Mr. George; "you certainly can go, for you can be carried up in a portantina from the place where we leave the carriage. But if you please, I will send for a commissioner, and he can tell us all about it."

"Very well," said Mrs. Gray, "I should like to have you do that."

"Ring the bell, then, Rollo," said Mr. George.

So Rollo rang the bell; a servant man soon came in. He was what Rollo called the chamberman. His business was to make the beds and take care of the rooms. This work, in Italy, is done by men generally, instead of by women.

"Is there a commissioner attached to this hotel," asked Mr. George, addressing the servant, and speaking in French, "who accompanies parties to Vesuvius?"

"Yes, sir, certainly," said the servant.

"What is his name?" asked Mr. George.

"Philippe," replied the man.

"Where is he?" asked Mr. George.

"He is below," said the man.

"Please ask him to come up," said Mr. George. "I want to talk with him about an excursion to the mountain."

The servant man went down, and pretty soon Philippe appeared. He was a very intelligent looking young man, neatly dressed, and with a frank and agreeable countenance.

"This is Philippe, I suppose," said Mr. George, speaking in French.

"Yes, sir," said Philippe.

"Take a seat," said Mr. George. "This lady wishes me to make some inquiries of you about going up the mountain. Do you speak English?"

"Yes, sir," said Philippe, "a little."

On hearing this Mr. George changed the conversation into the English language, so that Mrs. Gray might understand what was said, without the inconvenience and delay of having it interpreted.

"In the first place," said Mr. George, "when ladies ascend the Mountain, how far do they go in a carriage?"

"To the Hermitage," said Philippe.

"Can you go in a good, comfortable carriage all the way to the Hermitage?" asked Mr. George.

"O, yes, sir," said Philippe. "We take an excellent carriage from town. The road is very winding to go up the mountain, but it is perfectly good. A lady can go up there as comfortably as she can ride about town."

Philippe further said that ladies often went up with parties as far as the Hermitage, and then, if they did not wish to go any farther, they remained there until their friends came down.

"What sort of a place is the Hermitage?" asked Mrs. Gray. "Is it an inn?"

"Yes, madam," said Philippe. "It is an inn. It is a very plain and homely place, but a lady can stay there very well a few hours."

"Is there a family there?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"No, madam," said Philippe; "it is kept by a monk."

"Let us go, mother," said Josie. "We can go up there as well as not."

"Yes," said Mrs. Gray, "I think I should like to go up at least as far as there. I can take a book to read, to while away the time while you are up the mountain; or I can ramble about, I suppose. Is it a pleasant place to ramble about, around the Hermitage?"

"Yes, madam; it is a very pleasant place," replied Philippe. "You have an exceedingly fine view of the bay, and of Naples, and of the islands, and of the whole Campagna. Then the observatory is near, and that is a very pleasant place, with gardens and plantations of trees all around it. Perhaps the beggars might be a little troublesome if you walked out, but I think I could manage about that."

"What is the observatory that you speak of?" asked Mr. George.

"It is a government establishment that is kept there for making observations on the state of the mountain," replied Philippe. "It is a fine building, and it has very pretty gardens and grounds around it."

"I should think it would be a very pleasant place," said Mrs. Gray. "Indeed, it looks like a pleasant place seen from this hotel with Rollo's opera glass."

"Well, now for the next stage of the journey," said Mr. George; "that is, from the Hermitage to the foot of the cone. How far is that, and how do we go?"

"It is about three quarters of an hour's walk," replied Philippe. "There is no carriage road, but only a mule path, and in some places the road is very rough."

"Is it steep?" asked Mr. George.

"No, sir," said Philippe; "the steep part comes afterwards. The mule path is nearly on a level, but it is rough and rocky. There are three ways of going. You can walk, you can ride upon a mule or a donkey, or finally, you can be carried in a chair. Ladies that do not like to walk so far usually ride on a donkey, or else are carried. It is easier to be carried, but it costs a little more."

"How much more?" asked Mr. George.

"A dollar," said Philippe.

"I think I should rather be carried if I were to go," said Mrs. Gray.

"I'd rather ride on a donkey," said Rosie.

"And I on a mule," said Josie.

"You and I might walk, Rollo," said Mr. George.

"Yes," said Rollo, "I would rather walk."

Rollo always preferred to go on foot when on any of these mountain excursions, because then he could ramble about this way and that, wherever he pleased, and climb up upon the rocks, and gather plants and specimens.

"Very well," said Mr. George; "and this brings us to the foot of the steep part of the mountain. How far is it up this last steep part?"

"About an hour's work, hard climbing," said Philippe.

"Is it very hard climbing?" asked Mr. George.

"Yes, sir," said Philippe; "it is right up a steep slope of rocks."

"Is there good footing," asked Mr. George, "or are the rocks loose, or slippery?"

"It is very good footing," said Philippe. "In one sense the rocks are loose, for the whole side of the mountain where we go up is formed of slag and scorie. But then the pieces are wedged together, so as not to move much, and the foot clings to them, so that you don't slip. On the whole, it is good footing. The only difficulty is, it is so steep. It is a thousand feet up rough rocks, as steep as you can go."

"I could not get up, I am sure," said Mrs. Gray.

"Nor I," said Rosie.

"O, you can be carried up," said Mr. George, "in a portantina."

"What kind of a thing is it?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"It is a common arm chair," said Philippe, "with two stout poles lashed to the sides of it. Two men take hold of the ends of the poles before, and two others behind, and they lift the poles, -- chair, passenger, and all, -- up upon their shoulders. They carry you, in this way, right up the mountain."

"I should be afraid," said Rosie.

"You would feel a little afraid at first," said Philippe, "when the men were lifting you up upon their shoulders -- but afterwards, you would not be afraid at all. You ride as easy as if two persons were to take you in a chair and carry you about the room."

"But I should pity the poor men so much," said Rosie, "in having such a heavy load to carry!"

"Ah!" said Philippe, "instead of pitying them, you ought to rejoice for them. They are so glad when they get any body to carry up! They are paid about three quarters of a dollar apiece, and that is a great deal of money for them. There will be a great many of them up there to-morrow, waiting, and hoping that somebody will come for them to carry up."

"Ah, that makes it different," said Rosie.

"Besides," said Josie, "you are nothing to carry, you are so little and light. Rollo and I could carry you. I suppose that they would carry Rosie for half price -- would not they, Philippe?"

Rosie looked a little troubled to hear her brother speak of her in this way. She did not like to be called little and light. Philippe saw that she was troubled.

"No," said he; "they will ask the same for carrying Miss Rosie that they would for any other lady."

This answer removed in an instant the cloud which had appeared upon Rosie's face, and replaced it with a smile which had something of the expression of triumph in it. In fact, Philippe shaped his answer as he did on purpose to please her. It was strange that a guide, whose life had been spent among the roughest of men, on the mountains, should know better how to be polite than a boy who had been brought up tenderly in the midst of refinement and elegance; but so it often is.

"How long does it take to go up the steep part?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"About an hour," said Philippe. "They stop two or three times on the way, to rest the bearers, and change them."

"Then they change the bearers," said Mrs. Gray.

"Yes, madam," replied Philippe. "We take eight bearers to each chair, and four of them carry it at a time; so we have two sets."

"I'm glad of that," said Rosie.

"And what do we see when we get to the top?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"We walk along over the sand and lava," replied Philippe, "until we come to the edge of the crater, and then we look down."

"And do we see the fire coming out?" asked Rollo.

"Yes," said Philippe, "plenty of fire."

"And lava, and red-hot stones?" asked Josie.

"Yes," said Philippe, "all the time."

"I hope you don't go too near," said Mrs. Gray.

"No, madam," said Philippe; "we are careful not to go too near. There is a mountain guide who goes up with the party from the Hermitage, and it is his business to know all the time what the state of the mountain is, and where it is safe to go. There are two craters now. One of them they cannot go down into, for the sides have caved in all around, and formed perpendicular cliffs. But at the other crater there is on one side a slope of sand and slag, where people can go down, and walk over the lava on the floor of the crater."

"Why, I should think they would sink into it," said Rosie.

"No," said Philippe; "the lava that lies spread out over the bottom of the crater has cooled so as to be hard enough to walk upon, though you can see that it is red hot in the cracks."

"I should not dare to walk over it," said Rosie.

"Ladies go down very often," said Philippe, "and there is no danger, only the sulphurous smoke, if it happens to blow over upon you, is bad to breathe."

After some further conversation with Philippe, and some consultation with each other, the party formed the plan as follows: They were all to go together in a carriage to the Hermitage. Then Philippe was to provide chairs and bearers for Mrs. Gray and Rosie, to take them to the foot of the cone, and animals, either mules or donkeys, for "the three gentlemen," as Philippe called them. On arriving at the foot of the cone, Mrs. Gray was to decide whether she would let Rosie continue and go to the top. For herself, she concluded that she would not go, but after seeing the party commence their ascent, she would go back to the Hermitage, and wait there till they returned.

"And now, Philippe," said Mr. George, "I wish you to calculate exactly what the expense will be for the whole expedition, including carriage hire, guides, bearers, mules, buono manos, and every thing. Then I will give you money enough, before we set out, to pay the whole. I don't wish to have any thing to do in the way of paying, from the time we leave the hotel until we get back again."

"Yes, sir," said Philippe; "that is the best way. If you undertake to pay the men on the mountain yourself, they will never be satisfied. They clamor continually for more, as long as the party will give any thing. I know just what is their due."

So Philippe drew his chair up to the table where Mr. George had placed a sheet of paper and a pen and ink, and began to make out his account. After writing a few minutes, he looked up from his work, and asked if the gentlemen wished to have any assistance in going up the cone. "What assistance can we have?" asked Mr. George.

"There are men who put straps over their shoulders to pull by, and let you take hold of the end of them. It helps you a great deal."

"Yes, uncle George," said Rollo, "let us have them. I should like to be pulled up in that way."

"So should I," said Josie.

"You boys may have strapmen, then," said Mr. George. "I think I can get along without one myself."

Philippe then asked if the party would stop on the way and go down into Herculaneum. Mr. George said that they would. Philippe then went on with his calculation, and when it was finished he presented it to Mr. George. Mr. George wrote a heading to it, and then read it as follows, except that I give the amounts in American money: -- 

Ascent Of Vesuvius.

Estimate of Expenses -- Party of Five.

Carriage to the Hermitage,           $5.00 Fees at Herculaneum,               .25 Portantina to the foot of the cone for madame,  2.00 Portantina to the summit for mademoiselle,    6.00 Two mules for the young gentlemen,        2.00 Two strapmen up the cone,            1.00 Refreshments,                   .50 Mountain guide,                 1.00 Buono manos,                   1.00 Valet de place,                 1.00 $19.75

"Very well," said Mr. George. "That is satisfactory. Now I will give you gold enough to cover that amount. You must get it changed into such a form as you want it, and you must not call upon me or any of the party for any money whatever, from the time that we set out till we get back again to the hotel."

"Very well, sir," said Philippe; "that is much the best way. The men will gather around you from time to time on the way, and clamor for buono manos, but you must not pay any attention to them; say simply, 'Philippe will pay.'"

"And now," said Mr. George, "it is all arranged except the time for setting out. What is the best time?"

"We ought to set out at eight or nine o'clock," said Philippe. "It takes about ten hours."

"Let us set out at eight, then," said Mrs. Gray. "We can have breakfast at seven, I suppose."

"Certainly," said Philippe. "And will you have it in your own room?"

"No," said Mrs. Gray; "let us all breakfast together in the dining room. That will be more interesting. We may meet some other parties there who are going to the mountain."

"Then I will order breakfast for you at seven o'clock," said Philippe.

"Provided you find, to-morrow morning, that the weather is going to be good," said Mr. George. "We won't go unless you are convinced that it is going to be a fine day."

"Yes, sir," said Philippe; "we judge a great deal by the smoke on the mountain. If it comes down the mountain on this side, then the weather is going to be bad. But if it goes away on the other side, off towards the sea, then we can generally depend upon a fine day."

So it was agreed that Philippe should make an observation early in the morning, and if he concluded that the day would be a good one for the excursion, he was to come to Mr. George's room and let him know the decision. He was then to order the breakfast for seven o'clock, and the carriage for eight, while Mr. George was to call the rest of the party.

The plan being thus formed, the party separated for the night. Rollo said that he meant to get up at half past five; or as soon as it was light, and go up to the top of the house, and see which way the smoke of Vesuvius was going.

"Call for me, and I will go with you," said Josie.

"I will," said Rollo.



Chapter VI.

Going Up.


Rollo slept in the same room with Mr. George. He got up as soon as it was light, dressed himself in a hurried manner, and went out. In about ten minutes he returned.

"Well, Rollo," said Mr. George, "what is the report?"

"The smoke is not going either way," said Rollo. "It mounts right straight up into the air; but Philippe says he thinks it is going to be a fine day, and he has ordered breakfast. So I think you had better get up."

At seven o'clock precisely the whole party were assembled in the dining room for breakfast. They ate their breakfast together at the end of one of the long tables. There were already two other parties in the room. There was one consisting of two gentlemen that were going to Vesuvius. There was another larger party that were about setting out for Rome. Their carriage was at the door, and the vetturino and his men were at work putting on the trunks and baggage.

At eight o'clock precisely, the carriage for Mr. George's party came to the door. All were ready, and they all immediately got in. Philippe put in a basket containing provisions. Mrs. Gray had a small book, formed with leaves of blotting paper, to press the flowers in, which she meant to gather around the Hermitage while the rest of the party were gone up the mountain. Mr. George took his knapsack, though there seemed to be nothing in it.

"What are you carrying up an empty knapsack for, uncle George?" asked Rollo.

"To bring down specimens in," said Mr. George.

"Ah," said Rollo, "I wish I had thought to take mine."

"I'll let you have part of mine," said Mr. George. "It is big enough to hold the specimens for all of us."

Philippe, when he found that the company were well seated in the carriage, shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and gave the order to drive on.

The carriage was entirely open, and the party, as they drove along, enjoyed an uninterrupted view of every thing around them. They passed through one or two beautiful public squares, with palaces and churches on either hand, and lines of troops parading before them. Then they came to a long and exceedingly busy street, with the port and the shipping on one side, and stores, shops, hotels, and establishments of every kind, on the other. The street was crowded with people going to and fro, some on foot and some in carriages. A great many persons were carrying burdens on their heads. Some had jars, or pails, or little tubs of water; some had baskets heaped up with oranges, or other fruit. Some had long boards with a row of loaves of dough upon them, which they were taking to the bakers to be baked.

The sidewalks, especially on the side towards the harbor, were thronged with people living in the open air, and practising their various trades there. There were cooks, cooking all sorts of provisions; and blacksmiths, working with hammers and anvils; and cabinet makers, sawing or planing, or gluing together the parts of tables or chairs. Then there were a great many family groups, some sitting in the sun around a boat drawn up, or upon and around a great chain cable, or an anchor; and others gathering about a fire made in a brazier, for the morning was cool. These families were engaged in all the usual domestic avocations of a household. The mothers were dressing the children, or getting the breakfast, while the grandmothers and aunts were knitting, or spinning thread with a distaff and spindle. The men were often employed in making nets.

The carriage, which was drawn by three horses abreast, went on very rapidly through these scenes -- so rapidly, in fact, that Mrs. Gray had not time to look at the various groups as much as she wished.

"I mean to come and take a walk here some day," said Mrs. Gray, "and then I can look at all these things at my leisure."

"O mother," said Josie, "you can't do that very well, on account of the beggars. If a gentleman and lady attempt to walk together in any of these streets of Naples, the beggars come and gather around them at every step."

"Then I'll come some day in a carriage, and tell the coachman to drive slowly."

"That will be just as bad," said Josie. "They'll come then around the carriage. The only way is to drive so fast that they cannot keep up."

The carriage went on. It followed the road which led along the shore, as shown in the map given in a former chapter to illustrate the situation of Naples; but the shore was occupied with such a succession of hamlets and villages that the road seemed to form a continued street all the way. After getting a little beyond the confines of Naples, the road was thronged with people coming into town, some on foot, with loads of produce on their heads, some driving donkeys, with immense burdens of vegetables loaded in panniers on their backs, or drawn in carts behind them. There were omnibuses too, of a peculiar kind, filled with people, and a kind of carriage called a calash, which consisted of a sort of chaise, with an extended frame for people to stand upon all around it. The first class passengers in these calashes had seats in the chaise itself. The others stood up all around, and clung on as best they could to the back of the seat before them.

Our party met a great many of these calashes coming into town, and bringing in loads of country people.

"It is astonishing," said Rollo, "that one horse can draw so many people."

"It is because the road is so level and smooth," said Mr. George. "The wheels run almost as easy upon it as they would upon a railroad."

After going on in this manner for about an hour, -- all the time gently ascending, and passing through what seemed to be a continued succession of villages and towns, -- the carriage stopped before the door of a kind of inn in the midst of a crowded street. The moment that the carriage stopped, it seemed to be surrounded by a crowd of ostlers, donkeys and donkey drivers, ragged boys and beggars; and such a clamor arose from the crowd as was quite appalling to hear, the more so as nothing could be understood of what was said, since it was all in Italian.

"What is here?" said Mr. George to Philippe, when he saw that Philippe was getting down from the box.

"This is Herculaneum," said Philippe, quietly.

"Herculaneum!" repeated Rosie, amazed. "Why, I thought Herculaneum was all under ground."

"Yes," said Mr. George, "it is. He means that this is where we go down."

By this time Philippe had opened the carriage door. Mr. George got out, and then helped Mrs. Gray to descend. A half a dozen beggars, some lame, some blind, some old and paralytic, hovered about the steps, and held out tattered hats to Mrs. Gray, moaning all the time in piteous tones, and begging for alms. Mrs. Gray and Mr. George paid no attention to them, but passed directly on, followed by the children, through a door in a high wall, which led into a little court, and thence they passed into a sort of entrance hall, leading into a building. Philippe, who had preceded them, opened a closet, and took out some small candles. He lighted these candles by means of a lamp hanging against the wall, and gave one to each of the party. There was an open door near, with a broad flight of stone steps leading down, like stairs going down cellar. As soon as the candles were all lighted, the children heard somebody coming up these stairs. It was a party of visitors that had been down, and were now coming up. There were eight or ten of them, and the appearance of them as they came up, following each other in a long line, each carrying his candle in his hand, produced a very strange and picturesque effect.

The guide who came up at the head of them exchanged a few words with Philippe in Italian, and then Philippe went on, leading his own party down the stairs. The stairs were wide, so that there was abundant room for the two parties to pass each other.

After going down some way, and making one or two turnings, suddenly a light began to appear. It was a light like the light of day. It grew brighter and brighter, until at length Mr. George and Rollo, who were at the head of the party, after Philippe, came out under a large circular opening cut in the rock, through which they could look up to the open air, and to the sky.